Page 344 - The Book Thief

When the time came to write, I remember clearly what Liesel Meminger had to
say about that summer. A lot of the words have faded over the decades. The
paper has suffered from the friction of movement in my pocket, but still, many
of her sentences have been impossible to forget.

A SMALL SAMPLE OF SOME
GIRL-WRITTEN WORDS
That summer was a new beginning, a new end.
When I look back, I remember my slippery
hands of paint and the sound of Papas feet
on Munich Street, and I know that a small
piece of the summer of 1942 belonged to only
one man. Who else would do some painting for
the price of half a cigarette? That was Papa,
that was typical, and I loved him.

Every day when they worked together, he would tell Liesel his stories. There
was the Great War and how his miserable handwriting helped save his life, and
the day he met Mama. He said that she was beautiful once, and actually very
quiet-spoken. Hard to believe, I know, but absolutely true. Each day, there was a

story, and Liesel forgave him if he told the same one more than once.

On other occasions, when she was daydreaming, Papa would dab her lightly with
his brush, right between the eyes. If he misjudged and there was too much on it,
a small path of paint would dribble down the side of her nose. She would laugh
and try to return the favor, but Hans Hubermann was a hard man to catch out at
work. It was there that he was most alive.

Whenever they had a break, to eat or drink, he would play the accordion, and it
was this that Liesel remembered best. Each morning, while Papa pushed or
dragged the paint cart, Liesel carried the instrument. Better that we leave the
paint behind, Hans told her, than ever forget the music. When they paused to eat,
he would cut up the bread, smearing it with what little jam remained from the

last ration card. Or hed lay a small slice of meat on top of it. They would eat