Page 292 - The Book Thief

Dont worry, he assured her. He wont do it. He doesnt have the guts.

He was wrong.

Franz merged into a kneeling position as he leaned closer to Rudy and
whispered:

When was our Fhrer born? Each word was carefully created and fed into his ear.
Come on, Rudy, when was he born? You can tell me, everythings fine, dont be
afraid.

And Rudy?

How did he reply?

Did he respond prudently, or did he allow his stupidity to sink himself deeper
into the mire?

He looked happily into the pale blue eyes of Franz Deutscher and whispered,
Easter Monday.

Within a few seconds, the knife was applied to his hair. It was haircut number
two in this section of Liesels life. The hair of a Jew was cut with rusty scissors.
Her best friend was taken to with a gleaming knife. She knew nobody who
actually paid for a haircut.

As for Rudy, so far this year hed swallowed mud, bathed himself in fertilizer,
been half-strangled by a developing criminal, and was now receiving something
at least nearing the icing on the cake public humiliation on Munich Street.

For the most part, his fringe was sliced away freely, but with each stroke, there
were always a few hairs that held on for dear life and were pulled out
completely. As each one was plucked, Rudy winced, his black eye throbbing in
the process and his ribs flashing in pain.

April twentieth, eighteen eighty-nine! Franz lectured him, and when he led his
cohorts away, the audience dispersed, leaving only Liesel, Tommy, and Kristina
with their friend.