Page 300 - The Book Thief
P. 300
about my work, and some years, the souls and bodies dont add up; they multiply.
AN ABRIDGED ROLL CALL FOR 1942
The desperate Jewstheir spirits in my lap as we sat on the roof, next to the
steaming chimneys.
The Russian soldierstaking only small amounts of ammunition, relying on
the fallen for the rest of it.
The soaked bodies of a French coast beached on the shingle and sand.
I could go on, but Ive decided for now that three examples will suffice. Three
examples, if nothing else, will give you the ashen taste in your mouth that
defined my existence during that year.
So many humans.
So many colors.
They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their
heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like
setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and
there are soft, coal-colored clouds, beating like black hearts.
And then.
There is death.
Making his way through all of it.
On the surface: unflappable, unwavering.
Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.
In all honesty (and I know Im complaining excessively now), I was still getting
