Page 241 - The Book Thief

Theres a Jew in my basement.

Theres a Jew. In my basement.

Sitting on the floor of the mayors roomful of books, Liesel Meminger heard
those words. A bag of washing was at her side and the ghostly figure of the
mayors wife was sitting hunch-drunk over at the desk. In front of her, Liesel read
The Whistler, pages twenty-two and twenty-three. She looked up. She imagined
herself walking over, gently tearing some fluffy hair to the side, and whispering
in the womans ear:

Theres a Jew in my basement.

As the book quivered in her lap, the secret sat in her mouth. It made itself
comfortable. It crossed its legs.

I should be getting home. This time, she actually spoke. Her hands were shaking.
Despite a trace of sunshine in the distance, a gentle breeze rode through the open
window, coupled with rain that came in like sawdust.

When Liesel placed the book back into position, the womans chair stubbed the
floor and she made her way over. It was always like this at the end. The gentle
rings of sorrowful wrinkles swelled a moment as she reached across and
retrieved the book.

She offered it to the girl.

Liesel shied away.

No, she said, thank you. I have enough books at home. Maybe another time. Im
rereading something else with my papa. You know, the one I stole from the fire
that night.

The mayors wife nodded. If there was one thing about Liesel Meminger, her
thieving was not gratuitous. She only stole books on what she felt was a need-to-
have basis. Currently, she had enough. Shed gone through The Mud Men four
times now and was enjoying her reacquaintance with The Shoulder Shrug. Also,
each night before bed, she would open a fail-safe guide to grave digging. Buried