There are many things to think of.

It's settled, then.

Of course, I'm being rude. I'm spoiling the ending, not only of the entire book, but of this particular piece of it. I have given you two events in advance, because I don't have much interest in building mystery. Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It's the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me.

Certainly, there's a book called The Whistler, which we really need to discuss, along with exactly how it came to be floating down the Amper River in the time leading up to Christmas 1941. We should deal with all of that first, don't you think?

There is much story.

① The Haircut: Mid-April 1941

Life was at least starting to mimic normality with more force:

We will.

It started with gambling. Roll a die by hiding a Jew and this is how you live. This is how it looks.

Hans and Rosa Hubermann were arguing in the living room, even if it was much quieter than it used to be. Liesel, in typical fashion, was an onlooker.

"Quiet, Saukerl." Rosa went on riffling and addressed the girl. "Liesel, where are the scissors?" But Liesel had no idea, either. "Saumensch, you're useless, aren't you?"

"I've been through that one already."

Now Rosa was riffling through the drawers. Her words were shoved back to Papa with the rest of the junk. "Where are those damn scissors?"

"I'm right here."

"Do I look blind?" She raised her head and bellowed. "Liesel!"

More words were delivered back and forth, from elastic-haired woman to silver-eyed man, till Rosa slammed the drawer. "I'll probably make a lot of mistakes on him anyway."

"Maybe you missed them."

Hans cowered. "Goddamn it, woman, deafen me, why don't you!"

"Leave her out of it."

"Not in the one below?"

The argument originated the previous night, in the basement, where Hans and Max were sitting with paint cans, words, and drop sheets. Max asked if Rosa might be able to cut his hair at some stage. "It's getting me in the eyes," he'd said, to which Hans had replied, "I'll see what I can do."

"Mistakes?" Papa looked ready to tear his own hair out by that stage, but his voice became a barely audible whisper. "Who the hell's going to see him?" He motioned to speak again but was distracted by the feathery appearance of Max Vandenburg, who stood politely, embarrassed, in the doorway. He carried his own scissors and came forward, handing them not to Hans or Rosa but to the twelve-year-old girl. She was the calmest option. His mouth quivered a moment before he said, "Would you?"

Liesel took the scissors and opened them. They were rusty and shiny in different areas. She turned to Papa, and when he nodded, she followed Max down to the basement.

Papa parked himself on the steps.

Liesel lifted the first tufts of Max Vandenburg's hair.

As she cut the feathery strands, she wondered at the sound of scissors. Not the snipping noise, but the grinding of each metal arm as it cropped each group of fibers.

The Jew sat on a paint can. A small drop sheet was wrapped around his shoulders. "As many mistakes as you want," he told her.

When the job was done, a little severe in places, a little crooked in others, she walked upstairs with the hair in her hands and fed it into the stove. She lit a match and watched as the clump shriveled and sank, orange and red.

No sooner had he spoken than he disappeared again, back into the ground.

Again, Max was in the doorway, this time at the top of the basement steps. "Thanks, Liesel." His voice was tall and husky, with the sound in it of a hidden smile.

② The Newspaper: Early May

"There's a Jew. In my basement."

Sitting on the floor of the mayor's roomful of books, Liesel Meminger heard those words. A bag of washing was at her side and the ghostly figure of the mayor's wife was sitting hunch-drunk over at the desk. In front of her, Liesel read The Whistler, pages twenty-two and twenty-three. She looked up. She imagined herself walking over, gently tearing some fluffy hair to the side, and whispering in the woman's ear: "There's a Jew in my basement."

"There's a Jew in my basement."

As the book quivered in her lap, the secret sat in her mouth. It made itself comfortable. It crossed its legs.

When Liesel placed the book back into position, the woman's chair stubbed the floor and she made her way over. It was always like this at the end. The gentle rings of sorrowful wrinkles swelled a moment as she reached across and retrieved the book.

Liesel shied away.

She offered it to the girl.

"I should be getting home." This time, she actually spoke. Her hands were shaking. Despite a trace of sunshine in the distance, a gentle breeze rode through the open window, coupled with rain that came in like sawdust.

