The Book Thief Part 72

She attempted several times to find the right place to start, reading sentences at her feet, joining words to the pinecones and the sc.r.a.ps of broken branches.

"Remember when I was injured playing soccer," she said, "out on the street?"

It took approximately three-quarters of an hour to explain two wars, an accordion, a Jewish fist fighter, and a bas.e.m.e.nt. Not forgetting what had happened four days earlier on Munich Street.

"That's why you went for a closer look," Rudy said, "with the bread that day. To see if he was there."

"Yes."

"Crucified Christ."

"Yes."

The trees were tall and triangular. They were quiet.

Liesel pulled The Word Shaker from her bag and showed Rudy one of the pages. On it was a boy with three medals hanging around his throat.

"'Hair the color of lemons,'" Rudy read. His fingers touched the words. "You told him about me?"

At first, Liesel could not talk. Perhaps it was the sudden b.u.mpiness of love she felt for him. Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.

Years ago, when they'd raced on a muddy field, Rudy was a hastily a.s.sembled set of bones, with a jagged, rocky smile. In the trees this afternoon, he was a giver of bread and teddy bears. He was a triple Hitler Youth athletics champion. He was her best friend. And he was a month from his death.

"Of course I told him about you," Liesel said.

She was saying goodbye and she didn't even know it.

ILSA HERMANN'S LITTLE BLACK BOOK In mid-August, she thought she was going to 8 Grande Stra.s.se for the same old remedy.

To cheer herself up.

That was what she thought.

The day had been hot, but showers were predicted for the evening. In The Last Human Stranger, there was a quote near the end. Liesel was reminded of it as she walked past Frau Diller's.

THE LAST HUMAN STRANGER,.

PAGE 211.

The sun stirs the earth. Around and

around, it stirs us, like stew.

At the time, Liesel only thought of it because the day was so warm.

On Munich Street, she remembered the events of the previous week there. She saw the Jews coming down the road, their streams and numbers and pain. She decided there was a word missing from her quote.

The world is an ugly stew, she thought.

It's so ugly I can't stand it.

Liesel crossed the bridge over the Amper River. The water was glorious and emerald and rich. She could see the stones at the bottom and hear the familiar song of water. The world did not deserve such a river.

She scaled the hill up to Grande Stra.s.se. The houses were lovely and loathsome. She enjoyed the small ache in her legs and lungs. Walk harder, she thought, and she started rising, like a monster out of the sand. She smelled the neighborhood gra.s.s. It was fresh and sweet, green and yellow-tipped. She crossed the yard without a single turn of the head or the slightest pause of paranoia.

The window.

Hands on the frame, scissor of the legs.

Landing feet.

Books and pages and a happy place.

She slid a book from the shelf and sat with it on the floor.

Is she home? she wondered, but she did not care if Ilsa Hermann was slicing potatoes in the kitchen or lining up in the post office. Or standing ghost-like over the top of her, examining what the girl was reading.

The girl simply didn't care anymore.

For a long time, she sat and saw.

She had seen her brother die with one eye open, one still in a dream. She had said goodbye to her mother and imagined her lonely wait for a train back home to oblivion. A woman of wire had laid herself down, her scream traveling the street, till it fell sideways like a rolling coin starved of momentum. A young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow. She had watched a bomber pilot die in a metal case. She had seen a Jewish man who had twice given her the most beautiful pages of her life marched to a concentration camp. And at the center of all of it, she saw the Fhrer shouting his words and pa.s.sing them around.

Those images were the world, and it stewed in her as she sat with the lovely books and their manicured t.i.tles. It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words.

You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, she thought.

You lovely b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

Don't make me happy. Please, don't fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see the graze inside me? Do you see it growing before your very eyes, eroding me? I don't want to hope for anything anymore. I don't want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner.

Because the world does not deserve them.

She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half.

Then a chapter.

