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"She gave me a present."
As it turned out, Ilsa Hermann not only gave Liesel Meminger a book that day. She also gave her a reason to spend time in the bas.e.m.e.nt-her favorite place, first with Papa, then Max. She gave her a reason to write her own words, to see that words had also brought her to life.
"Don't punish yourself," she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.
In the night, when Mama and Papa were asleep, Liesel crept down to the bas.e.m.e.nt and turned on the kerosene lamp. For the first hour, she only watched the pencil and paper. She made herself remember, and as was her habit, she did not look away.
"Schreibe," she instructed herself. "Write."
After more than two hours, Liesel Meminger started writing, not knowing how she was ever going to get this right. How could she ever know that someone would pick her story up and carry it with him everywhere?
No one expects these things.
They don't plan them.
She used a small paint can for a seat, a large one as a table, and Liesel stuck the pencil onto the first page. In the middle, she wrote the following.
THE BOOK THIEF.
a small story
by
Liesel Meminger
THE RIB-CAGE PLANES.
Her hand was sore by page three.
Words are so heavy, she thought, but as the night wore on, she was able to complete eleven pages.
PAGE 1.
I try to ignore it, but I know this all
started with the train and the snow and my
coughing brother. I stole my first book that
day. It was a manual for digging graves and
I stole it on my way to Himmel Street ....
She fell asleep down there, on a bed of drop sheets, with the paper curling at the edges, up on the taller paint can. In the morning, Mama stood above her, her chlorinated eyes questioning.
"Liesel," she said, "what on earth are you doing down here?"
"I'm writing, Mama."
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." Rosa stomped back up the steps. "Be back up in five minutes or you get the bucket treatment. Verstehst?"
"I understand."
Every night, Liesel made her way down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. She kept the book with her at all times. For hours, she wrote, attempting each night to complete ten pages of her life. There was so much to consider, so many things in danger of being left out. Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.
Sometimes she wrote about what was happening in the bas.e.m.e.nt at the time of writing. She had just finished the moment when Papa had slapped her on the church steps and how they'd "heil Hitlered" together. Looking across, Hans Hubermann was packing the accordion away. He'd just played for half an hour as Liesel wrote.
PAGE 42.
Papa sat with me tonight. He brought the
accordion down and sat close to where Max
used to sit. I often look at his fingers and
face when he plays. The accordion breathes.
There are lines on his cheeks. They look drawn
on, and for some reason, when I see them,
I want to cry. It is not for any sadness or
pride. I just like the way they move and
change. Sometimes I think my papa is an
accordion. When he looks at me and smiles
and breathes, I hear the notes.
After ten nights of writing, Munich was bombed again. Liesel was up and was asleep in the bas.e.m.e.nt. She did not hear the cuckoo or the sirens, and she was holding the book in her sleep when Papa came to wake her. "Liesel, come." She took The Book Thief and each of her other books, and they fetched Frau Holtzapfel.
PAGE 175.
A book floated down the Amper River.
