بخش 03-01

PART THREE

meinkampf

featuring: the way homea broken womana struggler a jugglerthe attributes of summer an aryan shopkeepera snorertwo tricksters and revenge in the shape of mixed candy THE WAY HOME

Mein Kampf. The book penned by the Fhrer 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 redembarrassedand 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 dont need to trade any more cigarettes, do I? Not when youre 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 hed 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.

PAPAS FAST-PACED VISIONS First, he sees the girls books: The Grave Diggers Handbook, Faust the Dog, The Lighthouse, and now The Shoulder Shrug. Next is a kitchen and a volatile Hans Junior, regarding those books on the table, where the girl often reads. He speaks: And what trash is this girl reading? His son repeats the question three times, after which he makes his suggestion for more appropriate reading material.

Listen, Liesel. Papa placed his arm around her and walked her on. This is our secret, this book. Well read it at night or in the basement, just like the othersbut 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 were any later, Mama will kill us, and we dont want that, do we? No more book stealing then, huh? Liesel grinned. What she didnt 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. Hans held the book in his right hand, thinking about postage money, a cigaretteless existence, and the foster daughter who had given him this brilliant idea. Thank you, he repeated, to which a passerby inquired as to what hed said. With typical affability, Hans replied, Nothing, my good man, nothing at all. Heil Hitler, and he walked down Munich Street, holding the pages of the Fhrer. There must have been a good share of mixed feelings at that moment, for Hans Hubermanns idea had not only sprung from Liesel, but from his son. Did he already fear hed never see him again? On the other hand, he was also enjoying the ecstasy of an idea, not daring just yet to envision its complications, dangers, and vicious absurdities. For now, the idea was enough. It was indestructible. Transforming it into reality, well, that was something else altogether. For now, though, lets let him enjoy it. Well give him seven months. Then we come for him. And oh, how we come. THE MAYORS LIBRARY

Certainly, something of great magnitude was coming toward 33 Himmel Street, to which Liesel was currently oblivious. To distort an overused human expression, the girl had more immediate fish to fry: She had stolen a book. Someone had seen her. The book thief reacted. Appropriately. Every minute, every hour, there was worry, or more to the point, paranoia. Criminal activity will do that to a person, especially a child. They envision a prolific assortment of caughtoutedness. Some examples: People jumping out of alleys. Schoolteachers suddenly being aware of every sin youve ever committed. Police showing up at the door each time a leaf turns or a distant gate slams shut. For Liesel, the paranoia itself became the punishment, as did the dread of delivering some washing to the mayors house. It was no mistake, as Im sure you can imagine, that when the time came, Liesel conveniently overlooked the house on Grande Strasse. She delivered to the arthritic Helena Schmidt and picked up at the cat-loving Weingartner residence, but she ignored the house belonging to BrgermeisterHeinz Hermann and his wife, Ilsa.

