Free The Book Thief by Markus Zusak Page B

another student struggling in the hallway was not particularly enjoyable, but the fact that it was
someone else
was, if not a true comfort, a relief.
    When school broke up briefly for
Weihnachten
, Liesel even afforded Sister Maria a “merry Christmas” before going on her way. Knowing that the Hubermanns were essentially broke, still paying off debts and paying rent quicker than the money could come in, she was not expecting a gift of any sort. Perhaps only some better food. To her surprise, on Christmas Eve, after sitting in church at midnight with Mama, Papa, Hans Junior, and Trudy, she came home to find something wrapped in newspaper under the Christmas tree.
    “From Saint Niklaus,” Papa said, but the girl was not fooled. She hugged both her foster parents, with snow still laid across her shoulders.
    Unfurling the paper, she unwrapped two small books. The first one,
Faust the Dog
, was written by a man named Mattheus Ottleberg. All told, she would read that book thirteen times. On Christmas Eve, she read the first twenty pages at the kitchen table while Papa and Hans Junior argued about a thing she did not understand. Something called politics.
    Later, they read some more in bed, adhering to the tradition of circling the words she didn’t know and writing them down.
Faust the Dog
also had pictures—lovely curves and ears and caricatures of a German Shepherd with an obscene drooling problem and the ability to talk.
    The second book was called
The Lighthouse
and was written by a woman, Ingrid Rippinstein. That particular book was a little longer, so Liesel was able to get through it only nine times, her pace increasing ever so slightly by the end of such prolific readings.
    It was a few days after Christmas that she asked a question regarding the books. They were eating in the kitchen. Looking at the spoonfuls of pea soup entering Mama’s mouth, she decided to shift her focus to Papa. “There’s something I need to ask.”
    At first, there was nothing.
    “And?”
    It was Mama, her mouth still half full.
    “I just wanted to know how you found the money to buy my books.”
    A short grin was smiled into Papa’s spoon. “You really want to know?”
    “Of course.”
    From his pocket, Papa took what was left of his tobacco ration and began rolling a cigarette, at which Liesel became impatient.
    “Are you going to tell me or not?”
    Papa laughed. “But I
am
telling you, child.” He completed the production of one cigarette, flipped it on the table, and began on another. “Just like this.”
    That was when Mama finished her soup with a clank, suppressed a cardboard burp, and answered for him. “That
Saukerl,”
she said. “You know what he did? He rolled up all of his filthy cigarettes, went to the market when it was in town, and traded them with some gypsy.”
    “Eight cigarettes per book.” Papa shoved one to his mouth, intriumph. He lit up and took in the smoke. “Praise the Lord for cigarettes, huh, Mama?”
    Mama only handed him one of her trademark looks of disgust, followed by the most common ration of her vocabulary.
“Saukerl.”
    Liesel swapped a customary wink with her papa and finished eating her soup. As always, one of her books was next to her. She could not deny that the answer to her question had been more than satisfactory. There were not many people who could say that their education had been paid for with cigarettes.
    Mama, on the other hand, said that if Hans Hubermann was any good at all, he would trade some tobacco for the new dress she was in desperate need of or some better shoes. “But no …” She emptied the words out into the sink. “When it comes to me, you’d rather smoke a whole ration, wouldn’t you?
Plus
some of next door’s.”
    A few nights later, however, Hans Hubermann came home with a box of eggs. “Sorry, Mama.” He placed them on the table. “They were all out of shoes.”
    Mama didn’t complain.
    She even sang to herself while she cooked those eggs to the