Page 114 - The Book Thief

The Fhrer.

He was the they that Hans and Rosa Hubermann were talking about that evening
when she first wrote to her mother. She knew it, but she had to ask.

Is my mother a communist? Staring. Straight ahead. They were always asking
her things, before I came here.

Hans edged forward a little, forming the beginnings of a lie. I have no ideaI
never met her.

Did the Fhrer take her away?

The question surprised them both, and it forced Papa to stand up. He looked at
the brown-shirted men taking to the pile of ash with shovels. He could hear them
hacking into it. Another lie was growing in his mouth, but he found it impossible

to let it out. He said, I think he might have, yes.

I knew it. The words were thrown at the steps and Liesel could feel the slush of
anger, stirring hotly in her stomach. I hate the Fhrer, she said. I hate him.

And Hans Hubermann?

What did he do?

What did he say?

Did he bend down and embrace his foster daughter, as he wanted to? Did he tell
her that he was sorry for what was happening to her, to her mother, for what had

happened to her brother?

Not exactly.

He clenched his eyes. Then opened them. He slapped Liesel Meminger squarely
in the face.

Dont ever say that! His voice was quiet, but sharp.