The Book Thief

There was much work to be done, and with a collection of other materials,
The Book Thief was stepped on several times and eventually picked up
without even a glance and thrown aboard a garbage truck. Just before the
truck left, I climbed quickly up and took it in my hand. . . .
It’s lucky I was there.
Then again, who am I kidding? I’m in most places at least once, and in 1943,
I was just about everywhere.

EPILOGUE

the last color

featuring:
death and liesel—some
wooden tears—max—
and the handover man

DEATH AND LIESEL
It has been many years since all of that, but there is still plenty of work to
do. I can promise you that the world is a factory. The sun stirs it, the humans
rule it. And I remain. I carry them away.
As for what’s left of this story, I will not skirt around any of it, because I’m
tired, I’m so tired, and I will tell it as straightly as I can.

A LAST FACT
I should tell you that
the book thief died

only yesterday.
Liesel Meminger lived to a very old age, far away from Molching and the
demise of Himmel Street.
She died in a suburb of Sydney. The house number was forty-five—the same
as the Fiedlers’ shelter—and the sky was the best blue of afternoon. Like her
papa, her soul was sitting up.
In her final visions, she saw her three children, her grandchildren, her
husband, and the long list of lives that merged with hers. Among them, lit
like lanterns, were Hans and Rosa Hubermann, her brother, and the boy
whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.
But a few other visions were there as well.
Come with me and I’ll tell you a story.
I’ll show you something.

WOOD IN THE AFTERNOON
When Himmel Street was cleared, Liesel Meminger had nowhere to go. She
was the girl they referred to as “the one with the accordion,” and she was
taken to the police, who were in the throes of deciding what to do with her.
She sat on a very hard chair. The accordion looked at her through the hole in
the case.
It took three hours in the police station for the mayor and a fluffy-haired
woman to show their faces. “Everyone says there’s a girl,” the lady said,
“who survived on Himmel Street.”
A policeman pointed.
Ilsa Hermann offered to carry the case, but Liesel held it firmly in her hand
as they walked down the police station steps. A few blocks down Munich
Street, there was a clear line separating the bombed from the fortunate.
The mayor drove.
Ilsa sat with her in the back.
The girl let her hold her hand on top of the accordion case, which sat
between them.
It would have been easy to say nothing, but Liesel had the opposite reaction
to her devastation. She sat in the exquisite spare room of the mayor’s house
and spoke and spoke—to herself—well into the night. She ate very little.
The only thing she didn’t do at all was wash.
For four days, she carried around the remains of Himmel Street on the
carpets and floorboards of 8 Grande Strasse. She slept a lot and didn’t
dream, and on most occasions she was sorry to wake up. Everything
disappeared when she was asleep.
On the day of the funerals, she still hadn’t bathed, and Ilsa Hermann asked
politely if she’d like to. Previously, she’d only shown her the bath and given
her a towel.
People who were at the service of Hans and Rosa Hubermann always talked
about the girl who stood there wearing a pretty dress and a layer of Himmel
Street dirt. There was also a rumor that later in the day, she walked fully
clothed into the Amper River and said something very strange.
Something about a kiss.
Something about a Saumensch.

How many times did she have to say goodbye?
After that, there were weeks and months, and a lot of war. She remembered
her books in the moments of worst sorrow, especially the ones that were
made for her and the one that saved her life. One morning, in a renewed state
of shock, she even walked back down to Himmel Street to find them, but
nothing was left. There was no recovery from what had happened. That
would take decades; it would take a long life.
There were two ceremonies for the Steiner family. The first was immediately
upon their burial. The second was as soon as Alex Steiner made it home,
when he was given leave after the bombing.
Since the news had found him, Alex had been whittled away.
“Crucified Christ,” he’d said, “if only I’d let Rudy go to that school.”
You save someone.
You kill them.
How was he supposed to know?
The only thing he truly did know was that he’d have done anything to have
been on Himmel Street that night so that Rudy survived rather than himself.
That was something he told Liesel on the steps of 8 Grande Strasse, when he
rushed up there after hearing of her survival.
That day, on the steps, Alex Steiner was sawn apart.
Liesel told him that she had kissed Rudy’s lips. It embarrassed her, but she
thought he might have liked to know. There were wooden teardrops and an
oaky smile. In Liesel’s vision, the sky I saw was gray and glossy. A silver
afternoon.

MAX
When the war was over and Hitler had delivered himself to my arms, Alex
Steiner resumed work in his tailor shop. There was no money in it, but he
busied himself there for a few hours each day, and Liesel often accompanied
him. They spent many days together, often walking to Dachau after its
liberation, only to be denied by the Americans.
Finally, in October 1945, a man with swampy eyes, feathers of hair, and a
clean-shaven face walked into the shop. He approached the counter. “Is there
someone here by the name of Liesel Meminger?”
“Yes, she’s in the back,” said Alex. He was hopeful, but he wanted to be
sure. “May I ask who is calling on her?”
Liesel came out.
They hugged and cried and fell to the floor.

