Several times, through the remainder of January and the entirety of February 1940, when Liesel searched the mailbox for a reply to her letter, it clearly broke her foster father's heart. "I'm sorry," he would tell her. "Not today, huh?" In hindsight, she saw that the whole exercise had been pointless. Had her mother been in a position to do so, she would have already made contact with the foster care people, or directly with the girl, or the Hubermanns. But there had been nothing.

Flash forward to the basement, September 1943.

To lend insult to injury, in mid-February, Liesel was given a letter from another ironing customer, the Pfaffelhurvers, from Heide Strasse. The pair of them stood with great tallness in the doorway, giving her a melancholic regard. "For your mama," the man said, handing her the envelope. "Tell her we're sorry. Tell her we're sorry."

A fourteen-year-old girl is writing in a small dark-covered book. She is bony but strong and has seen many things. Papa sits with the accordion at his feet.

He says, "You know, Liesel? I nearly wrote you a reply and signed your mother's name." He scratches his leg, where the plaster used to be. "But I couldn't. I couldn't bring myself."

Even when Liesel retreated to the basement to write her fifth letter to her mother (all but the first one yet to be sent), she could hear Rosa swearing and carrying on about those Pfaffelhurver Arschlocher and that lousy Ernst Vogel.

That was not a good night in the Hubermann residence.

Liesel wrote.

"Feuer soll'n's brunzen fur einen Monat!" she heard her call out. Translation: "They should all piss fire for a month!"

"I know!" He turned quietly to the girl. "I'm sorry, Liesel. We just can't afford it."

"I told you." Mama pointed a finger at him. "I told you not to give her both books at Christmas. But no. Did you listen? Of course not!"

Liesel didn't mind. She didn't whine or moan or stamp her feet. She simply swallowed the disappointment and decided on one calculated risk -- a present from herself. She would gather all of the accrued letters to her mother, stuff them into one envelope, and use just a tiny portion of the washing and ironing money to mail it. Then, of course, she would take the Watschen, most likely in the kitchen, and she would not make a sound.

When her birthday came around, there was no gift. There was no gift because there was no money, and at the time, Papa was out of tobacco.

"Some of it's missing." Mama counted the money a fourth time, with Liesel over at the stove. It was warm there and it cooked the fast flow of her blood. "What happened, Liesel?"

She lied. "They must have given me less than usual."

Three days later, the plan came to fruition.

"Did you count it?"

Rosa came closer. This was not a good sign. She was very close to the wooden spoons. "You what?"

Before she could answer, the wooden spoon came down on Liesel Meminger's body like the gait of God. Red marks like footprints, and they burned. From the floor, when it was over, the girl actually looked up and explained.

She broke. "I spent it, Mama."

What came to her then was the dustiness of the floor, the feeling that her clothes were more next to her than on her, and the sudden realization that this would all be for nothing -- that her mother would never write back and she would never see her again. The reality of this gave her a second Watschen. It stung her, and it did not stop for many minutes.

There was pulse and yellow light, all together. Her eyes blinked. "I mailed my letters."

Liesel knew her well enough to understand that it was not for the hiding.

The red marks grew larger, in patches on her skin, as she lay there, in the dust and the dirt and the dim light. Her breathing calmed, and a stray yellow tear trickled down her face. She could feel herself against the floor. A forearm, a knee. An elbow. A cheek. A calf muscle.

The floor was cold, especially against her cheek, but she was unable to move.

For nearly an hour, she remained, spread out under the kitchen table, till Papa came home and played the accordion. Only then did she sit up and start to recover.

Above her, Rosa appeared to be smudged, but she soon clarified as her cardboard face loomed closer. Dejected, she stood there in all her plumpness, holding the wooden spoon at her side like a club. She reached down and leaked a little. "I'm sorry, Liesel."

When she wrote about that night, she held no animosity toward Rosa Hubermann at all, or toward her mother for that matter. To her, they were only victims of circumstance. The only thought that continually recurred was the yellow tear. Had it been dark, she realized, that tear would have been black.

She would never see her mother again.

No matter how many times she tried to imagine that scene with the yellow light that she knew had been there, she had to struggle to visualize it. She was beaten in the dark, and she had remained there, on a cold, dark kitchen floor. Even Papa's music was the color of darkness.

Even Papa's music.

Nightmares had reinforced themselves in each, as the book thief began to truly understand how things were and how they would always be. If nothing else, she could prepare herself. Perhaps that's why on the Fuhrer's birthday, when the answer to the question of her mother's suffering showed itself completely, she was able to react, despite her perplexity and her rage.

Liesel Meminger was ready.

But it was dark, she told herself.

The strange thing was that she was vaguely comforted by that thought, rather than distressed by it. The dark, the light. What was the difference?

Happy birthday, Herr Hitler.

Many happy returns.