The Book Thief Part 16

It's very rare, don't you think, for a statue to appear before its subject has become famous.

She sank.

The thrill of being ignored!

The book felt cool enough now to slip inside her uniform. At first, it was nice and warm against her chest. As she began walking, though, it began to heat up again.

By the time she made it back to Papa and Wolfgang Edel, the book was starting to burn her. It seemed to be igniting.

Both men looked at her.

She smiled.

Immediately, when the smile shrank from her lips, she could feel something else. Or more to the point, someone else. There was no mistaking the watched feeling. It was all over her, and it was confirmed when she dared to face the shadows over at the town hall. To the side of the collection of silhouettes, another one stood, a few meters removed, and Liesel realized two things.

A FEW SMALL PIECES.

OF RECOGNITION.

1. The shadow's ident.i.ty and

2. The fact that it had seen everything

The shadow's hands were in its coat pockets.

It had fluffy hair.

If it had a face, the expression on it would have been one of injury.

"Gottverdammt," Liesel said, only loud enough for herself. "G.o.dd.a.m.n it."

"Are we ready to go?"

In the previous moments of stupendous danger, Papa had said goodbye to Wolfgang Edel and was ready to accompany Liesel home.

"Ready," she answered.

They began to leave the scene of the crime, and the book was well and truly burning her now. The Shoulder Shrug had applied itself to her rib cage.

As they walked past the precarious town hall shadows, the book thief winced.

"What's wrong?" Papa asked.

"Nothing."

Quite a few things, however, were most definitely wrong: Smoke was rising out of Liesel's collar.

A necklace of sweat had formed around her throat.

Beneath her s.h.i.+rt, a book was eating her up.

PART THREE.

mein kampf featuring:

the way home-a broken woman-a struggler-

a juggler-the attributes of summer-

an aryan shopkeeper-a snorer-two tricksters-

and revenge in the shape of mixed candy

THE WAY HOME.

Mein Kampf.

The book penned by the Fhrer himself.

It was the third book of great importance to reach Liesel Meminger; only this time, she did not steal it. The book showed up at 33 Himmel Street perhaps an hour after Liesel had drifted back to sleep from her obligatory nightmare.

Some would say it was a miracle that she ever owned that book at all.

Its journey began on the way home, the night of the fire.

They were nearly halfway back to Himmel Street when Liesel could no longer take it. She bent over and removed the smoking book, allowing it to hop sheepishly from hand to hand.

When it had cooled sufficiently, they both watched it a moment, waiting for the words.

Papa: "What the h.e.l.l do you call that?"

He reached over and grabbed hold of The Shoulder Shrug. No explanation was required. It was obvious that the girl had stolen it from the fire. The book was hot and wet, blue and red-embarra.s.sed-and Hans Hubermann opened it up. Pages thirty-eight and thirty-nine. "Another one?"

Liesel rubbed her ribs.

Yes.

Another one.

"Looks like," Papa suggested, "I don't need to trade any more cigarettes, do I? Not when you're stealing these things as fast as I can buy them."

Liesel, by comparison, did not speak. Perhaps it was her first realization that criminality spoke best for itself. Irrefutable.

Papa studied the t.i.tle, probably wondering exactly what kind of threat this book posed to the hearts and minds of the German people. He handed it back. Something happened.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." Each word fell away at its edges. It broke off and formed the next.

The criminal could no longer resist. "What, Papa? What is it?"

"Of course."

Like most humans in the grip of revelation, Hans Hubermann stood with a certain numbness. The next words would either be shouted or would not make it past his teeth. Also, they would most likely be a repet.i.tion of the last thing he'd said, only moments earlier.

"Of course."

This time, his voice was like a fist, freshly banged on the table.

The man was seeing something. He was watching it quickly, end to end, like a race, but it was too high and too far away for Liesel to see. She begged him. "Come on, Papa, what is it?" She fretted that he would tell Mama about the book. As humans do, this was all about her. "Are you going to tell?"

"Sorry?"

"You know. Are you going to tell Mama?"

Hans Hubermann still watched, tall and distant. "About what?"

She raised the book. "This." She brandished it in the air, as if waving a gun.

Papa was bewildered. "Why would I?"

She hated questions like that. They forced her to admit an ugly truth, to reveal her own filthy, thieving nature. "Because I stole again."

Papa bent himself to a crouching position, then rose and placed his hand on her head. He stroked her hair with his rough, long fingers and said, "Of course not, Liesel. You are safe."

"So what are you going to do?"

That was the question.

What marvelous act was Hans Hubermann about to produce from the thin Munich Street air?

Before I show you, I think we should first take a look at what he was seeing prior to his decision.

PAPA'S FAST-PACED VISIONS

First, he sees the girl's books: The Grave Digger's Handbook, Faust the Dog, The Lighthouse, and now The Shoulder Shrug. Next is a kitchen and a volatile Hans Junior, regarding those books on the table, where the girl often reads. He speaks: "And what trash is this girl reading?" His son repeats the question three times, after which he makes his suggestion for more appropriate reading material.

"Listen, Liesel." Papa placed his arm around her and walked her on. "This is our secret, this book. We'll read it at night or in the bas.e.m.e.nt, just like the others-but you have to promise me something."

"Anything, Papa."

The night was smooth and still. Everything listened. "If I ever ask you to keep a secret for me, you will do it."

"I promise."