Page 234 - The Book Thief

She walked down the basement steps. She saw an imaginary framed photo seep
into the walla quiet-smiled secret.

No more than a few meters, it was a long walk to the drop sheets and the
assortment of paint cans that shielded Max Vandenburg. She removed the sheets
closest to the wall until there was a small corridor to look through.

The first part of him she saw was his shoulder, and through the slender gap, she
slowly, painfully, inched her hand in until it rested there. His clothing was cool.
He did not wake.

She could feel his breathing and his shoulder moving up and down ever so
slightly. For a while, she watched him. Then she sat and leaned back.

Sleepy air seemed to have followed her.

The scrawled words of practice stood magnificently on the wall by the stairs,
jagged and childlike and sweet. They looked on as both the hidden Jew and the
girl slept, hand to shoulder.

They breathed.

German and Jewish lungs.

Next to the wall, The Standover Man sat, numb and gratified, like a beautiful
itch at Liesel Memingers feet.