The mayor's wife nodded. If there was one thing about Liesel Meminger, her thieving was not gratuitous. She only stole books on what she felt was a need-to-have basis. Currently, she had enough. She'd gone through The Mud Men four times now and was enjoying her reacquaintance with The Shoulder Shrug. Also, each night before bed, she would open a fail-safe guide to grave digging. Buried deep inside it, The Standover Man resided. She mouthed the words and touched the birds. She turned the noisy pages, slowly.

"No," she said, "thank you. I have enough books at home. Maybe another time. I'm rereading something else with my papa. You know, the one I stole from the fire that night."

When she made it down to Munich Street, the book thief swerved in and out of the umbrellaed men and women -- a rain-cloaked girl who made her way without shame from one garbage can to another. Like clockwork.

She exited the library, walked down the floorboard hall and out the monstrous doorway. As was her habit, she stood for a while on the steps, looking at Molching beneath her. The town that afternoon was covered in a yellow mist, which stroked the rooftops as if they were pets and filled up the streets like a bath.

"Goodbye, Frau Hermann."

"There!"

Thursday was the only delivery day left for Liesel Meminger now, and it was usually able to provide some sort of dividend. She could never dampen the feeling of victory each time she found a Molching Express or any other publication. Finding a newspaper was a good day. If it was a paper in which the crossword wasn't done, it was a great day. She would make her way home, shut the door behind her, and take it down to Max Vandenburg.

She laughed up at the coppery clouds, celebrating, before reaching in and taking the mangled newspaper. Although the front and back pages were streaked with black tears of print, she folded it neatly in half and tucked it under her arm. It had been like this each Thursday for the past few months.

"Excellent."

The Jew would smile as he accepted the package of paper and started reading in the rationed light of the basement. Often, Liesel would watch him as he focused on reading the paper, completed the crossword, and then started to reread it, front to back.

"Crossword?" he would ask.

"Empty."

With the weather warming, Max remained downstairs all the time. During the day, the basement door was left open to allow the small bay of daylight to reach him from the corridor. The hall itself was not exactly bathed in sunshine, but in certain situations, you take what you can get. Dour light was better than none, and they needed to be frugal. The kerosene had not yet approached a dangerously low level, but it was best to keep its usage to a minimum.

Liesel would usually sit on some drop sheets. She would read while Max completed those crosswords. They sat a few meters apart, speaking very rarely, and there was really only the noise of turning pages. Often, she also left her books for Max to read while she was at school. Where Hans Hubermann and Erik Vandenburg were ultimately united by music, Max and Liesel were held together by the quiet gathering of words.

"Hi, Max."

At times, she would watch him. She decided that he could best be summed up as a picture of pale concentration. Beige-colored skin. A swamp in each eye. And he breathed like a fugitive. Desperate yet soundless. It was only his chest that gave him away for something alive.

Liesel opened the door and her mouth simultaneously.

"Bye, Liesel."

"Bye, Max."

Increasingly, Liesel would close her eyes and ask Max to quiz her on the words she was continually getting wrong, and she would swear if they still escaped her. She would then stand and paint those words to the wall, anywhere up to a dozen times. Together, Max Vandenburg and Liesel Meminger would take in the odor of paint fumes and cement.

They would sit and read.

"Hi, Liesel."

In bed, she would lie awake, imagining him below, in the basement. In her bedtime visions, he always slept fully clothed, shoes included, just in case he needed to flee again. He slept with one eye open.

On Himmel Street, her team had trounced Rudy's 6-1, and triumphant, she burst into the kitchen, telling Mama and Papa all about the goal she'd scored. She then rushed down to the basement to describe it blow by blow to Max, who put down his newspaper and intently listened and laughed with the girl.

③ The Weatherman: Mid-May

When she returned to the basement, she told him.

When the story of the goal was complete, there was silence for a good few minutes, until Max looked slowly up. "Would you do something for me, Liesel?"

Still excited by her Himmel Street goal, the girl jumped from the drop sheets. She did not say it, but her movement clearly showed her intent to provide exactly what he wanted.

