Page 243 - The Book Thief

With the weather warming, Max remained downstairs all the time. During the
day, the basement door was left open to allow the small bay of daylight to reach
him from the corridor. The hall itself was not exactly bathed in sunshine, but in
certain situations, you take what you can get. Dour light was better than none,
and they needed to be frugal. The kerosene had not yet approached a
dangerously low level, but it was best to keep its usage to a minimum.

Liesel would usually sit on some drop sheets. She would read while Max
completed those crosswords. They sat a few meters apart, speaking very rarely,
and there was really only the noise of turning pages. Often, she also left her
books for Max to read while she was at school. Where Hans Hubermann and
Erik Vandenburg were ultimately united by music, Max and Liesel were held
together by the quiet gathering of words.

Hi, Max.

Hi, Liesel.

They would sit and read.

At times, she would watch him. She decided that he could best be summed up as
a picture of pale concentration. Beige-colored skin. A swamp in each eye. And
he breathed like a fugitive. Desperate yet soundless. It was only his chest that
gave him away for something alive.

Increasingly, Liesel would close her eyes and ask Max to quiz her on the words
she was continually getting wrong, and she would swear if they still escaped her.
She would then stand and paint those words to the wall, anywhere up to a dozen
times. Together, Max Vandenburg and Liesel Meminger would take in the odor

of paint fumes and cement.

Bye, Max.

Bye, Liesel.

In bed, she would lie awake, imagining him below, in the basement. In her
bedtime visions, he always slept fully clothed, shoes included, just in case he
needed to flee again. He slept with one eye open.