ANOTHER QUICK TRANSLATION Brgermeister = mayor

On the first occasion, she stated that she simply forgot about that placea poor excuse if ever Ive heard oneas the house straddled the hill, overlooking the town, and it was unforgettable. When she went back and still returned empty-handed, she lied that there was no one home. No one home? Mama was skeptical. Skepticism gave her an itch for the wooden spoon. She waved it at Liesel and said, Get back over there now, and if you dont come home with the washing, dont come home at all. Really? That was Rudys response when Liesel told him what Mama had said. Do you want to run away together? Well starve. Im starving anyway! They laughed. No, she said, I have to do it. They walked the town as they usually did when Rudy came along. He always tried to be a gentleman and carry the bag, but each time, Liesel refused. Only she had the threat of a Watschen loitering over her head, and therefore only she could be relied upon to carry the bag correctly. Anyone else was more likely to manhandle it, twist it, or mistreat it in even the most minimal way, and it was not worth the risk. Also, it was likely that if she allowed Rudy to carry it for her, he would expect a kiss for his services, and that was not an option. Besides, she was accustomed to its burden. She would swap the bag from shoulder to shoulder, relieving each side every hundred steps or so. Liesel walked on the left, Rudy the right. Rudy talked most of the time, about the last soccer match on Himmel Street, working in his fathers shop, and whatever else came to mind. Liesel tried to listen but failed. What she heard was the dread, chiming through her ears, growing louder the closer they stepped toward Grande Strasse. What are you doing? Isnt this it? Liesel nodded that Rudy was right, for she had tried to walk past the mayors house to buy some time. Well, go on, the boy hurried her. Molching was darkening. The cold was climbing out of the ground. Move it, Saumensch. He remained at the gate. After the path, there were eight steps up to the main entrance of the house, and the great door was like a monster. Liesel frowned at the brass knocker. What are you waiting for? Rudy called out. Liesel turned and faced the street. Was there any way, any way at all, for her to evade this? Was there another story, or lets face it, another lie, that shed overlooked? We dont have all day. Rudys distant voice again. What the hell are you waiting for? Will you shut your trap, Steiner? It was a shout delivered as a whisper. What? I said shut up, you stupid Saukerl. . . . With that, she faced the door again, lifted back the brass knuckle, and tapped it three times, slowly. Feet approached from the other side. At first, she didnt look at the woman but focused on the washing bag in her hand. She examined the drawstring as she passed it over. Money was handed out to her and then, nothing. The mayors wife, who never spoke, simply stood in her bathrobe, her soft fluffy hair tied back into a short tail. A draft made itself known. Something like the imagined breath of a corpse. Still there were no words, and when Liesel found the courage to face her, the woman wore an expression not of reproach, but utter distance. For a moment, she looked over Liesels shoulder at the boy, then nodded and stepped back, closing the door. For quite a while, Liesel remained, facing the blanket of upright wood. Hey, Saumensch! No response. Liesel! Liesel reversed. Cautiously. She took the first few steps backward, calculating. Perhaps the woman hadnt seen her steal the book after all. It had been getting dark. Perhaps it was one of those times when a person appears to be looking directly at you when, in fact, theyre contentedly watching something else or simply daydreaming. Whatever the answer, Liesel didnt attempt any further analysis. Shed gotten away with it and that was enough. She turned and handled the remainder of the steps normally, taking the last three all at once. Lets go, Saukerl. She even allowed herself a laugh. Eleven-year-old paranoia was powerful. Eleven-year-old relief was euphoric.

A LITTLE SOMETHING TO DAMPEN THE EUPHORIA She had gotten away with nothing. The mayors wife had seen her, all right. She was just waiting for the right moment.

