Page 202 - The Book Thief

THE SLEEPER

Max Vandenburg slept for three days.

In certain excerpts of that sleep, Liesel watched him. You might say that by the
third day it became an obsession, to check on him, to see if he was still
breathing. She could now interpret his signs of life, from the movement of his
lips, his gathering beard, and the twigs of hair that moved ever so slightly when
his head twitched in the dream state.

Often, when she stood over him, there was the mortifying thought that he had

just woken up, his eyes splitting open to view herto watch her watching. The
idea of being caught out plagued and enthused her at the same time. She dreaded
it. She invited it. Only when Mama called out to her could she drag herself away,
simultaneously soothed and disappointed that she might not be there when he
woke.

Sometimes, close to the end of the marathon of sleep, he spoke.

There was a recital of murmured names. A checklist.

Isaac. Aunt Ruth. Sarah. Mama. Walter. Hitler.

Family, friend, enemy.

They were all under the covers with him, and at one point, he appeared to be
struggling with himself. Nein, he whispered. It was repeated seven times. No.

Liesel, in the act of watching, was already noticing the similarities between this
stranger and herself. They both arrived in a state of agitation on Himmel Street.
They both nightmared.

When the time came, he awoke with the nasty thrill of disorientation. His mouth
opened a moment after his eyes and he sat up, right-angled.

Ay!