The Book Thief Part 18

Yes, you can.

Steadily, the room shrank, till the book thief could touch the shelves within a few small steps. She ran the back of her hand along the first shelf, listening to the shuffle of her fingernails gliding across the spinal cord of each book. It sounded like an instrument, or the notes of running feet. She used both hands. She raced them. One shelf against the other. And she laughed. Her voice was sprawled out, high in her throat, and when she eventually stopped and stood in the middle of the room, she spent many minutes looking from the shelves to her fingers and back again.

How many books had she touched?

How many had she felt?

She walked over and did it again, this time much slower, with her hand facing forward, allowing the dough of her palm to feel the small hurdle of each book. It felt like magic, like beauty, as bright lines of light shone down from a chandelier. Several times, she almost pulled a t.i.tle from its place but didn't dare disturb them. They were too perfect.

To her left, she saw the woman again, standing by a large desk, still holding the small tower against her torso. She stood with a delighted crookedness. A smile appeared to have paralyzed her lips.

"Do you want me to-?"

Liesel didn't finish the question but actually performed what she was going to ask, walking over and taking the books gently from the woman's arms. She then placed them into the missing piece in the shelf, by the slightly open window. The outside cold was streaming in.

For a moment, she considered closing it, but thought better of it. This was not her house, and the situation was not to be tampered with. Instead, she returned to the lady behind her, whose smile gave the appearance now of a bruise and whose arms were hanging slenderly at each side. Like girls' arms.

What now?

An awkwardness treated itself to the room, and Liesel took a final, fleeting glance at the walls of books. In her mouth, the words fidgeted, but they came out in a rush. "I should go."

It took three attempts to leave.

She waited in the hallway for a few minutes, but the woman didn't come, and when Liesel returned to the entrance of the room, she saw her sitting at the desk, staring blankly at one of the books. She chose not to disturb her. In the hallway, she picked up the was.h.i.+ng.

This time, she avoided the sore spot in the floorboards, walking the long length of the corridor, favoring the left-hand wall. When she closed the door behind her, a bra.s.s clank sounded in her ear, and with the was.h.i.+ng next to her, she stroked the flesh of the wood. "Get going," she said.

At first, she walked home dazed.

The surreal experience with the roomful of books and the stunned, broken woman walked alongside her. She could see it on the buildings, like a play. Perhaps it was similar to the way Papa had his Mein Kampf revelation. Wherever she looked, Liesel saw the mayor's wife with the books piled up in her arms. Around corners, she could hear the shuffle of her own hands, disturbing the shelves. She saw the open window, the chandelier of lovely light, and she saw herself leaving, without so much as a word of thanks.

Soon, her sedated condition transformed to hara.s.sment and self-loathing. She began to rebuke herself.

"You said nothing." Her head shook vigorously, among the hurried footsteps. "Not a 'goodbye.' Not a 'thank you.' Not a 'that's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen.' Nothing!" Certainly, she was a book thief, but that didn't mean she should have no manners at all. It didn't mean she couldn't be polite.

She walked a good few minutes, struggling with indecision.

On Munich Street, it came to an end.

Just as she could make out the sign that said STEINER-SCHNEIDERMEISTER, she turned and ran back.

This time, there was no hesitation.

She thumped the door, sending an echo of bra.s.s through the wood. Scheisse!

It was not the mayor's wife, but the mayor himself who stood before her. In her hurry, Liesel had neglected to notice the car that sat out front, on the street.

Mustached and black-suited, the man spoke. "Can I help you?"

Liesel could say nothing. Not yet. She was bent over, short of air, and fortunately, the woman arrived when she'd at least partially recovered. Ilsa Hermann stood behind her husband, to the side.

"I forgot," Liesel said. She lifted the bag and addressed the mayor's wife. Despite the forced labor of breath, she fed the words through the gap in the doorway-between the mayor and the frame-to the woman. Such was her effort to breathe that the words escaped only a few at a time. "I forgot ... I mean, I just ... wanted," she said, "to ... thank you."

The mayor's wife bruised herself again. Coming forward to stand beside her husband, she nodded very faintly, waited, and closed the door.

