Page 314 - The Book Thief

The leaf was a maple and she found it in the school broom closet, among the
buckets and feather dusters. The door was slightly ajar. The leaf was dry and
hard, like toasted bread, and there were hills and valleys all over its skin.
Somehow, the leaf had made its way into the school hallway and into that closet.
Like half a star with a stem. Liesel reached in and twirled it in her fingers.

Unlike the other items, she did not place the leaf on the bedside table. She
pinned it to the closed curtain, just before reading the final thirty-four pages of
The Whistler.

She did not have dinner that afternoon or go to the toilet. She didnt drink. All
day at school, she had promised herself that she would finish reading the book
today, and Max Vandenburg was going to listen. He was going to wake up.

Papa sat on the floor, in the corner, workless as usual. Luckily, he would soon be
leaving for the Knoller with his accordion. His chin resting on his knees, he

listened to the girl hed struggled to teach the alphabet. Reading proudly, she
unloaded the final frightening words of the book to Max Vandenburg.

THE LAST REMNANTS OF
THE WHISTLER

The Viennese air was fogging up the windows of the train that morning, and
as the people traveled obliviously to work, a murderer whistled his happy tune.
He bought his ticket. There were polite greetings with fellow passengers and
the conductor. He even gave up his seat for an elderly lady and made polite
conversation with a gambler who spoke of Amer ican horses. After all, the
whistler loved talking. He talked to people and fooled them into liking him,
trusting him. He talked to them while he was killing them, torturing and turn
ing the knife. It was only when there was no one to talk to that he whistled,
which was why he did so after a murder. . . .

So you think the track will suit number seven, do you?