A few weeks passed. Soccer on Himmel Street. Reading The Shoulder Shrug between two and three oclock each morning, post-nightmare, or during the afternoon, in the basement. Another benign visit to the mayors house. All was lovely. Until. When Liesel next visited, minus Rudy, the opportunity presented itself. It was a pickup day. The mayors wife opened the door and she was not holding the bag, like she normally would. Instead, she stepped aside and motioned with her chalky hand and wrist for the girl to enter. Im just here for the washing. Liesels blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps. The woman said her first word to her then. She reached out, cold-fingered, and said, Wartewait. When she was sure the girl had steadied, she turned and walked hastily back inside. Thank God, Liesel exhaled. Shes getting it. It being the washing. What the woman returned with, however, was nothing of the sort. When she came and stood with an impossibly frail steadfastness, she was holding a tower of books against her stomach, from her navel to the beginnings of her breasts. She looked so vulnerable in the monstrous doorway. Long, light eyelashes and just the slightest twinge of expression. A suggestion. Come and see, it said. Shes going to torture me, Liesel decided. Shes going to take me inside, light the fireplace, and throw me in, books and all. Or shell lock me in the basement without any food. For some reason, thoughmost likely the lure of the booksshe found herself walking in. The squeaking of her shoes on the wooden floorboards made her cringe, and when she hit a sore spot, inducing the wood to groan, she almost stopped. The mayors wife was not deterred. She only looked briefly behind and continued on, to a chestnut-colored door. Now her face asked a question. Are you ready? Liesel craned her neck a little, as if she might see over the door that stood in her way. Clearly, that was the cue to open it. Jesus, Mary . . . She said it out loud, the words distributed into a room that was full of cold air and books. Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcrowded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see the paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the gray, the every-colored books. It was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had ever seen. With wonder, she smiled. That such a room existed! Even when she tried to wipe the smile away with her forearm, she realized instantly that it was a pointless exercise. She could feel the eyes of the woman traveling her body, and when she looked at her, they had rested on her face. There was more silence than she ever thought possible. It extended like an elastic, dying to break. The girl broke it. Can I? The two words stood among acres and acres of vacant, wooden-floored land. The books were miles away. The woman nodded. Yes, you can. Steadily, the room shrank, till the book thief could touch the shelves within a few small steps. She ran the back of her hand along the first shelf, listening to the shuffle of her fingernails gliding across the spinal cord of each book. It sounded like an instrument, or the notes of running feet. She used both hands. She raced them. One shelf against the other. And she laughed. Her voice was sprawled out, high in her throat, and when she eventually stopped and stood in the middle of the room, she spent many minutes looking from the shelves to her fingers and back again. How many books had she touched? How many had she felt? She walked over and did it again, this time much slower, with her hand facing forward, allowing the dough of her palm to feel the small hurdle of each book. It felt like magic, like beauty, as bright lines of light shone down from a chandelier. Several times, she almost pulled a title from its place but didnt dare disturb them. They were too perfect. To her left, she saw the woman again, standing by a large desk, still holding the small tower against her torso. She stood with a delighted crookedness. A smile appeared to have paralyzed her lips. Do you want me to? Liesel didnt finish the question but actually performed what she was going to ask, walking over and taking the books gently from the womans arms. She then placed them into the missing piece in the shelf, by the slightly open window. The outside cold was streaming in. For a moment, she considered closing it, but thought better of it. This was not her house, and the situation was not to be tampered with. Instead, she returned to the lady behind her, whose smile gave the appearance now of a bruise and whose arms were hanging slenderly at each side. Like girls arms. What now? An awkwardness treated itself to the room, and Liesel took a final, fleeting glance at the walls of books. In her mouth, the words fidgeted, but they came out in a rush. I should go. It took three attempts to leave. She waited in the hallway for a few minutes, but the woman didnt come, and when Liesel returned to the entrance of the room, she saw her sitting at the desk, staring blankly at one of the books. She chose not to disturb her. In the hallway, she picked up the washing. This time, she avoided the sore spot in the floorboards, walking the long length of the corridor, favoring the left-hand wall. When she closed the door behind her, a brass clank sounded in her ear, and with the washing next to her, she stroked the flesh of the wood. Get going, she said. At first, she walked home dazed. The surreal experience with the roomful of books and the stunned, broken woman walked alongside her. She could see it on the buildings, like a play. Perhaps it was similar to the way Papa had his Mein Kampf revelation. Wherever she looked, Liesel saw the mayors wife with the books piled up in her arms. Around corners, she could hear the shuffle of her own hands, disturbing the shelves. She saw the open window, the chandelier of lovely light, and she saw herself leaving, without so much as a word of thanks. Soon, her sedated condition transformed to harassment and self-loathing. She began to rebuke herself. You said nothing. Her head shook vigorously, among the hurried footsteps. Not a goodbye. Not a thank you. Not a thats the most beautiful sight Ive ever seen. Nothing! Certainly, she was a book thief, but that didnt mean she should have no manners at all. It didnt mean she couldnt be polite. She walked a good few minutes, struggling with indecision. On Munich Street, it came to an end. Just as she could make out the sign that said STEINER SCHNEIDERMEISTER, she turned and ran back. This time, there was no hesitation. She thumped the door, sending an echo of brass through the wood. Scheisse! It was not the mayors wife, but the mayor himself who stood before her. In her hurry, Liesel had neglected to notice the car that sat out front, on the street. Mustached and black-suited, the man spoke. Can I help you? Liesel could say nothing. Not yet. She was bent over, short of air, and fortunately, the woman arrived when shed at least partially recovered. Ilsa Hermann stood behind her husband, to the side. I forgot, Liesel said. She lifted the bag and addressed the mayors wife. Despite the forced labor of breath, she fed the words through the gap in the doorwaybetween the mayor and the frame to the woman. Such was her effort to breathe that the words escaped only a few at a time. I forgot . . . I mean, I just . . . wanted, she said, to . . . thank you. The mayors wife bruised herself again. Coming forward to stand beside her husband, she nodded very faintly, waited, and closed the door. It took Liesel a minute or so to leave. She smiled at the steps. ENTER THE STRUGGLER

