Page 144 - The Book Thief

THE NAME OF A BOY

Johann Hermann

Liesel bit down on her lip, but she could not resist it for long. From the floor, she
turned and looked up at the bathrobed woman and made an inquiry. Johann
Hermann, she said. Who is that?

The woman looked beside her, somewhere next to the girls knees.

Liesel apologized. Im sorry. I shouldnt be asking such things. . . . She let the
sentence die its own death.

The womans face did not alter, yet somehow she managed to speak. He is
nothing now in this world, she explained. He was my . . .

THE FILES OF RECOLLECTION
Oh, yes, I definitely remember him.
The sky was murky and deep like quicksand.
There was a young man parceled up in barbed wire,
like a giant crown of thorns. I untangled him and carried him
out. High above the earth, we sank together,

to our knees. It was just another day, 1918.

Apart from everything else, she said, he froze to death. For a moment, she
played with her hands, and she said it again. He froze to death, Im sure of it.

The mayors wife was just one of a worldwide brigade. You have seen her before,
Im certain. In your stories, your poems, the screens you like to watch. Theyre
everywhere, so why not here? Why not on a shapely hill in a small German
town? Its as good a place to suffer as any.

The point is, Ilsa Hermann had decided to make suffering her triumph. When it