The Book Thief Part 9

The yellow light was alive with dust.

Liesel sat on cold clean sheets, ashamed, elated. The thought of bed-wetting prodded her, but she was going to read. She was going to read the book.

The excitement stood up in her.

Visions of a ten-year-old reading genius were set alight.

If only it was that easy.

"To tell you the truth," Papa explained upfront, "I am not such a good reader myself."

But it didn't matter that he read slowly. If anything, it might have helped that his own reading pace was slower than average. Perhaps it would cause less frustration in coping with the girl's lack of ability.

Still, initially, Hans appeared a little uncomfortable holding the book and looking through it.

When he came over and sat next to her on the bed, he leaned back, his legs angling over the side. He examined the book again and dropped it on the blanket. "Now why would a nice girl like you want to read such a thing?"

Again, Liesel shrugged. Had the apprentice been reading the complete works of Goethe or any other such luminary, that was what would have sat in front of them. She attempted to explain. "I-when ... It was sitting in the snow, and-" The soft-spoken words fell off the side of the bed, emptying to the floor like powder.

Papa knew what to say, though. He always knew what to say.

He ran a hand through his sleepy hair and said, "Well, promise me one thing, Liesel. If I die anytime soon, you make sure they bury me right."

She nodded, with great sincerity.

"No skipping chapter six or step four in chapter nine." He laughed, as did the bed wetter. "Well, I'm glad that's settled. We can get on with it now."

He adjusted his position and his bones creaked like itchy floorboards. "The fun begins."

Amplified by the still of night, the book opened-a gust of wind.

Looking back, Liesel could tell exactly what her papa was thinking when he scanned the first page of The Grave Digger's Handbook. As he realized the difficulty of the text, he was clearly aware that such a book was hardly ideal. There were words in there that he'd have trouble with himself. Not to mention the morbidity of the subject. As for the girl, there was a sudden desire to read it that she didn't even attempt to understand. On some level, perhaps she wanted to make sure her brother was buried right. Whatever the reason, her hunger to read that book was as intense as any ten-year-old human could experience.

Chapter one was called "The First Step: Choosing the Right Equipment." In a short introductory pa.s.sage, it outlined the kind of material to be covered in the following twenty pages. Types of shovels, picks, gloves, and so forth were itemized, as well as the vital need to properly maintain them. This grave digging was serious.

As Papa flicked through it, he could surely feel Liesel's eyes on him. They reached over and gripped him, waiting for something, anything, to slip from his lips.

"Here." He shifted again and handed her the book. "Look at this page and tell me how many words you can read."

She looked at it-and lied.

"About half."

"Read some for me." But of course, she couldn't. When he made her point out any words she could read and actually say them, there were only three-the three main German words for "the." The whole page must have had two hundred words on it.

This might be harder than I thought.

She caught him thinking it, just for a moment.

He lifted himself forward, rose to his feet, and walked out.

This time, when he came back, he said, "Actually, I have a better idea." In his hand, there was a thick painter's pencil and a stack of sandpaper. "Let's start from scratch." Liesel saw no reason to argue.

In the left corner of an upturned piece of sandpaper, he drew a square of perhaps an inch and shoved a capital A inside it. In the other corner, he placed a lowercase one. So far, so good.

"A," Liesel said.

"A for what?"

She smiled. "Apfel."

He wrote the word in big letters and drew a misshapen apple under it. He was a housepainter, not an artist. When it was complete, he looked over and said, "Now for B."

As they progressed through the alphabet, Liesel's eyes grew larger. She had done this at school, in the kindergarten cla.s.s, but this time was better. She was the only one there, and she was not gigantic. It was nice to watch Papa's hand as he wrote the words and slowly constructed the primitive sketches.

"Ah, come on, Liesel," he said when she struggled later on. "Something that starts with S. It's easy. I'm very disappointed in you."

She couldn't think.

"Come on!" His whisper played with her. "Think of Mama."

That was when the word struck her face like a slap. A reflex grin. "SAUMENSCH!" she shouted, and Papa roared with laughter, then quieted.

"Shhh, we have to be quiet." But he roared all the same and wrote the word, completing it with one of his sketches.

ATYPICAL HANS HUBERMANN.

ARTWORK.

"Papa!" she whispered. "I have no eyes!"

