Page 216 - The Book Thief

Liesel held her face in her hands. Once uncovered again, she asked the pivotal
question. Did you tell Mama?

Are you kidding? He winked at Max and whispered to the girl, Youre still alive,
arent you?

That night was also the first time Papa played his accordion at home for months.
It lasted half an hour or so until he asked a question of Max.

Did you learn?

The face in the corner watched the flames. I did. There was a considerable
pause. Until I was nine. At that age, my mother sold the music studio and
stopped teaching. She kept only the one instrument but gave up on me not long
after I resisted the learning. I was foolish.

No, Papa said. You were a boy.

During the nights, both Liesel Meminger and Max Vandenburg would go about
their other similarity. In their separate rooms, they would dream their nightmares
and wake up, one with a scream in drowning sheets, the other with a gasp for air
next to a smoking fire.

Sometimes, when Liesel was reading with Papa close to three oclock, they
would both hear the waking moment of Max. He dreams like you, Papa would
say, and on one occasion, stirred by the sound of Maxs anxiety, Liesel decided to
get out of bed. From listening to his history, she had a good idea of what he saw
in those dreams, if not the exact part of the story that paid him a visit each night.

She made her way quietly down the hallway and into the living and bedroom.

Max?

The whisper was soft, clouded in the throat of sleep.

To begin with, there was no sound of reply, but he soon sat up and searched the
darkness.