Now for a change of scenery. Weve both had it too easy till now, my friend, dont you think? How about we forget Molching for a minute or two? It will do us some good. Also, its important to the story. We will travel a little, to a secret storage room, and we will see what we see.

A GUIDED TOUR OF SUFFERING To your left, perhaps your right, perhaps even straight ahead, you find a small black room. In it sits a Jew. He is scum. He is starving. He is afraid. Pleasetry not to look away.

A few hundred miles northwest, in Stuttgart, far from book thieves, mayors wives, and Himmel Street, a man was sitting in the dark. It was the best place, they decided. Its harder to find a Jew in the dark. He sat on his suitcase, waiting. How many days had it been now? He had eaten only the foul taste of his own hungry breath for what felt like weeks, and still, nothing. Occasionally voices wandered past and sometimes he longed for them to knuckle the door, to open it, to drag him out, into the unbearable light. For now, he could only sit on his suitcase couch, hands under his chin, his elbows burning his thighs. There was sleep, starving sleep, and the irritation of half awakeness, and the punishment of the floor. Ignore the itchy feet. Dont scratch the soles. And dont move too much. Just leave everything as it is, at all cost. It might be time to go soon. Light like a gun. Explosive to the eyes. It might be time to go. It might be time, so wake up. Wake up now, Goddamn it! Wake up. The door was opened and shut, and a figure was crouched over him. The hand splashed at the cold waves of his clothes and the grimy currents beneath. A voice came down, behind it. Max, it whispered. Max, wake up. His eyes did not do anything that shock normally describes. No snapping, no slapping, no jolt. Those things happen when you wake from a bad dream, not when you wake into one. No, his eyes dragged themselves open, from darkness to dim. It was his body that reacted, shrugging upward and throwing out an arm to grip the air. The voice calmed him now. Sorry its taken so long. I think people have been watching me. And the man with the identity card took longer than I thought, but There was a pause. Its yours now. Not great quality, but hopefully good enough to get you there if it comes to that. He crouched down and waved a hand at the suitcase. In his other hand, he held something heavy and flat. Come onoff. Max obeyed, standing and scratching. He could feel the tightening of his bones. The card is in this. It was a book. You should put the map in here, too, and the directions. And theres a keytaped to the inside cover. He clicked open the case as quietly as he could and planted the book like a bomb. Ill be back in a few days. He left a small bag filled with bread, fat, and three small carrots. Next to it was a bottle of water. There was no apology. Its the best I could do. Door open, door shut. Alone again. What came to him immediately then was the sound. Everything was so desperately noisy in the dark when he was alone. Each time he moved, there was the sound of a crease. He felt like a man in a paper suit. The food. Max divided the bread into three parts and set two aside. The one in his hand he immersed himself in, chewing and gulping, forcing it down the dry corridor of his throat. The fat was cold and hard, scaling its way down, occasionally holding on. Big swallows tore them away and sent them below. Then the carrots. Again, he set two aside and devoured the third. The noise was astounding. Surely, the Fhrer himself could hear the sound of the orange crush in his mouth. It broke his teeth with every bite. When he drank, he was quite positive that he was swallowing them. Next time, he advised himself, drink first. Later, to his relief, when the echoes left him and he found the courage to check with his fingers, each tooth was still there, intact. He tried for a smile, but it didnt come. He could only imagine a meek attempt and a mouthful of broken teeth. For hours, he felt at them. He opened the suitcase and picked up the book. He could not read the title in the dark, and the gamble of striking a match seemed too great right now. When he spoke, it was the taste of a whisper. Please, he said. Please. He was speaking to a man he had never met. As well as a few other important details, he knew the mans name. Hans Hubermann. Again, he spoke to him, to the distant stranger. He pleaded. Please. THE ATTRIBUTES OF SUMMER

