Page 220 - The Book Thief

PAGES FROM THE BASEMENT

For a week, Liesel was kept from the basement at all cost. It was Mama and
Papa who made sure to take down Maxs food.

No, Saumensch, Mama told her each time she volunteered. There was always a
new excuse. How about you do something useful in here for a change, like finish
the ironing? You think carrying it around town is so special? Try ironing it! You
can do all manner of underhanded nice things when you have a caustic
reputation. It worked.

During that week, Max had cut out a collection of pages from Mein Kampf and
painted over them in white. He then hung them up with pegs on some string,
from one end of the basement to the other. When they were all dry, the hard part
began. He was educated well enough to get by, but he was certainly no writer,
and no artist. Despite this, he formulated the words in his head till he could
recount them without error. Only then, on the paper that had bubbled and
humped under the stress of drying paint, did he begin to write the story. It was
done with a small black paintbrush.

The Standover Man.

He calculated that he needed thirteen pages, so he painted forty, expecting at

least twice as many slipups as successes. There were practice versions on the
pages of the Molching Express, improving his basic, clumsy artwork to a level
he could accept. As he worked, he heard the whispered words of a girl. His hair,
she told him, is like feathers.

When he was finished, he used a knife to pierce the pages and tie them with
string. The result was a thirteen-page booklet that went like this: