Page 190 - The Book Thief

Max. It was his mother.

From a drawer, she took an old piece of paper and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.
If ever . . . She held him one last time, by the elbows. This could be your last
hope.

He looked into her aging face and kissed her, very hard, on the lips.

Come on. Walter pulled at him as the rest of the family said their goodbyes and
gave him money and a few valuables. Its chaos out there, and chaos is what we
need.

They left, without looking back.

It tortured him.

If only hed turned for one last look at his family as he left the apartment. Perhaps
then the guilt would not have been so heavy. No final goodbye.

No final grip of the eyes.

Nothing but goneness.

For the next two years, he remained in hiding, in an empty storeroom. It was in a
building where Walter had worked in previous years. There was very little food.
There was plenty of suspicion. The remaining Jews with money in the
neighborhood were emigrating. The Jews without money were also trying, but
without much success. Maxs family fell into the latter category. Walter checked
on them occasionally, as inconspicuously as he could. One afternoon, when he

visited, someone else opened the door.

When Max heard the news, his body felt like it was being screwed up into a ball,
like a page littered with mistakes. Like garbage.

Yet each day, he managed to unravel and straighten himself, disgusted and
thankful. Wrecked, but somehow not torn into pieces.

Halfway through 1939, just over six months into the period of hiding, they