Soon, there was nothing but sc.r.a.ps of words littered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this. Without words, the Fhrer was nothing. There would be no limping prisoners, no need for consolation or wordly tricks to make us feel better.

What good were the words?

She said it audibly now, to the orange-lit room. "What good are the words?"

The book thief stood and walked carefully to the library door. Its protest was small and halfhearted. The airy hallway was steeped in wooden emptiness.

"Frau Hermann?"

The question came back at her and tried for another surge to the front door. It made it only halfway, landing weakly on a couple of fat floorboards.

"Frau Hermann?"

The calls were greeted with nothing but silence, and she was tempted to seek out the kitchen, for Rudy. She refrained. It wouldn't have felt right to steal food from a woman who had left her a dictionary against a windowpane. That, and she had also just destroyed one of her books, page by page, chapter by chapter. She'd done enough damage as it was.

Liesel returned to the library and opened one of the desk drawers. She sat down.

THE LAST LETTER.

Dear Mrs. Hermann, As you can see, I have been in your library again and I have ruined one of your books. I was just so angry and afraid and I wanted to kill the words. I have stolen from you and now I've wrecked your property. I'm sorry. To punish myself, I think I will stop coming here. Or is it punishment at all? I love this place and hate it, because it is full of words.

You have been a friend to me even though I hurt you, even though I have been insufferable (a word I looked up in your dictionary), and I think I will leave you alone now. I'm sorry for everything.

Thank you again.

Liesel Meminger She left the note on the desk and gave the room a last goodbye, doing three laps and running her hands over the t.i.tles. As much as she hated them, she couldn't resist. Flakes of torn-up paper were strewn around a book called The Rules of Tommy Hoffmann. In the breeze from the window, a few of its shreds rose and fell.

The light was still orange, but it was not as l.u.s.trous as earlier. Her hands felt their final grip of the wooden window frame, and there was the last rush of a plunging stomach, and the pang of pain in her feet when she landed.

By the time she made it down the hill and across the bridge, the orange light had vanished. Clouds were mopping up.

When she walked down Himmel Street, she could already feel the first drops of rain. I will never see Ilsa Hermann again, she thought, but the book thief was better at reading and ruining books than making a.s.sumptions.

THREE DAYS LATER.

The woman has knocked at number

thirty-three and waits for a reply.

It was strange for Liesel to see her without the bathrobe. The summer dress was yellow with red trim. There was a pocket with a small flower on it. No swastikas. Black shoes. Never before had she noticed Ilsa Hermann's s.h.i.+ns. She had porcelain legs.

"Frau Hermann, I'm sorry-for what I did the last time in the library."

The woman quieted her. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small black book. Inside was not a story, but lined paper. "I thought if you're not going to read any more of my books, you might like to write one instead. Your letter, it was ..." She handed the book to Liesel with both hands. "You can certainly write. You write well." The book was heavy, the cover matted like The Shoulder Shrug. "And please," Ilsa Hermann advised her, "don't punish yourself, like you said you would. Don't be like me, Liesel."

The girl opened the book and touched the paper. "Danke schn, Frau Hermann. I can make you some coffee, if you like. Would you come in? I'm home alone. My mama's next door, with Frau Holtzapfel."

"Shall we use the door or the window?"

Liesel suspected it was the broadest smile Ilsa Hermann had allowed herself in years. "I think we'll use the door. It's easier."

They sat in the kitchen.

Coffee mugs and bread with jam. They struggled to speak and Liesel could hear Ilsa Hermann swallow, but somehow, it was not uncomfortable. It was even nice to see the woman gently blow across the coffee to cool it.

"If I ever write something and finish it," Liesel said, "I'll show you."

"That would be nice."

When the mayor's wife left, Liesel watched her walk up Himmel Street. She watched her yellow dress and her black shoes and her porcelain legs.

At the mailbox, Rudy asked, "Was that who I think it was?"

"Yes."

"You're joking."