The Book Thief (18 page)

That was when she nearly ran back and tossed the book onto the mound, but she was unable. The only movement at her disposal was the act of turning.

“There are some things here that didn’t burn!” It was one of the cleanup men. He was not facing the girl, but rather, the people standing by the town hall.

“Well, burn them again!” came the reply. “And
watch
them burn!”

“I think they’re wet!”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, do I have to do everything myself?” The sound of footsteps passed by. It was the mayor, wearing a black coat
over his Nazi uniform. He didn’t notice the girl who stood absolutely still only a short distance away.

She sank.

The thrill of being ignored!

The book felt cool enough now to slip inside her uniform. At first, it was nice and warm against her chest. As she began walking, though, it began to heat up again.

By the time she made it back to Papa and Wolfgang Edel, the book was starting to burn her. It seemed to be igniting.

Both men looked at her.

She smiled.

Immediately, when the smile shrank from her lips, she could feel something else. Or more to the point,
someone
else. There was no mistaking the watched feeling. It was all over her, and it was confirmed when she dared to face the shadows over at the town hall. To the side of the collection of silhouettes, another one stood, a few meters removed, and Liesel realized two things.

The shadow’s hands were in its coat pockets.

It had fluffy hair.

If it had a face, the expression on it would have been one of injury.

“Gottverdammt,”
Liesel said, only loud enough for herself. “Goddamn it.”

“Are we ready to go?”

In the previous moments of stupendous danger, Papa had said goodbye to Wolfgang Edel and was ready to accompany Liesel home.

“Ready,” she answered.

They began to leave the scene of the crime, and the book was well and truly burning her now.
The Shoulder Shrug
had applied itself to her rib cage.

As they walked past the precarious town hall shadows, the book thief winced.

“What’s wrong?” Papa asked.

“Nothing.”

Quite a few things, however, were most definitely wrong:

Smoke was rising out of Liesel’s collar.

A necklace of sweat had formed around her throat.

Beneath her shirt, a book was eating her up.

mein kampf

featuring:
the way home—a broken woman—a struggler—
a juggler—the attributes of summer—
an aryan shopkeeper—a snorer—two tricksters—
and revenge in the shape of mixed candy

Mein Kampf
.

The book penned by the
Führer
himself.

It was the third book of great importance to reach Liesel Meminger; only this time, she did not steal it. The book showed up at 33 Himmel Street perhaps an hour after Liesel had drifted back to sleep from her obligatory nightmare.

Some would say it was a miracle that she ever owned that book at all.

Its journey began on the way home, the night of the fire.

They were nearly halfway back to Himmel Street when Liesel could no longer take it. She bent over and removed the smoking book, allowing it to hop sheepishly from hand to hand.

When it had cooled sufficiently, they both watched it a moment, waiting for the words.

Papa: “What the hell do you call that?”

He reached over and grabbed hold of
The Shoulder Shrug
. No explanation was required. It was obvious that the girl had stolen it from the fire. The book was hot and wet, blue and red—embarrassed—and Hans Hubermann opened it up. Pages thirty-eight and thirty-nine. “Another one?”

Liesel rubbed her ribs.

Yes.

Another one.

“Looks like,” Papa suggested, “I don’t need to trade any more cigarettes, do I? Not when you’re stealing these things as fast as I can buy them.”

Liesel, by comparison, did not speak. Perhaps it was her first realization that criminality spoke best for itself. Irrefutable.

Papa studied the title, probably wondering exactly what kind of threat this book posed to the hearts and minds of the German people. He handed it back. Something happened.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Each word fell away at its edges. It broke off and formed the next.

The criminal could no longer resist. “What, Papa? What is it?”

“Of course.”

Like most humans in the grip of revelation, Hans Hubermann stood with a certain numbness. The next words would either be shouted or would not make it past his teeth. Also, they would most likely be a repetition of the last thing he’d said, only moments earlier.

“Of course.”

This time, his voice was like a fist, freshly banged on the table.

The man was seeing something. He was watching it quickly, end to end, like a race, but it was too high and too far away for Liesel to see. She begged him. “Come on, Papa, what is it?” She fretted that he would tell Mama about the book. As humans do, this was all about her. “Are you going to tell?”

“Sorry?”

“You know. Are you going to tell Mama?”

Hans Hubermann still watched, tall and distant. “About what?”

She raised the book. “This.” She brandished it in the air, as if waving a gun.

Papa was bewildered. “Why would I?”

She hated questions like that. They forced her to admit an ugly truth, to reveal her own filthy, thieving nature. “Because I stole again.”

Papa bent himself to a crouching position, then rose and placed his hand on her head. He stroked her hair with his rough, long fingers and said, “Of course not, Liesel. You are safe.”

“So what are you going to do?”

That was the question.

What marvelous act was Hans Hubermann about to produce from the thin Munich Street air?

Before I show you, I think we should first take a look at what he was seeing prior to his decision.

“Listen, Liesel.” Papa placed his arm around her and walked her on. “This is our secret, this book. We’ll read it at night or in the basement, just like the others—but you have to promise me something.”

“Anything, Papa.”

The night was smooth and still. Everything listened. “If I ever ask you to keep a secret for me, you will do it.”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now come on. If we’re any later, Mama will kill us, and we don’t want that, do we? No more book stealing then, huh?”

Liesel grinned.

What she didn’t know until later was that within the next few days, her foster father managed to trade some cigarettes for another book, although this one was not for her. He knocked on the door of the Nazi Party office in Molching and took the opportunity to ask about his membership application. Once this was discussed, he proceeded to give them his last scraps of money and a dozen cigarettes. In return, he received a used copy of
Mein Kampf
.

“Happy reading,” said one of the party members.

“Thank you.” Hans nodded.

From the street, he could still hear the men inside. One of the voices was particularly clear. “He will never be approved,” it said, “even if he buys a hundred copies of
Mein Kampf
.” The statement was unanimously agreed upon.