Page 445 - The Book Thief

THE SNOWS OF STALINGRAD

In the middle of January 1943, the corridor of Himmel Street was its dark,
miserable self. Liesel shut the gate and made her way to Frau Holtzapfels door
and knocked. She was surprised by the answerer.

Her first thought was that the man must have been one of her sons, but he did not
look like either of the brothers in the framed photos by the door. He seemed far
too old, although it was difficult to tell. His face was dotted with whiskers and
his eyes looked painful and loud. A bandaged hand fell out of his coat sleeve and
cherries of blood were seeping through the wrapping.

Perhaps you should come back later.

Liesel tried to look past him. She was close to calling out to Frau Holtzapfel, but
the man blocked her.

Child, he said. Come back later. Ill get you. Where are you from?

More than three hours later, a knock arrived at 33 Himmel Street and the man
stood before her. The cherries of blood had grown into plums.

Shes ready for you now.

Outside, in the fuzzy gray light, Liesel couldnt help asking the man what had
happened to his hand. He blew some air from his nostrils a single syllablebefore
his reply. Stalingrad.

Sorry? He had looked into the wind when he spoke. I couldnt hear you.

He answered again, only louder, and now, he answered the question fully.
Stalingrad happened to my hand. I was shot in the ribs and I had three of my
fingers blown off. Does that answer your question? He placed his uninjured hand
in his pocket and shivered with contempt for the German wind. You think its
cold here?