Page 167 - The Book Thief

(German children were on the lookout for stray coins. German Jews kept watch

for possible capture.)

In keeping with the usage of number thirteen for luck, he counted his footsteps
in groups of that number. Just thirteen footsteps, he would tell himself. Come on,
just thirteen more. As an estimate, he completed ninety sets, till at last, he stood
on the corner of Himmel Street.

In one hand, he held his suitcase.

The other was still holding Mein Kampf.

Both were heavy, and both were handled with a gentle secretion of sweat.

Now he turned on to the side street, making his way to number thirty-three,
resisting the urge to smile, resisting the urge to sob or even imagine the safety
that might be awaiting him. He reminded himself that this was no time for hope.

Certainly, he could almost touch it. He could feel it, somewhere just out of
reach. Instead of acknowledging it, he went about the business of deciding again
what to do if he was caught at the last moment or if by some chance the wrong
person awaited him inside.

Of course, there was also the scratchy feeling of sin.

How could he do this?

How could he show up and ask people to risk their lives for him? How could he
be so selfish?

Thirty-three.

They looked at each other.

The house was pale, almost sick-looking, with an iron gate and a brown spit-
stained door.

From his pocket, he pulled out the key. It did not sparkle but lay dull and limp in
his hand. For a moment, he squeezed it, half expecting it to come leaking toward
his wrist. It didnt. The metal was hard and flat, with a healthy set of teeth, and he