"You told me all about the goal," he said, "but I don't know what sort of day it is up there. I don't know if you scored it in the sun, or if the clouds have covered everything." His hand prodded at his short-cropped hair, and his swampy eyes pleaded for the simplest of simple things. "Could you go up and tell me how the weather looks?"

"The sky is blue today, Max, and there is a big long cloud, and it's stretched out, like a rope. At the end of it, the sun is like a yellow hole…"

Naturally, Liesel hurried up the stairs. She stood a few feet from the spit-stained door and turned on the spot, observing the sky.

Max, at that moment, knew that only a child could have given him a weather report like that. On the wall, he painted a long, tightly knotted rope with a dripping yellow sun at the end of it, as if you could dive right into it. On the ropy cloud, he drew two figures -- a thin girl and a withering Jew -- and they were walking, arms balanced, toward that dripping sun. Beneath the picture, he wrote the following sentence.

Standing above him at all moments of awakeness was the hand of time, and it didn't hesitate to wring him out. It smiled and squeezed and let him live. What great malice there could be in allowing something to live.

For Max Vandenburg, there was cool cement and plenty of time to spend with it.

It was a Monday, and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.

THE WALL-WRITTEN WORDS OF MAX VANDENBURG

Hours were punishing.

④ The Boxer: End of May

When he was alone, his most distinct feeling was of disappearance. All of his clothes were gray -- whether they'd started out that way or not -- from his pants to his woolen sweater to the jacket that dripped from him now like water. He often checked if his skin was flaking, for it was as if he were dissolving.

The minutes were cruel.

At least once a day, Hans Hubermann would descend the basement steps and share a conversation. Rosa would occasionally bring a spare crust of bread. It was when Liesel came down, however, that Max found himself most interested in life again. Initially, he tried to resist, but it was harder every day that the girl appeared, each time with a new weather report, either of pure blue sky, cardboard clouds, or a sun that had broken through like God sitting down after he'd eaten too much for his dinner.

What he needed was a series of new projects. The first was exercise. He started with push-ups, lying stomach-down on the cool basement floor, then hoisting himself up. It felt like his arms snapped at each elbow, and he envisaged his heart seeping out of him and dropping pathetically to the ground. As a teenager in Stuttgart, he could reach fifty push-ups at a time. Now, at the age of twenty-four, perhaps fifteen pounds lighter than his usual weight, he could barely make it to ten. After a week, he was completing three sets each of sixteen push-ups and twenty-two sit-ups. When he was finished, he would sit against the basement wall with his paint-can friends, feeling his pulse in his teeth. His muscles felt like cake.

He wondered at times if pushing himself like this was even worth it. Sometimes, though, when his heartbeat neutralized and his body became functional again, he would turn off the lamp and stand in the darkness of the basement.

"In the blue corner," he quietly commentated, "we have the champion of the world, the Aryan masterpiece -- the Fuhrer." He breathed and turned. "And in the red corner, we have the Jewish, rat-faced challenger -- Max Vandenburg."

He was twenty-four, but he could still fantasize.

White light lowered itself into a boxing ring and a crowd stood and murmured -- that magical sound of many people talking all at once. How could every person there have so much to say at the same time? The ring itself was perfect. Perfect canvas, lovely ropes. Even the stray hairs of each thickened string were flawless, gleaming in the tight white light. The room smelled like cigarettes and beer.

Around him, it all materialized.

Diagonally across, Adolf Hitler stood in the corner with his entourage. His legs poked out from a red-and-white robe with a black swastika burned into its back. His mustache was knitted to his face. Words were whispered to him from his trainer, Goebbels. He bounced foot to foot, and he smiled. He smiled loudest when the ring announcer listed his many achievements, which were all vociferously applauded by the adoring crowd. "Undefeated!" the ringmaster proclaimed. "Over many a Jew, and over any other threat to the German ideal! Herr Fuhrer," he concluded, "we salute you!" The crowd: mayhem.

Next, when everyone had settled down, came the challenger.

