The Book Thief (70 page)

She left the note on the desk and gave the room a last goodbye, doing three laps and running her hands over the titles. As much as she hated
them, she couldn’t resist. Flakes of torn-up paper were strewn around a book called
The Rules of Tommy Hoffmann
. In the breeze from the window, a few of its shreds rose and fell.

The light was still orange, but it was not as lustrous as earlier. Her hands felt their final grip of the wooden window frame, and there was the last rush of a plunging stomach, and the pang of pain in her feet when she landed.

By the time she made it down the hill and across the bridge, the orange light had vanished. Clouds were mopping up.

When she walked down Himmel Street, she could already feel the first drops of rain. I will never see Ilsa Hermann again, she thought, but the book thief was better at reading and ruining books than making assumptions.

It was strange for Liesel to see her without the bathrobe. The summer dress was yellow with red trim. There was a pocket with a small flower on it. No swastikas. Black shoes. Never before had she noticed Ilsa Hermann’s shins. She had porcelain legs.

“Frau Hermann, I’m sorry—for what I did the last time in the library.”

The woman quieted her. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small black book. Inside was not a story, but lined paper. “I thought if you’re not going to read any more of my books, you might like to write one instead. Your letter, it was …” She handed the book to Liesel with both hands. “You can certainly write. You write well.” The book was heavy, the cover matted like
The Shoulder
Shrug
. “And please,” Ilsa Hermann advised her, “don’t punish yourself, like you said you would. Don’t be like me, Liesel.”

The girl opened the book and touched the paper.
“Danke schön
, Frau Hermann. I can make you some coffee, if you like. Would you come in? I’m home alone. My mama’s next door, with Frau Holtzapfel.”

“Shall we use the door or the window?”

Liesel suspected it was the broadest smile Ilsa Hermann had allowed herself in years. “I think we’ll use the door. It’s easier.”

They sat in the kitchen.

Coffee mugs and bread with jam. They struggled to speak and Liesel could hear Ilsa Hermann swallow, but somehow, it was not uncomfortable. It was even nice to see the woman gently blow across the coffee to cool it.

“If I ever write something and finish it,” Liesel said, “I’ll show you.”

“That would be nice.”

When the mayor’s wife left, Liesel watched her walk up Himmel Street. She watched her yellow dress and her black shoes and her porcelain legs.

At the mailbox, Rudy asked, “Was that who I think it was?”

“Yes.”

“You’re joking.”

“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 basement—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 basement 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.

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.

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 basement. 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 basement 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.