Page 254 - The Book Thief

You pay. Somehow or other, you must.

In hindsight, Liesel told herself that it was not such a big deal. Perhaps it was
because so much more had happened by the time she wrote her story in the
basement. In the great scheme of things, she reasoned that Rosa being fired by
the mayor and his wife was not bad luck at all. It had nothing whatsoever to do
with hiding Jews. It had everything to do with the greater context of the war. At
the time, though, there was most definitely a feeling of punishment.

The beginning was actually a week or so earlier than June 24. Liesel scavenged a
newspaper for Max Vandenburg as she always did. She reached into a garbage
can just off Munich Street and tucked it under her arm. Once she delivered it to
Max and hed commenced his first reading, he glanced across at her and pointed
to a picture on the front page. Isnt this whose washing and ironing you deliver?

Liesel came over from the wall. Shed been writing the word argumentsix times,
next to Maxs picture of the ropy cloud and the dripping sun. Max handed her the

paper and she confirmed it. Thats him.

When she went on to read the article, Heinz Hermann, the mayor, was quoted as
saying that although the war was progressing splendidly, the people of
Molching, like all responsible Germans, should take adequate measures and
prepare for the possibility of harder times. You never know, he stated, what our
enemies are thinking, or how they will try to debilitate us.

A week later, the mayors words came to nasty fruition. Liesel, as she always did,
showed up at Grande Strasse and read from The Whistler on the floor of the
mayors library. The mayors wife showed no signs of abnormality (or, lets be
frank, no additional signs) until it was time to leave.

This time, when she offered Liesel The Whistler, she insisted on the girl taking
it. Please. She almost begged. The book was held out in a tight, measured fist.
Take it. Please, take it.

Liesel, touched by the strangeness of this woman, couldnt bear to disappoint her
again. The gray-covered book with its yellowing pages found its way into her
hand and she began to walk the corridor. As she was about to ask for the
washing, the mayors wife gave her a final look of bathrobed sorrow. She reached
into the chest of drawers and withdrew an envelope. Her voice, lumpy from lack