The Book Thief

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

PART
SEVEN

CHAMPAGNE
AND ACCORDIONS

THE
TRILOGY

THE
SOUND OF SIRENS

THE
SKY STEALER

THE
LONG WALK TO DACHAU

PEACE

THE
IDIOT AND THE COAT MEN

PART
EIGHT

DOMINOES
AND DARKNESS

THE
THOUGHT OF RUDY NAKED

PUNISHMENT

THE
COLLECTOR

THE
BREAD EATERS

THE
HIDDEN SKETCHBOOK

PART
NINE

THE
NEXT TEMPTATION

THE
CARDPLAYER

THE
SNOWS OF STALINGRAD

THE
AGELESS BROTHER

THE
ACCIDENT

THE
BITTER TASTE OF QUESTIONS

THE
OPTIONS

HOMECOMING

PART
TEN

THE
NINETY-EIGHTH DAY

THE
WAR MAKER

WAY
OF THE WORDS

CONFESSIONS

THE
RIB-CAGE PLANES

EPILOGUE

DEATH
AND LIESEL

WOOD
IN THE AFTERNOON

MAX

THE
HANDOVER MAN

For Elisabeth and Helmut Zusak,

with love and admiration

PROLOGUE

a
mountain range of rubble

in
which our narrator introduces:

himself—the colors—and the book thief

DEATH AND CHOCOLATE

First the
colors.

Then the humans.

That’s usually
how I see things.

Or at least, how
I try.

I am in all
truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most
people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations.
Please, trust me. I most definitely
can
be cheerful. I can be amiable.
Agreeable. Affable. And that’s only the A’s. Just don’t ask me to be nice. Nice
has nothing to do with me.

—Of course, an
introduction.

A beginning.

Where are my
manners?

I could
introduce myself properly, but it’s not really necessary. You will know me well
enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices
to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as
possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder.
I will carry you gently away.

At that moment,
you will be lying there (I rarely find people standing up). You will be caked
in your own body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the
air. The only sound I’ll hear after that will be my own breathing, and the
sound of the smell, of my footsteps.

The question is,
what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the
sky be saying?

Personally, I
like a chocolate-colored sky. Dark, dark chocolate. People say it suits me. I
do, however, try to enjoy every color I see—the whole spectrum. A billion or so
flavors, none of them quite the same, and a sky to slowly suck on. It takes the
edge off the stress. It helps me relax.

As I’ve been
alluding to, my one saving grace is distraction. It keeps me sane. It helps me
cope, considering the length of time I’ve been performing this job. The trouble
is, who could ever replace me? Who could step in while I take a break in your
stock-standard resort-style vacation destination, whether it be tropical or of
the ski trip variety? The answer, of course, is nobody, which has prompted me
to make a conscious, deliberate decision—to make distraction my vacation.
Needless to say, I vacation in increments. In colors.

Still, it’s
possible that you might be asking, why does he even need a vacation? What does
he need distraction
from
?

Which brings me
to my next point.

It’s the
leftover humans.

The survivors.

They’re the ones
I can’t stand to look at, although on many occasions I still fail. I
deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I
witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of
realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have
beaten lungs.

Which in turn
brings me to the subject I am telling you about tonight, or today, or whatever
the hour and color. It’s the story of one of those perpetual survivors—an
expert at being left behind.

It’s just a small
story really, about, among other things:

•
A girl

•
Some words

•
An accordionist

•
Some fanatical Germans

•
A Jewish fist fighter

•
And quite a lot of thievery

I saw the book
thief three times.

BESIDE THE RAILWAY LINE

First up is
something white. Of the blinding kind.

Some of you are
most likely thinking that white is not really a color and all of that tired
sort of nonsense. Well, I’m here to tell you that it is. White is without
question a color, and personally, I don’t think you want to argue with me.

Yes, it was
white.

It felt as
though the whole globe was dressed in snow. Like it had pulled it on, the way
you pull on a sweater. Next to the train line, footprints were sunken to their
shins. Trees wore blankets of ice.

As you might
expect, someone had died.

They couldn’t
just leave him on the ground. For now, it wasn’t such a problem, but very soon,
the track ahead would be cleared and the train would need to move on.

There were two
guards.

There was one
mother and her daughter.

One corpse.

The mother, the
girl, and the corpse remained stubborn and silent.

“Well, what else
do you want me to do?”

The guards were
tall and short. The tall one always spoke first, though he was not in charge.
He looked at the smaller, rounder one. The one with the juicy red face.

“Well,” was the
response, “we can’t just leave them like this, can we?”

The tall one was
losing patience. “Why not?”

And the smaller
one damn near exploded. He looked up at the tall one’s chin and cried, “
Spinnst
du?!
Are you stupid?!” The abhorrence on his cheeks was growing thicker by
the moment. His skin widened. “Come on,” he said, traipsing over the snow.
“We’ll carry all three of them back on if we have to. We’ll notify the next
stop.”

As for me, I had
already made the most elementary of mistakes. I can’t explain to you the
severity of my self-disappointment. Originally, I’d done everything right:

I studied the
blinding, white-snow sky who stood at the window of the moving train. I
practically
inhaled
it, but still, I wavered. I buckled—I became
interested. In the girl. Curiosity got the better of me, and I resigned myself
to stay as long as my schedule allowed, and I watched.

Twenty-three
minutes later, when the train was stopped, I climbed out with them.

A small soul was
in my arms.

I stood a little
to the right.

The dynamic
train guard duo made their way back to the mother, the girl, and the small male
corpse. I clearly remember that my breath was loud that day. I’m surprised the
guards didn’t notice me as they walked by. The world was sagging now, under the
weight of all that snow.

Perhaps ten
meters to my left, the pale, empty-stomached girl was standing, frost-stricken.

Her mouth
jittered.

Her cold arms
were folded.

Tears were
frozen to the book thief’s face.

THE ECLIPSE

Next is a
signature black, to show the poles of my versatility, if you like. It was the
darkest moment before the dawn.

This time, I had
come for a man of perhaps twenty-four years of age. It was a beautiful thing in
some ways. The plane was still coughing. Smoke was leaking from both its lungs.

When it crashed,
three deep gashes were made in the earth. Its wings were now sawn-off arms. No
more flapping. Not for this metallic little bird.

After a small
collection of minutes, the smoke exhausted itself. There was nothing left to
give.

A boy arrived
first, with cluttered breath and what appeared to be a toolbox. With great
trepidation, he approached the cockpit and watched the pilot, gauging if he was
alive, at which point, he still was. The book thief arrived perhaps thirty
seconds later.

Years had
passed, but I recognized her.

She was panting.

From the
toolbox, the boy took out, of all things, a teddy bear.

He reached in
through the torn windshield and placed it on the pilot’s chest. The smiling
bear sat huddled among the crowded wreckage of the man and the blood. A few
minutes later, I took my chance. The time was right.

I walked in,
loosened his soul, and carried it gently away.