The rest of the speech was not heard. It was overrun with the abuse from the bleachers, and Max watched as his opponent was de-robed and came to the middle to hear the rules and shake hands.

The ringmaster swung over toward Max, who stood alone in the challenger's corner. No robe. No entourage. Just a lonely young Jew with dirty breath, a naked chest, and tired hands and feet. Naturally, his shorts were gray. He too moved from foot to foot, but it was kept at a minimum to conserve energy. He'd done a lot of sweating in the gym to make the weight.

"The challenger!" sang the ringmaster. "Of," and he paused for effect, "Jewish blood." The crowd oohed, like human ghouls. "Weighing in at…"

"Gentlemen," a stout referee in black pants and a blue shirt began. A bow tie was fixed to his throat. "First and foremost, we want a good clean fight." He addressed only the Fuhrer now. "Unless, of course, Herr Hitler, you begin to lose. Should this occur, I will be quite willing to turn a blind eye to any unconscionable tactics you might employ to grind this piece of Jewish stench and filth into the canvas." He nodded, with great courtesy. "Is that clear?"

"Guten Tag, Herr Hitler." Max nodded, but the Fuhrer only showed him his yellow teeth, then covered them up again with his lips.

To Max, the referee extended a warning. "As for you, my Jewish chum, I'd watch my step very closely if I were you. Very closely indeed," and they were sent back to their respective corners.

The Fuhrer spoke his first word then. "Crystal."

A brief quiet ensued.

First out was the Fuhrer, awkward-legged and bony, running at Max and jabbing him firmly in the face. The crowd vibrated, the bell still in their ears, and their satisfied smiles hurdled the ropes. The smoky breath of Hitler steamed from his mouth as his hands bucked at Max's face, collecting him several times, on the lips, the nose, the chin -- and Max had still not ventured out of his corner. To absorb the punishment, he held up his hands, but the Fuhrer then aimed at his ribs, his kidneys, his lungs. Oh, the eyes, the Fuhrer's eyes. They were so deliciously brown -- like Jews' eyes -- and they were so determined that even Max stood transfixed for a moment as he caught sight of them between the healthy blur of punching gloves.

The bell.

There was only one round, and it lasted hours, and for the most part, nothing changed.

The Fuhrer pounded away at the punching-bag Jew.

Eventually, Max's knees began to buckle, his cheekbones silently moaned, and the Fuhrer's delighted face still chipped away, chipped away, until depleted, beaten, and broken, the Jew flopped to the floor.

Like red rain clouds on the white-sky canvas at their feet.

Jewish blood was everywhere.

First, a roar.

Slowly, Max Vandenburg, the Jew, rose to his feet and made himself upright. His voice wobbled. An invitation. "Come on, Fuhrer," he said, and this time, when Adolf Hitler set upon his Jewish counterpart, Max stepped aside and plunged him into the corner. He punched him seven times, aiming on each occasion for only one thing.

The referee counted. He had a gold tooth and a plethora of nostril hair.

Then silence.

The mustache.

With the seventh punch, he missed. It was the Fuhrer's chin that sustained the blow. All at once, Hitler hit the ropes and creased forward, landing on his knees. This time, there was no count. The referee flinched in the corner. The audience sank down, back to their beer. On his knees, the Fuhrer tested himself for blood and straightened his hair, right to left. When he returned to his feet, much to the approval of the thousand-strong crowd, he edged forward and did something quite strange. He turned his back on the Jew and took the gloves from his fists.

The crowd was stunned.

They answered. "Yes, Fuhrer."

"He's given up," someone whispered, but within moments, Adolf Hitler was standing on the ropes, and he was addressing the arena.

"My fellow Germans," he called, "you can see something here tonight, can't you?" Bare-chested, victory-eyed, he pointed over at Max. "You can see that what we face is something far more sinister and powerful than we ever imagined. Can you see that?"

