The Book Thief

coughing brother. I stole my first book that

day. It was a manual for digging graves and

I stole it on my way to Himmel Street ….

She fell asleep down there, on a bed of drop sheets, with the paper curling at the edges, up on the taller paint can. In the morning, Mama stood above her, her chlorinated eyes questioning.

“Liesel,” she said, “what on earth are you doing down here?”

“I’m writing, Mama.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Rosa stomped back up the steps. “Be back up in five minutes or you get the bucket treatment. Verstehst?”

“I understand.”

Every night, Liesel made her way down to the basement. She kept the book with her at all times. For hours, she wrote, attempting each night to complete ten pages of her life. There was so much to consider, so many things in danger of being left out. Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.

Sometimes she wrote about what was happening in the basement at the time of writing. She had just finished the moment when Papa had slapped her on the church steps and how they’d “heil Hitlered” together. Looking across, Hans Hubermann was packing the accordion away. He’d just played for half an hour as Liesel wrote.

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Papa sat with me tonight. He brought the

accordion down and sat close to where Max

used to sit. I often look at his fingers and

face when he plays. The accordion breathes.

There are lines on his cheeks. They look drawn

on, and for some reason, when I see them,

I want to cry. It is not for any sadness or

pride. I just like the way they move and

change. Sometimes I think my papa is an

accordion. When he looks at me and smiles

and breathes, I hear the notes.

After ten nights of writing, Munich was bombed again. Liesel was up and was asleep in the basement. She did not hear the cuckoo or the sirens, and she was holding the book in her sleep when Papa came to wake her. “Liesel, come.” She took The Book Thief and each of her other books, and they fetched Frau Holtzapfel.

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A book floated down the Amper River.

A boy jumped in, caught up to it, and held

it in his right hand. He grinned. He stood

waist-deep in the icy, Decemberish water.

“How about a kiss, Saumensch?” he said.

By the next raid, on October 2, she was finished. Only a few dozen pages remained blank and the book thief was already starting to read over what she’d written. The book was divided into ten parts, all of which were given the title of books or stories and described how each affected her life.