Page 99 - The Book Thief

her again. The reality of this gave her a second Watschen. It stung her, and it did

not stop for many minutes.

Above her, Rosa appeared to be smudged, but she soon clarified as her
cardboard face loomed closer. Dejected, she stood there in all her plumpness,
holding the wooden spoon at her side like a club. She reached down and leaked a
little. Im sorry, Liesel.

Liesel knew her well enough to understand that it was not for the hiding.

The red marks grew larger, in patches on her skin, as she lay there, in the dust
and the dirt and the dim light. Her breathing calmed, and a stray yellow tear
trickled down her face. She could feel herself against the floor. A forearm, a
knee. An elbow. A cheek. A calf muscle.

The floor was cold, especially against her cheek, but she was unable to move.

She would never see her mother again.

For nearly an hour, she remained, spread out under the kitchen table, till Papa
came home and played the accordion. Only then did she sit up and start to
recover.

When she wrote about that night, she held no animosity toward Rosa
Hubermann at all, or toward her mother for that matter. To her, they were only
victims of circumstance. The only thought that continually recurred was the
yellow tear. Had it been dark, she realized, that tear would have been black.

But it was dark, she told herself.

No matter how many times she tried to imagine that scene with the yellow light
that she knew had been there, she had to struggle to visualize it. She was beaten
in the dark, and she had remained there, on a cold, dark kitchen floor. Even
Papas music was the color of darkness.

Even Papas music.

The strange thing was that she was vaguely comforted by that thought, rather
than distressed by it.