"Can you see that this enemy has found its ways -- its despicable ways -- through our armor, and that clearly, I cannot stand up here alone and fight him?" The words were visible. They dropped from his mouth like jewels. "Look at him! Take a good look." They looked. At the bloodied Max Vandenburg. "As we speak, he is plotting his way into your neighborhood. He's moving in next door. He's infesting you with his family and he's about to take you over. He --" Hitler glanced at him a moment, with disgust. "He will soon own you, until it is he who stands not at the counter of your grocery shop, but sits in the back, smoking his pipe. Before you know it, you'll be working for him at minimum wage while he can hardly walk from the weight in his pockets. Will you simply stand there and let him do this? Will you stand by as your leaders did in the past, when they gave your land to everybody else, when they sold your country for the price of a few signatures? Will you stand out there, powerless? Or"-- and now he stepped one rung higher --"will you climb up into this ring with me?"

Nothing but dark now.

⑤ The New Dream: A Few Nights Later

"The crossword," she gently said, "is empty," and she held it out to him.

Just basement. Just Jew.

Dark.

She watched awhile, without his knowledge, and when she came and sat with him, he stood up and leaned back against the wall. "Did I tell you," he asked her, "that I've been having a new dream lately?"

He watched the next person climb through the ropes. It was a girl, and as she slowly crossed the canvas, he noticed a tear torn down her left cheek. In her right hand was a newspaper.

In the basement of 33 Himmel Street, Max Vandenburg could feel the fists of an entire nation. One by one they climbed into the ring and beat him down. They made him bleed. They let him suffer. Millions of them -- until one last time, when he gathered himself to his feet…

It was afternoon. Liesel came down the basement steps. Max was halfway through his push-ups.

Adolf finished him. "Will you climb in here so that we can defeat this enemy together?"

Max shook. Horror stuttered in his stomach.

Max corrected her. "Not for what. For whom."

Liesel shifted a little, to see his face.

"The push-ups?"

For a few moments, Liesel said nothing. It was one of those conversations that require some time to elapse between exchanges. "Who do you wait for?"

Liesel was standing now. "Who wins?"

"For what?"

Max did not move. "The Fuhrer." He was very matter-of-fact about this. "That's why I'm in training."

"I do," he said.

"But I dream this when I'm awake." He motioned to the glowless kerosene lamp. "Sometimes I turn out the light. Then I stand here and wait."

"That's right." He walked to the concrete stairway. "Every night, I wait in the dark and the Fuhrer comes down these steps. He walks down and he and I, we fight for hours."

At first, he was going to answer that no one did, but then he noticed the paint cans, the drop sheets, and the growing pile of newspapers in the periphery of his vision. He watched the words, the long cloud, and the figures on the wall.

It was as though he'd opened her palm, given her the words, and closed it up again.

Punches are thrown, the crowd climbs out of

⑥ The Painters: Early June

BASEMENTVISIONS, JUNE 1941

This, however, was no joke.

Another of Max's projects was the remainder of Mein Kampf. Each page was gently stripped from the book and laid out on the floor to receive a coat of paint. It was then hung up to dry and replaced between the front and back covers. When Liesel came down one day after school, she found Max, Rosa, and her papa all painting the various pages. Many of them were already hanging from a drawn-out string with pegs, just as they must have done for The Standover Man.

"About time, Saumensch. Where have you been so long?"

As she started painting, Liesel thought about Max Vandenburg fighting the Fuhrer, exactly as he'd explained it.

"Hi, Liesel."

"Here's a brush, Liesel."

"There's a Jew and a German standing in a basement, right?…"

All three people looked up and spoke.

Under the ground, in Molching, Germany, two people stood and spoke in a basement. It sounds like the beginning of a joke:

Seven.

There's blood in the Fuhrer's mustache, as

the walls. Max and the Fuhrer fight for their

well as in his part line, on the right side

⑦ The Showdown: June 24

When the visions dissipated and she finished her first page, Papa winked at her. Mama castigated her for hogging the paint. Max examined each and every page, perhaps watching what he planned to produce on them. Many months later, he would also paint over the cover of that book and give it a new title, after one of the stories he would write and illustrate inside it.

That afternoon, in the secret ground below 33 Himmel Street, the Hubermanns, Liesel Meminger, and Max Vandenburg prepared the pages of The Word Shaker.

