Markus_Zusak_The_Book_Thief_2007

THE SWAPPING OF NIGHTMARES The girl: Tell me. What do you see when you dream like that?

The Few: . . . I see myself turning around, and waving goodbye.

The girl: I also have nightmares. The Few: What do you see?

The girl: A train, and my dead brother. The Few: Your brother?

The girl: He died when I moved here, on the way.

The girl and the Few, together: Fa yes.

It would be nice to say that after this small breakthrough, neither Liesel nor Max dreamed their bad visions again. It would be nice but untrue. The nightmares arrived like they always did, much like the best player in the opposition when youve heard rumors that he might be injured or sickbut there he is, warming up with the rest of them, ready to take the field. Or like a timetabled train, arriving at a nightly platform, pulling the memories behind it on a rope. A lot of dragging. A lot of awkward bounces.

The only thing that changed was that Liesel told her papa that she should be old enough now to cope on her own with the dreams. For a moment, he looked a little hurt, but as always with Papa, he gave the right thing to say his best shot.

Well, thank God. He halfway grinned. At least now I can get some proper sleep. That chair was killing me. He put his arm around the girl and they walked to the kitchen.

As time progressed, a clear distinction developed between two very different worldsthe world inside 33 Himmel Street, and the one that resided and turned outside it. The trick was to keep them apart.

In the outside world, Liesel was learning to find some more of its uses. One afternoon, when she was walking home with an empty washing bag, she noticed a newspaper poking out of a garbage can. The weekly edition of the Molching Express. She lifted it out and took it home, presenting it to Max. I thought, she told him, you might like to do the crossword to pass the time.

Max appreciated the gesture, and to justify her bringing it home, he read the paper from cover to cover and showed her the puzzle a few hours later, completed but for one word.

Damn that seventeen down, he said.

In February 1941, for her twelfth birthday, Liesel received another used book, and she was grateful. It was called The Mud Men and was about a very strange father and son. She hugged her mama and papa, while Max stood uncomfortably in the corner.

Alles Gute zum Geburtstag. He smiled weakly. All the best for your birthday. His hands were in his pockets. I didnt know, or else I could have given you something. A blatant liehe had nothing to give, except maybe Mein Kampf, and there was no way hed give such propaganda to a young German girl. That would be like the lamb handing a knife to the butcher.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

She had embraced Mama and Papa.

Max looked so alone.

Liesel swallowed.

And she walked over and hugged him for the first time. Thanks, Max.

At first, he merely stood there, but as she held on to him, gradually his hands rose up and gently pressed into her shoulder blades.

Only later would she find out about the helpless expression on Max Vandenburgs face. She would also discover that he resolved at that moment to give her something back. I often imagine him lying awake all that night, pondering what he could possibly offer.

As it turned out, the gift was delivered on paper, just over a week later.

He would bring it to her in the early hours of morning, before retreating down the concrete steps to what he now liked to call home.

PAGES FROM THE BASEMENT

For a week, Liesel was kept from the basement at all cost. It was Mama and Papa who made sure to take down Maxs food.

No, Saumensch, Mama told her each time she volunteered. There was always a new excuse. How about you do something useful in here for a change, like finish the ironing? You think carrying it around town is so special? Try ironing it! You can do all manner of underhanded nice things when you have a caustic reputation. It worked.

During that week, Max had cut out a collection of pages from Mein Kampf and painted over them in white. He then hung them up with pegs on some string, from one end of the basement to the other. When they were all dry, the hard part began. He was educated well enough to get by, but he was certainly no writer, and no artist. Despite this, he formulated the words in his head till he could recount them without error. Only then, on the paper that had bubbled and humped under the stress of drying paint, did he begin to write the story. It was done with a small black paintbrush.

The Standover Man.

He calculated that he needed thirteen pages, so he painted forty, expecting at least twice as many slipups as successes. There were practice versions on the pages of the Molching Express, improving his basic, clumsy artwork to a level he could accept. As he worked, he heard the whispered words of a girl. His hair, she told him, is like feathers.

When he was finished, he used a knife to pierce the pages and tie them with string. The result was a thirteen-page booklet that went like this: