The Book Thief Part 63

of questions-a toolbox, a bleeder,

a bear-a broken plane-

and a homecoming

THE NEXT TEMPTATION.

This time, there were cookies.

But they were stale.

They were Kipferl left over from Christmas, and they'd been sitting on the desk for at least two weeks. Like miniature horseshoes with a layer of icing sugar, the ones on the bottom were bolted to the plate. The rest were piled on top, forming a chewy mound. She could already smell them when her fingers tightened on the window ledge. The room tasted like sugar and dough, and thousands of pages.

There was no note, but it didn't take Liesel long to realize that Ilsa Hermann had been at it again, and she certainly wasn't taking the chance that the cookies might not be for her. She made her way back to the window and pa.s.sed a whisper through the gap. The whisper's name was Rudy.

They'd gone on foot that day because the road was too slippery for bikes. The boy was beneath the window, standing watch. When she called out, his face appeared, and she presented him with the plate. He didn't need much convincing to take it.

His eyes feasted on the cookies and he asked a few questions.

"Anything else? Any milk?"

"What?"

"Milk," he repeated, a little louder this time. If he'd recognized the offended tone in Liesel's voice, he certainly wasn't showing it.

The book thief's face appeared above him again. "Are you stupid? Can I just steal the book?"

"Of course. All I'm saying is ..."

Liesel moved toward the far shelf, behind the desk. She found some paper and a pen in the top drawer and wrote Thank you, leaving the note on top.

To her right, a book protruded like a bone. Its paleness was almost scarred by the dark lettering of the t.i.tle. Die Letzte Menschliche Fremde-The Last Human Stranger. It whispered softly as she removed it from the shelf. Some dust showered down.

At the window, just as she was about to make her way out, the library door creaked apart.

Her knee was up and her book-stealing hand was poised against the window frame. When she faced the noise, she found the mayor's wife in a brand-new bathrobe and slippers. On the breast pocket of the robe sat an embroidered swastika. Propaganda even reached the bathroom.

They watched each other.

Liesel looked at Ilsa Hermann's breast and raised her arm. "Heil Hitler."

She was just about to leave when a realization struck her.

The cookies.

They'd been there for weeks.

That meant that if the mayor himself used the library, he must have seen them. He must have asked why they were there. Or-and as soon as Liesel felt this thought, it filled her with a strange optimism-perhaps it wasn't the mayor's library at all; it was hers. Ilsa Hermann's.

She didn't know why it was so important, but she enjoyed the fact that the roomful of books belonged to the woman. It was she who introduced her to the library in the first place and gave her the initial, even literal, window of opportunity. This way was better. It all seemed to fit.

Just as she began to move again, she propped everything and asked, "This is your room, isn't it?"

The mayor's wife tightened. "I used to read in here, with my son. But then ..."

Liesel's hand touched the air behind her. She saw a mother reading on the floor with a young boy pointing at the pictures and the words. Then she saw a war at the window. "I know."

An exclamation entered from outside.

"What did you say?!"

Liesel spoke in a harsh whisper, behind her. "Keep quiet, Saukerl, and watch the street." To Ilsa Hermann, she handed the words slowly across. "So all these books ..."

"They're mostly mine. Some are my husband's, some were my son's, as you know."

There was embarra.s.sment now on Liesel's behalf. Her cheeks were set alight. "I always thought this was the mayor's room."

"Why?" The woman seemed amused.

Liesel noticed that there were also swastikas on the toes of her slippers. "He's the mayor. I thought he'd read a lot."

The mayor's wife placed her hands in her side pockets. "Lately, it's you who gets the most use out of this room."

"Have you read this one?" Liesel held up The Last Human Stranger.

Ilsa looked more closely at the t.i.tle. "I have, yes."

"Any good?"

"Not bad."

There was an itch to leave then, but also a peculiar obligation to stay. She moved to speak, but the available words were too many and too fast. There were several attempts to s.n.a.t.c.h at them, but it was the mayor's wife who took the initiative.

She saw Rudy's face in the window, or more to the point, his candlelit hair. "I think you'd better go," she said. "He's waiting for you."

On the way home, they ate.

"Are you sure there wasn't anything else?" Rudy asked. "There must have been."

"We were lucky to get the cookies." Liesel examined the gift in Rudy's arms. "Now tell the truth. Did you eat any before I came back out?"

Rudy was indignant. "Hey, you're the thief here, not me."

"Don't kid me, Saukerl, I could see some sugar at the side of your mouth."

Paranoid, Rudy took the plate in just the one hand and wiped with the other. "I didn't eat any, I promise."

Half the cookies were gone before they hit the bridge, and they shared the rest with Tommy Mller on Himmel Street.

When they'd finished eating, there was only one afterthought, and Rudy spoke it.

"What the h.e.l.l do we do with the plate?"

THE CARDPLAYER.

Around the time Liesel and Rudy were eating the cookies, the resting men of the LSE were playing cards in a town not far from Essen. They'd just completed the long trip from Stuttgart and were gambling for cigarettes. Reinhold Zucker was not a happy man.

"He's cheating, I swear it," he muttered. They were in a shed that served as their barracks and Hans Hubermann had just won his third consecutive hand. Zucker threw his cards down in disgust and combed his greasy hair with a threesome of dirty fingernails.

SOME FACTS ABOUT.

REINHOLD ZUCKER.

He was twenty-four. When he won a round

of cards, he gloated-he would hold the

thin cylinders of tobacco to his nose and

breathe them in. "The smell of victory,"

he would say. Oh, and one more thing.

He would die with his mouth open.

Unlike the young man to his left, Hans Hubermann didn't gloat when he won. He was even generous enough to give each colleague one of his cigarettes back and light it for him. All but Reinhold Zucker took up the invitation. He s.n.a.t.c.hed at the offering and flung it back to the middle of the turned-over box. "I don't need your charity, old man." He stood up and left.

"What's wrong with him?" the sergeant inquired, but no one cared enough to answer. Reinhold Zucker was just a twenty-four-year-old boy who could not play cards to save his life.

Had he not lost his cigarettes to Hans Hubermann, he wouldn't have despised him. If he hadn't despised him, he might not have taken his place a few weeks later on a fairly innocuous road.

One seat, two men, a short argument, and me.

It kills me sometimes, how people die.

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 Holtzapfel's 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. I'll get you. Where are you from?"