Jew. He waves him forward. "Come on, Fuhrer."

It felt good to be a painter.

of his head. "Come on, Fuhrer," says the

lives, each rebounding off the stairway.

Then came the seventh side of the die. Two days after Germany invaded Russia. Three days before Britain and the Soviets joined forces.

You roll and watch it coming, realizing completely that this is no regular die. You claim it to be bad luck, but you've known all along that it had to come. You brought it into the room. The table could smell it on your breath. The Jew was sticking out of your pocket from the outset. He's smeared to your lapel, and the moment you roll, you know it's a seven -- the one thing that somehow finds a way to hurt you. It lands. It stares you in each eye, miraculous and loathsome, and you turn away with it feeding on your chest.

That's what you say.

Just bad luck.

Of no consequence.

The beginning was actually a week or so earlier than June 24. Liesel scavenged a newspaper for Max Vandenburg as she always did. She reached into a garbage can just off Munich Street and tucked it under her arm. Once she delivered it to Max and he'd commenced his first reading, he glanced across at her and pointed to a picture on the front page. "Isn't this whose washing and ironing you deliver?"

In hindsight, Liesel told herself that it was not such a big deal. Perhaps it was because so much more had happened by the time she wrote her story in the basement. In the great scheme of things, she reasoned that Rosa being fired by the mayor and his wife was not bad luck at all. It had nothing whatsoever to do with hiding Jews. It had everything to do with the greater context of the war. At the time, though, there was most definitely a feeling of punishment.

That's what you make yourself believe -- because deep down, you know that this small piece of changing fortune is a signal of things to come. You hide a Jew. You pay. Somehow or other, you must.

When she went on to read the article, Heinz Hermann, the mayor, was quoted as saying that although the war was progressing splendidly, the people of Molching, like all responsible Germans, should take adequate measures and prepare for the possibility of harder times. "You never know," he stated, "what our enemies are thinking, or how they will try to debilitate us."

Liesel came over from the wall. She'd been writing the word argument six times, next to Max's picture of the ropy cloud and the dripping sun. Max handed her the paper and she confirmed it. "That's him."

A week later, the mayor's words came to nasty fruition. Liesel, as she always did, showed up at Grande Strasse and read from The Whistler on the floor of the mayor's library. The mayor's wife showed no signs of abnormality (or, let's be frank, no additional signs) until it was time to leave.

This time, when she offered Liesel The Whistler, she insisted on the girl taking it. "Please." She almost begged. The book was held out in a tight, measured fist. "Take it. Please, take it."

Liesel stopped breathing.

Liesel, touched by the strangeness of this woman, couldn't bear to disappoint her again. The gray-covered book with its yellowing pages found its way into her hand and she began to walk the corridor. As she was about to ask for the washing, the mayor's wife gave her a final look of bathrobed sorrow. She reached into the chest of drawers and withdrew an envelope. Her voice, lumpy from lack of use, coughed out the words. "I'm sorry. It's for your mama."

She was suddenly aware of how empty her feet felt inside her shoes. Something ridiculed her throat. She trembled. When finally she reached out and took possession of the letter, she noticed the sound of the clock in the library. Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave. If only mine was ready now, she thought -- because Liesel Meminger, at that moment, wanted to die. When the others had canceled, it hadn't hurt so much. There was always the mayor, his library, and her connection with his wife. Also, this was the last one, the last hope, gone. This time, it felt like the greatest betrayal.

For Rosa, the few scraps of money had still helped in various alleyways. An extra handful of flour. A piece of fat.

Ilsa Hermann was dying now herself -- to get rid of her. Liesel could see it somewhere in the way she hugged the robe a little tighter. The clumsiness of sorrow still kept her at close proximity, but clearly, she wanted this to be over. "Tell your mama," she spoke again. Her voice was adjusting now, as one sentence turned into two. "That we're sorry." She started shepherding the girl toward the door.

That's it? she asked internally. You just boot me out?

Liesel felt it now in the shoulders. The pain, the impact of final rejection.