So there you have it. Youre well aware of exactly what was coming to Himmel Street by the end of 1940. I know. You know. Liesel Meminger, however, cannot be put into that category. For the book thief, the summer of that year was simple. It consisted of four main elements, or attributes. At times, she would wonder which was the most powerful.

AND THE NOMINEES ARE . . .

Advancing through The Shoulder Shrug every night. Reading on the floor of the mayors library. Playing soccer on Himmel Street. The seizure of a different stealing opportunity. The Shoulder Shrug, she decided, was excellent. Each night, when she calmed herself from her nightmare, she was soon pleased that she was awake and able to read. A few pages? Papa asked her, and Liesel would nod. Sometimes they would complete a chapter the next afternoon, down in the basement. The authorities problem with the book was obvious. The protagonist was a Jew, and he was presented in a positive light. Unforgivable. He was a rich man who was tired of letting life pass him bywhat he referred to as the shrugging of the shoulders to the problems and pleasures of a persons time on earth. In the early part of summer in Molching, as Liesel and Papa made their way through the book, this man was traveling to Amsterdam on business, and the snow was shivering outside. The girl loved that the shivering snow. Thats exactly what it does when it comes down, she told Hans Hubermann. They sat together on the bed, Papa half asleep and the girl wide awake. Sometimes she watched Papa as he slept, knowing both more and less about him than either of them realized. She often heard him and Mama discussing his lack of work or talking despondently about Hans going to see their son, only to discover that the young man had left his lodging and was most likely already on his way to war. Schlaf gut, Papa, the girl said at those times. Sleep well, and she slipped around him, out of bed, to turn off the light. The next attribute, as Ive mentioned, was the mayors library. To exemplify that particular situation, we can look to a cool day in late June. Rudy, to put it mildly, was incensed. Who did Liesel Meminger think she was, telling him she had to take the washing and ironing alone today? Wasnt he good enough to walk the streets with her? Stop complaining, Saukerl, she reprimanded him. I just feel bad. Youre missing the game. He looked over his shoulder. Well, if you put it like that. There was a Schmunzel. You can stick your washing. He ran off and wasted no time joining a team. When Liesel made it to the top of Himmel Street, she looked back just in time to see him standing in front of the nearest makeshift goals. He was waving. Saukerl, she laughed, and as she held up her hand, she knew completely that he was simultaneously calling her a Saumensch. I think thats as close to love as eleven-year-olds can get. She started to run, to Grande Strasse and the mayors house. Certainly, there was sweat, and the wrinkled pants of breath, stretching out in front of her. But she was reading. The mayors wife, having let the girl in for the fourth time, was sitting at the desk, simply watching the books. On the second visit, she had given permission for Liesel to pull one out and go through it, which led to another and another, until up to half a dozen books were stuck to her, either clutched beneath her arm or among the pile that was climbing higher in her remaining hand. On this occasion, as Liesel stood in the cool surrounds of the room, her stomach growled, but no reaction was forthcoming from the mute, damaged woman. She was in her bathrobe again, and although she observed the girl several times, it was never for very long. She usually paid more attention to what was next to her, to something missing. The window was opened wide, a square cool mouth, with occasional gusty surges. Liesel sat on the floor. The books were scattered around her. After forty minutes, she left. Every title was returned to its place. Goodbye, Frau Hermann. The words always came as a shock. Thank you. After which the woman paid her and she left. Every movement was accounted for, and the book thief ran home. As summer set in, the roomful of books became warmer, and with every pickup or delivery day the floor was not as painful. Liesel would sit with a small pile of books next to her, and shed read a few paragraphs of each, trying to memorize the words she didnt know, to ask Papa when she made it home. Later on, as an adolescent, when Liesel wrote about those books, she no longer remembered the titles. Not one. Perhaps had she stolen them, she would have been better equipped. What she did remember was that one of the picture books had a name written clumsily on the inside cover:

