Page 486 - The Book Thief

Steh auf.

The economical sentence was directed not to the girl but the Jew. It was
elaborated on. Get up, you dirty asshole, you Jewish whore-dog, get up, get up. .
. .

Max hoisted himself upright.

Just another push-up, Max.

Just another push-up on the cold basement floor.

His feet moved.

They dragged and he traveled on.

His legs staggered and his hands wiped at the marks of the whip, to soothe the
stinging. When he tried to look again for Liesel, the soldiers hands were placed
upon his bloodied shoulders and pushed.

The boy arrived. His lanky legs crouched and he called over, to his left.

Tommy, get out here and help me. We have to get her up. Tommy, hurry! He
lifted the book thief by her armpits. Liesel, come on, you have to get off the
road.

When she was able to stand, she looked at the shocked, frozen-faced Germans,
fresh out of their packets. At their feet, she allowed herself to collapse, but only
momentarily. A graze struck a match on the side of her face, where shed met the

ground. Her pulse flipped it over, frying it on both sides.

Far down the road, she could see the blurry legs and heels of the last walking
Jew.

Her face was burning and there was a dogged ache in her arms and legsa
numbness that was simultaneously painful and exhausting.

She stood, one last time.