Page 95 - The Book Thief

Both he and the paint fumes turned around. Was wuistz? Now this was the

roughest form of German a person could speak, but it was spoken with an air of
absolute pleasantness. Yeah, what?

Would I be able to write a letter to Mama?

A pause.

What do you want to write a letter to her for? You have to put up with her every
day. Papa was schmunzelinga sly smile. Isnt that bad enough?

Not that mama. She swallowed.

Oh. Papa returned to the wall and continued painting. Well, I guess so. You
could send it to whats-her-namethe one who brought you here and visited those
few timesfrom the foster people.

Frau Heinrich.

Thats right. Send it to her. Maybe she can send it on to your mother. Even at the
time, he sounded unconvincing, as if he wasnt telling Liesel something. Word of
her mother had also been tight-lipped on Frau Heinrichs brief visits.

Instead of asking him what was wrong, Liesel began writing immediately,
choosing to ignore the sense of foreboding that was quick to accumulate inside
her. It took three hours and six drafts to perfect the letter, telling her mother all
about Molching, her papa and his accordion, the strange but true ways of Rudy
Steiner, and the exploits of Rosa Hubermann. She also explained how proud she
was that she could now read and write a little. The next day, she posted it at Frau
Dillers with a stamp from the kitchen drawer. And she began to wait.

The night she wrote the letter, she overheard a conversation between Hans and
Rosa.

Whats she doing writing to her mother? Mama was saying. Her voice was
surprisingly calm and caring. As you can imagine, this worried the girl a great
deal. Shed have preferred to hear them arguing. Whispering adults hardly
inspired confidence.