The Book Thief by Markus Zusak Page B

class, 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.
    A TYPICAL 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 class 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 hell 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.