Page 212 - The Book Thief

No, no, he only comes up at night. In the day, we leave everything open.
Nothing to hide. And we use this room rather than the kitchen. Best to keep
away from the front door.

Silence.

Then Mama. All right . . . Yes, youre right.

If we gamble on a Jew, said Papa soon after, I would prefer to gamble on a live
one, and from that moment, a new routine was born.

Each night, the fire was lit in Mama and Papas room, and Max would silently
appear. He would sit in the corner, cramped and perplexed, most likely by the
kindness of the people, the torment of survival, and overriding all of it, the
brilliance of the warmth.

With the curtains clamped tight, he would sleep on the floor with a cushion
beneath his head, as the fire slipped away and turned to ash.

In the morning, he would return to the basement.

A voiceless human.

The Jewish rat, back to his hole.

Christmas came and went with the smell of extra danger. As expected, Hans
Junior did not come home (both a blessing and an ominous disappointment), but
Trudy arrived as usual, and fortunately, things went smoothly.

THE QUALITIES OF SMOOTHNESS
Max remained in the basement.

Trudy came and went without
any suspicion.