Free The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

down, he was
punched in the ear. When he landed, he was set upon. When he was set upon, he
was slapped and clawed and obliterated by a girl who was utterly consumed with
rage. His skin was so warm and soft. Her knuckles and fingernails were so
frighteningly tough, despite their smallness. “You
Saukerl.
” Her voice,
too, was able to scratch him. “You
Arschloch.
Can you spell
Arschloch
for me?”
    Oh, how the
clouds stumbled in and assembled stupidly in the sky.
    Great obese
clouds.
    Dark and plump.
    Bumping into
each other. Apologizing. Moving on and finding room.
    Children were
there, quick as, well, quick as kids gravitating toward a fight. A stew of arms
and legs, of shouts and cheers grew thicker around them. They were watching
Liesel Meminger give Ludwig Schmeikl the hiding of a lifetime. “Jesus, Mary,
and Joseph,” a girl commentated with a shriek, “she’s going to kill him!”
    Liesel did not
kill him.
    But she came
close.
    In fact,
probably the only thing that stopped her was the twitchingly pathetic, grinning
face of Tommy Müller. Still crowded with adrenaline, Liesel caught sight of him
smiling with such absurdity that she dragged him down and started beating
him
up as well.
    “What are you
doing?!” he wailed, and only then, after the third or fourth slap and a trickle
of bright blood from his nose, did she stop.
    On her knees,
she sucked in the air and listened to the groans beneath her. She watched the
whirlpool of faces, left and right, and she announced, “I’m not stupid.”
    No one argued.
    It was only when
everyone moved back inside and Sister Maria saw the state of Ludwig Schmeikl
that the fight resumed. First, it was Rudy and a few others who bore the brunt
of suspicion. They were always at each other. “Hands,” each boy was ordered,
but every pair was clean.
    “I don’t believe
this,” the sister muttered. “It can’t be,” because sure enough, when Liesel
stepped forward to show her hands, Ludwig Schmeikl was all over them, rusting
by the moment. “The corridor,” she stated for the second time that day. For the
second time that hour, actually.
    This time, it
was not a small
Watschen.
It was not an average one. This time, it was
the mother of all corridor
Watschens,
one sting of the stick after
another, so that Liesel would barely be able to sit down for a week. And there
was no laughter from the room. More the silent fear of listening in.
    At the end of
the school day, Liesel walked home with Rudy and the other Steiner children.
Nearing Himmel Street, in a hurry of thoughts, a culmination of misery swept
over her—the failed recital of
The Grave Digger’s Handbook,
the
demolition of her family, her nightmares, the humiliation of the day—and she
crouched in the gutter and wept. It all led here.
    Rudy stood
there, next to her.
    It began to
rain, nice and hard.
    Kurt Steiner
called out, but neither of them moved. One sat painfully now, among the falling
chunks of rain, and the other stood next to her, waiting.
    “Why did he have
to die?” she asked, but still, Rudy did nothing; he said nothing.
    When finally she
finished and stood herself up, he put his arm around her, best-buddy style, and
they walked on. There was no request for a kiss. Nothing like that. You can
love Rudy for that, if you like.
    Just don’t kick
me in the eggs.
    That’s what he
was thinking, but he didn’t tell Liesel that. It was nearly four years later
that he offered that information.
    For now, Rudy
and Liesel made their way onto Himmel Street in the rain.
    He was the crazy
one who had painted himself black and defeated the world.
    She was the book
thief without the words.
    Trust me,
though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold
them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain.

     
     
    PART TWO
    the
shoulder shrug
    featuring:
     
    a girl made of darkness—the joy of