THE HANDOVER MAN
Yes, I have seen a great many things in this world. I attend the greatest
disasters and work for the greatest villains.
But then there are other moments.
There’s a multitude of stories (a mere handful, as I have previously
suggested) that I allow to distract me as I work, just as the colors do. I pick
them up in the unluckiest, unlikeliest places and I make sure to remember
them as I go about my work. The Book Thief is one such story.
When I traveled to Sydney and took Liesel away, I was finally able to do
something I’d been waiting on for a long time. I put her down and we
walked along Anzac Avenue, near the soccer field, and I pulled a dusty black
book from my pocket.
The old woman was astonished. She took it in her hand and said, “Is this
really it?”
I nodded.
With great trepidation, she opened The Book Thief and turned the pages. “I
can’t believe . . .” Even though the text had faded, she was able to read her
words. The fingers of her soul touched the story that was written so long ago
in her Himmel Street basement.
She sat down on the curb, and I joined her.
“Did you read it?” she asked, but she did not look at me. Her eyes were fixed
to the words.
I nodded. “Many times.”
“Could you understand it?”
And at that point, there was a great pause.
A few cars drove by, each way. Their drivers were Hitlers and Hubermanns,
and Maxes, killers, Dillers, and Steiners. . . .
I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But
what could I tell her about those things that she didn’t already know? I
wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating
the human race—that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her
how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and
stories so damning and brilliant.
None of those things, however, came out of my mouth.

All I was able to do was turn to Liesel Meminger and tell her the only truth I
truly know. I said it to the book thief and I say it now to you.

A LAST NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR
I am haunted by humans.

Acknowledgments

I would like to start by thanking Anna McFarlane (who is as warm as she is
knowledgeable) and Erin Clarke (for her foresight, kindness, and always
having the right advice at the right time). Special thanks must also go to Bri
Tunnicliffe for putting up with me and trying to believe my delivery dates
for rewrites.
I am indebted to Trudy White for her grace and talent. It’s an honor to have
her artwork in these pages.
A big thank-you to Melissa Nelson, for making a difficult job look easy. It
hasn’t gone unnoticed.
This book also wouldn’t be possible without the following people: Cate
Paterson, Nikki Christer, Jo Jarrah, Anyez Lindop, Jane Novak, Fiona Inglis,
and Catherine Drayton. Thank you for putting your valuable time into this
story, and into me. I appreciate it more than I can say.
Thanks also to the Sydney Jewish Museum, the Australian War Memorial,
Doris Seider at the Jewish Museum of Munich, Andreus Heusler at the
Munich City Archive, and Rebecca Biehler (for information on the seasonal
habits of apple trees).
I am grateful to Dominika Zusak, Kinga Kovacs, and Andrew Janson for all
the pep talks and endurance.
Lastly, special thanks must go to Lisa and Helmut Zusak—for the stories we
find hard to believe, for laughter, and for showing me another side.

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE
DEATH AND CHOCOLATE
BESIDE THE RAILWAY LINE
THE ECLIPSE
THE FLAG
PART ONE
ARRIVAL ON HIMMEL STREET
GROWING UP A SAUMENSCH
THE WOMAN WITH THE IRON FIST
THE KISS
THE JESSE OWENS INCIDENT
THE OTHER SIDE OF SANDPAPER
THE SMELL OF FRIENDSHIP
SCHOOL-YARD
PART TWO
A GIRL MADE OF DARKNESS
THE JOY OF CIGARETTES
THE TOWN WALKER
DEAD LETTERS
100 PERCENT PURE GERMAN SWEAT
THE GATES OF THIEVERY
BOOK OF FIRE
PART THREE
THE WAY HOME
ENTER THE STRUGGLER
THE ATTRIBUTES OF SUMMER
THE ARYAN SHOPKEEPER
THE STRUGGLER, CONTINUED
TRICKSTERS
THE STRUGGLER, CONCLUDED
PART FOUR
THE ACCORDIONIST
A GOOD GIRL
FIGHTER

THE WRATH OF ROSA
THE SLEEPER
THE SWAPPING OF NIGHTMARES
PAGES FROM THE BASEMENT
PART FIVE
THE GAMBLERS
THE LOSERS
SKETCHES
THE WHISTLER AND THE SHOES
THREE ACTS OF STUPIDITY
PART SIX
THE SNOWMAN
THIRTEEN PRESENTS
WHAT TO DO WITH A JEWISH CORPSE
THE VISITOR
THE SCHMUNZELER