Page 139 - The Book Thief

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. Its 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
didnt 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 title 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.