It took Liesel a minute or so to leave.

She smiled at the steps.

ENTER THE STRUGGLER.

Now for a change of scenery.

We've both had it too easy till now, my friend, don't you think? How about we forget Molching for a minute or two?

It will do us some good.

Also, it's important to the story.

We will travel a little, to a secret storage room, and we will see what we see.

A GUIDED TOUR OF SUFFERING.

To your left,

perhaps your right,

perhaps even straight ahead,

you find a small black room.

In it sits a Jew.

He is sc.u.m.

He is starving.

He is afraid.

Please-try not to look away.

A few hundred miles northwest, in Stuttgart, far from book thieves, mayors' wives, and Himmel Street, a man was sitting in the dark. It was the best place, they decided. It's harder to find a Jew in the dark.

He sat on his suitcase, waiting. How many days had it been now?

He had eaten only the foul taste of his own hungry breath for what felt like weeks, and still, nothing. Occasionally voices wandered past and sometimes he longed for them to knuckle the door, to open it, to drag him out, into the unbearable light. For now, he could only sit on his suitcase couch, hands under his chin, his elbows burning his thighs.

There was sleep, starving sleep, and the irritation of half awakeness, and the punishment of the floor.

Ignore the itchy feet.

Don't scratch the soles.

And don't move too much.

Just leave everything as it is, at all cost. It might be time to go soon. Light like a gun. Explosive to the eyes. It might be time to go. It might be time, so wake up. Wake up now, G.o.dd.a.m.n it! Wake up.

The door was opened and shut, and a figure was crouched over him. The hand splashed at the cold waves of his clothes and the grimy currents beneath. A voice came down, behind it.

"Max," it whispered. "Max, wake up."

His eyes did not do anything that shock normally describes. No snapping, no slapping, no jolt. Those things happen when you wake from a bad dream, not when you wake into one. No, his eyes dragged themselves open, from darkness to dim. It was his body that reacted, shrugging upward and throwing out an arm to grip the air.

The voice calmed him now. "Sorry it's taken so long. I think people have been watching me. And the man with the ident.i.ty card took longer than I thought, but-" There was a pause. "It's yours now. Not great quality, but hopefully good enough to get you there if it comes to that." He crouched down and waved a hand at the suitcase. In his other hand, he held something heavy and flat. "Come on-off." Max obeyed, standing and scratching. He could feel the tightening of his bones. "The card is in this." It was a book. "You should put the map in here, too, and the directions. And there's a key-taped to the inside cover." He clicked open the case as quietly as he could and planted the book like a bomb. "I'll be back in a few days."

He left a small bag filled with bread, fat, and three small carrots. Next to it was a bottle of water. There was no apology. "It's the best I could do."

Door open, door shut.

Alone again.

What came to him immediately then was the sound.

Everything was so desperately noisy in the dark when he was alone. Each time he moved, there was the sound of a crease. He felt like a man in a paper suit.

The food.

Max divided the bread into three parts and set two aside. The one in his hand he immersed himself in, chewing and gulping, forcing it down the dry corridor of his throat. The fat was cold and hard, scaling its way down, occasionally holding on. Big swallows tore them away and sent them below.

Then the carrots.

Again, he set two aside and devoured the third. The noise was astounding. Surely, the Fhrer himself could hear the sound of the orange crush in his mouth. It broke his teeth with every bite. When he drank, he was quite positive that he was swallowing them. Next time, he advised himself, drink first.

Later, to his relief, when the echoes left him and he found the courage to check with his fingers, each tooth was still there, intact. He tried for a smile, but it didn't come. He could only imagine a meek attempt and a mouthful of broken teeth. For hours, he felt at them.

He opened the suitcase and picked up the book.

He could not read the t.i.tle in the dark, and the gamble of striking a match seemed too great right now.

When he spoke, it was the taste of a whisper.

"Please," he said. "Please."

He was speaking to a man he had never met. As well as a few other important details, he knew the man's name. Hans Hubermann. Again, he spoke to him, to the distant stranger. He pleaded.

"Please."

THE ATTRIBUTES OF SUMMER.

So there you have it.