Page 143 - The Book Thief

She started to run, to Grande Strasse and the mayors house.

Certainly, there was sweat, and the wrinkled pants of breath, stretching out in
front of her.

But she was reading.

The mayors wife, having let the girl in for the fourth time, was sitting at the
desk, simply watching the books. On the second visit, she had given permission
for Liesel to pull one out and go through it, which led to another and another,
until up to half a dozen books were stuck to her, either clutched beneath her arm
or among the pile that was climbing higher in her remaining hand.

On this occasion, as Liesel stood in the cool surrounds of the room, her stomach
growled, but no reaction was forthcoming from the mute, damaged woman. She
was in her bathrobe again, and although she observed the girl several times, it
was never for very long. She usually paid more attention to what was next to her,

to something missing. The window was opened wide, a square cool mouth, with
occasional gusty surges.

Liesel sat on the floor. The books were scattered around her.

After forty minutes, she left. Every title was returned to its place.

Goodbye, Frau Hermann. The words always came as a shock. Thank you. After
which the woman paid her and she left. Every movement was accounted for, and
the book thief ran home.

As summer set in, the roomful of books became warmer, and with every pickup
or delivery day the floor was not as painful. Liesel would sit with a small pile of

books next to her, and shed read a few paragraphs of each, trying to memorize
the words she didnt know, to ask Papa when she made it home. Later on, as an
adolescent, when Liesel wrote about those books, she no longer remembered the
titles. Not one. Perhaps had she stolen them, she would have been better
equipped.

What she did remember was that one of the picture books had a name written
clumsily on the inside cover: