The Book Thief by Markus Zusak Page A

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
passage, 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