He patted the girl's hair. She'd fallen into his trap. "With a smile like that," Hans Hubermann said, "you don't need eyes." He hugged her and then looked again at the picture, with a face of warm silver. "Now for T."

With the alphabet completed and studied a dozen times, Papa leaned over and said, "Enough for tonight?"

"A few more words?"

He was definite. "Enough. When you wake up, I'll play accordion for you."

"Thanks, Papa."

"Good night." A quiet, one-syllable laugh. "Good night, Saumensch."

"Good night, Papa."

He switched off the light, came back, and sat in the chair. In the darkness, Liesel kept her eyes open. She was watching the words.

THE SMELL OF FRIENDSHIP.

It continued.

Over the next few weeks and into summer, the midnight cla.s.s began at the end of each nightmare. There were two more bed-wetting occurrences, but Hans Hubermann merely repeated his previous cleanup heroics and got down to the task of reading, sketching, and reciting. In the morning's early hours, quiet voices were loud.

On a Thursday, just after 3 p.m., Mama told Liesel to get ready to come with her and deliver some ironing. Papa had other ideas.

He walked into the kitchen and said, "Sorry, Mama, she's not going with you today."

Mama didn't even bother looking up from the washing bag. "Who asked you, Arschloch? Come on, Liesel."

"She's reading," he said. Papa handed Liesel a steadfast smile and a wink. "With me. I'm teaching her. We're going to the Amper-upstream, where I used to practice the accordion."

Now he had her attention.

Mama placed the washing on the table and eagerly worked herself up to the appropriate level of cynicism. "What did you say?"

"I think you heard me, Rosa."

Mama laughed. "What the h.e.l.l could you teach her?" A cardboard grin. Uppercut words. "Like you could read so much, you Saukerl."

The kitchen waited. Papa counterpunched. "We'll take your ironing for you."

"You filthy-" She stopped. The words propped in her mouth as she considered it. "Be back before dark."

"We can't read in the dark, Mama," Liesel said.

"What was that, Saumensch?"

"Nothing, Mama."

Papa grinned and pointed at the girl. "Book, sandpaper, pencil," he ordered her, "and accordion!" once she was already gone. Soon, they were on Himmel Street, carrying the words, the music, the washing.

As they walked toward Frau Diller's, they turned around a few times to see if Mama was still at the gate, checking on them. She was. At one point, she called out, "Liesel, hold that ironing straight! Don't crease it!"

"Yes, Mama!"

A few steps later: "Liesel, are you dressed warm enough?!"

"What did you say?"

"Saumensch dreckiges, you never hear anything! Are you dressed warm enough? It might get cold later!"

Around the corner, Papa bent down to do up a shoelace. "Liesel," he said, "could you roll me a cigarette?"

Nothing would give her greater pleasure.

Once the ironing was delivered, they made their way back to the Amper River, which flanked the town. It worked its way past, pointing in the direction of Dachau, the concentration camp.

There was a wooden-planked bridge.

They sat maybe thirty meters down from it, in the gra.s.s, writing the words and reading them aloud, and when darkness was near, Hans pulled out the accordion. Liesel looked at him and listened, though she did not immediately notice the perplexed expression on her papa's face that evening as he played.

PAPA'S FACE

It traveled and wondered, but it disclosed no answers.

Not yet.

There had been a change in him. A slight shift.

She saw it but didn't realize until later, when all the stories came together. She didn't see him watching as he played, having no idea that Hans Hubermann's accordion was a story. In the times ahead, that story would arrive at 33 Himmel Street in the early hours of morning, wearing ruffled shoulders and a shivering jacket. It would carry a suitcase, a book, and two questions. A story. Story after story. Story within story.

For now, there was only the one as far as Liesel was concerned, and she was enjoying it.

She settled into the long arms of gra.s.s, lying back.

She closed her eyes and her ears held the notes.

There were, of course, some problems as well. A few times, Papa nearly yelled at her. "Come on, Liesel," he'd say. "You know this word; you know it!" Just when progress seemed to be flowing well, somehow things would become lodged.

When the weather was good, they'd go to the Amper in the afternoon. In bad weather, it was the bas.e.m.e.nt. This was mainly on account of Mama. At first, they tried in the kitchen, but there was no way.