Page 98 - The Book Thief

there was no money, and at the time, Papa was out of tobacco.

I told you. Mama pointed a finger at him. I told you not to give her both books at
Christmas. But no. Did you listen? Of course not!

I know! He turned quietly to the girl. Im sorry, Liesel. We just cant afford it.

Liesel didnt mind. She didnt whine or moan or stamp her feet. She simply
swallowed the disappointment and decided on one calculated riska present from
herself. She would gather all of the accrued letters to her mother, stuff them into
one envelope, and use just a tiny portion of the washing and ironing money to
mail it. Then, of course, she would take the Watschen, most likely in the kitchen,
and she would not make a sound.

Three days later, the plan came to fruition.

Some of its missing. Mama counted the money a fourth time, with Liesel over at

the stove. It was warm there and it cooked the fast flow of her blood. What
happened, Liesel?

She lied. They must have given me less than usual.

Did you count it?

She broke. I spent it, Mama.

Rosa came closer. This was not a good sign. She was very close to the wooden
spoons. You what?

Before she could answer, the wooden spoon came down on Liesel Memingers

body like the gait of God. Red marks like footprints, and they burned. From the
floor, when it was over, the girl actually looked up and explained.

There was pulse and yellow light, all together. Her eyes blinked. I mailed my
letters.

What came to her then was the dustiness of the floor, the feeling that her clothes
were more next to her than on her, and the sudden realization that this would all
be for nothingthat her mother would never write back and she would never see