The Book Thief by Markus Zusak Page B

had been crushed among the excitement and was bleeding dark and ominous through his sock. His face wore a helpless expression beneath his tangled blond hair. An animal. Not a deer in lights. Nothing so typical or specific. He was just an animal, hurt among the melee of its own kind, soon to be trampled by it.
    Somehow, she helped him up and dragged him toward the back. Fresh air.
    They staggered to the steps at the side of the church. There was some room there and they rested, both relieved.
    Breath collapsed from Schmeikl’s mouth. It slipped down, over his throat. He managed to speak.
    Sitting down, he held his ankle and found Liesel Meminger’s face. “Thanks,” he said, to her mouth rather than her eyes. More slabs of breath. “And …” They both watched images of school-yard antics, followed by a school-yard beating. “I’m sorry—for, you know.”
    Liesel heard it again.
    Kommunisten
.
    She chose, however, to focus on Ludwig Schmeikl. “Me too.”
    They both concentrated on breathing then, for there was nothing more to do or say. Their business had come to an end.
    The blood enlarged on Ludwig Schmeikl’s ankle.
    A single word leaned against the girl.
    To their left, flames and burning books were cheered like heroes.

THE GATES OF THIEVERY
    She remained on the steps, waiting for Papa, watching the stray ash and the corpse of collected books. Everything was sad. Orange and red embers looked like rejected candy, and most of the crowd had vanished. She’d seen Frau Diller leave (very satisfied) and Pfiffikus (white hair, a Nazi uniform, the same dilapidated shoes, and a triumphant whistle). Now there was nothing but cleaning up, and soon, no one would even imagine it had happened.
    But you could smell it.
    “What are you doing?”
    Hans Hubermann arrived at the church steps.
    “Hi, Papa.”
    “You were supposed to be in front of the town hall.”
    “Sorry, Papa.”
    He sat down next to her, halving his tallness on the concrete and taking a piece of Liesel’s hair. His fingers adjusted it gently behind her ear. “Liesel, what’s wrong?”
    For a while, she said nothing. She was making calculations, despitealready knowing. An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.
    A SMALL ADDITION
The word communist + a large bonfire + a collection of dead letters + the suffering of her mother + the death of her brother = the Führer
    The
Führer
.
    He was the
they
that Hans and Rosa Hubermann were talking about that evening when she first wrote to her mother. She knew it, but she had to ask.
    “Is my mother a communist?” Staring. Straight ahead. “They were always asking her things, before I came here.”
    Hans edged forward a little, forming the beginnings of a lie. “I have no idea—I never met her.”
    “Did the
Führer
take her away?”
    The question surprised them both, and it forced Papa to stand up. He looked at the brown-shirted men taking to the pile of ash with shovels. He could hear them hacking into it. Another lie was growing in his mouth, but he found it impossible to let it out. He said, “I think he might have, yes.”
    “I knew it.” The words were thrown at the steps and Liesel could feel the slush of anger, stirring hotly in her stomach. “I hate the
Führer,”
she said. “I
hate
him.”
    And Hans Hubermann?
    What did he do?
    What did he say?
    Did he bend down and embrace his foster daughter, as he wantedto? Did he tell her that he was sorry for what was happening to her, to her mother, for what had happened to her brother?
    Not exactly.
    He clenched his eyes. Then opened them. He slapped Liesel Meminger squarely in the face.
    “Don’t
ever
say that!” His voice was quiet, but sharp.
    As the girl shook and sagged on the steps, he sat next to her and held his face in his hands. It would be easy to say that he was just a tall man sitting poor-postured and shattered on some church steps, but he wasn’t. At the time, Liesel had no idea that her foster father, Hans