THE NAME OF A BOY Johann Hermann

Liesel bit down on her lip, but she could not resist it for long. From the floor, she turned and looked up at the bathrobed woman and made an inquiry. Johann Hermann, she said. Who is that? The woman looked beside her, somewhere next to the girls knees. Liesel apologized. Im sorry. I shouldnt be asking such things. . . . She let the sentence die its own death. The womans face did not alter, yet somehow she managed to speak. He is nothing now in this world, she explained. He was my . . .

THE FILES OF RECOLLECTION Oh, yes, I definitely remember him. The sky was murky and deep like quicksand. There was a young man parceled up in barbed wire, like a giant crown of thorns. I untangled him and carried him out. High above the earth, we sank together, to our knees. It was just another day, 1918.

Apart from everything else, she said, he froze to death. For a moment, she played with her hands, and she said it again. He froze to death, Im sure of it. The mayors wife was just one of a worldwide brigade. You have seen her before, Im certain. In your stories, your poems, the screens you like to watch. Theyre everywhere, so why not here? Why not on a shapely hill in a small German town? Its as good a place to suffer as any. The point is, Ilsa Hermann had decided to make suffering her triumph. When it refused to let go of her, she succumbed to it. She embraced it. She could have shot herself, scratched herself, or indulged in other forms of self-mutilation, but she chose what she probably felt was the weakest optionto at least endure the discomfort of the weather. For all Liesel knew, she prayed for summer days that were cold and wet. For the most part, she lived in the right place. When Liesel left that day, she said something with great uneasiness. In translation, two giant words were struggled with, carried on her shoulder, and dropped as a bungling pair at Ilsa Hermanns feet. They fell off sideways as the girl veered with them and could no longer sustain their weight. Together, they sat on the floor, large and loud and clumsy.

TWO GIANTWORDS IM SORRY

Again, the mayors wife watched the space next to her. A blank-page face. For what? she asked, but time had elapsed by then. The girl was already well out of the room. She was nearly at the front door. When she heard it, Liesel stopped, but she chose not to go back, preferring to make her way noiselessly from the house and down the steps. She took in the view of Molching before disappearing down into it, and she pitied the mayors wife for quite a while. At times, Liesel wondered if she should simply leave the woman alone, but Ilsa Hermann was too interesting, and the pull of the books was too strong. Once, words had rendered Liesel useless, but now, when she sat on the floor, with the mayors wife at her husbands desk, she felt an innate sense of power. It happened every time she deciphered a new word or pieced together a sentence. She was a girl. In Nazi Germany. How fitting that she was discovering the power of words. And how awful (and yet exhilarating!) it would feel many months later, when she would unleash the power of this newfound discovery the very moment the mayors wife let her down. How quickly the pity would leave her, and how quickly it would spill over into something else completely. . . . Now, though, in the summer of 1940, she could not see what lay ahead, in more ways than one. She was witness only to a sorrowful woman with a roomful of books whom she enjoyed visiting. That was all. It was part two of her existence that summer. Part three, thank God, was a little more lightheartedHimmel Street soccer. Allow me to play you a picture: Feet scuffing road. The rush of boyish breath. Shouted words: Here! This way! Scheisse! The coarse bounce of ball on road.