Slowly, she picked up her empty bag and edged toward the door. Once outside, she turned and faced the mayor's wife for the second to last time that day. She looked her in the eyes with an almost savage brand of pride. "Danke schon," she said, and Ilsa Hermann smiled in a rather useless, beaten way.

"If you ever want to come just to read," the woman lied (or at least the girl, in her shocked, saddened state, perceived it as a lie), "you're very welcome."

How could she face her mama?

"Goodbye," the girl said, and slowly, with great morosity, the door was closed.

At that moment, Liesel was amazed by the width of the doorway. There was so much space. Why did people need so much space to get through the door? Had Rudy been there, he'd have called her an idiot -- it was to get all their stuff inside.

For a long time, she sat on the steps and watched Molching. It was neither warm nor cool and the town was clear and still. Molching was in a jar.

She opened the letter. In it, Mayor Heinz Hermann diplomatically outlined exactly why he had to terminate the services of Rosa Hubermann. For the most part, he explained that he would be a hypocrite if he maintained his own small luxuries while advising others to prepare for harder times.

Liesel did not leave.

When she eventually stood and walked home, her moment of reaction came once again when she saw the STEINER-SCHNEIDER-MEISTER sign on Munich Street. Her sadness left her and she was overwhelmed with anger. "That bastard mayor," she whispered. "That pathetic woman." The fact that harder times were coming was surely the best reason for keeping Rosa employed, but no, they fired her. At any rate, she decided, they could do their own blasted washing and ironing, like normal people. Like poor people.

In her hand, The Whistler tightened.

When she arrived, she was disappointed that the mayor himself was not there. No car was slotted nicely on the side of the road, which was perhaps a good thing. Had it been there, there was no telling what she might have done to it in this moment of rich versus poor.

She turned as she had once before and marched back to 8 Grande Strasse. The temptation to run was immense, but she refrained so that she'd have enough in reserve for the words.

"So you give me the book," the girl said, "for pity -- to make yourself feel better…" The fact that she'd also been offered the book prior to that day mattered little.

Two steps at a time, she reached the door and banged it hard enough to hurt. She enjoyed the small fragments of pain.

Evidently, the mayor's wife was shocked when she saw her again. Her fluffy hair was slightly wet and her wrinkles widened when she noticed the obvious fury on Liesel's usually pallid face. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out, which was handy, really, for it was Liesel who possessed the talking.

The mayor's wife's arms. They hung.

Her face slipped.

"You think," she said, "you can buy me off with this book?" Her voice, though shaken, hooked at the woman's throat. The glittering anger was thick and unnerving, but she toiled through it. She worked herself up even further, to the point where she needed to wipe the tears from her eyes. "You give me this Saumensch of a book and think it'll make everything good when I go and tell my mama that we've just lost our last one? While you sit here in your mansion?"

Liesel, however, did not buckle. She sprayed her words directly into the woman's eyes.

The injury of words.

She summoned them from someplace she only now recognized and hurled them at Ilsa Hermann. "It's about time," she informed her, "that you do your own stinking washing anyway. It's about time you faced the fact that your son is dead. He got killed! He got strangled and cut up more than twenty years ago! Or did he freeze to death? Either way, he's dead! He's dead and it's pathetic that you sit here shivering in your own house to suffer for it. You think you're the only one?"

"You and your husband. Sitting up here." Now she became spiteful. More spiteful and evil than she thought herself capable.

Yes, the brutality of words.

He died in a train.

Liesel glanced at him, but she could not make herself stop. Not yet.

Her brother, holding his knee, disappeared.

Her throat was barren now. No words for miles.

"This book," she went on. She shoved the boy down the steps, making him fall. "I don't want it." The words were quieter now, but still just as hot. She threw The Whistler at the woman's slippered feet, hearing the clack of it as it landed on the cement. "I don't want your miserable book…"

Immediately.

They buried him in the snow.

He whispered for her to stop, but he, too, was dead, and not worth listening to.

Her brother was next to her.

After a miscarriaged pause, the mayor's wife edged forward and picked up the book. She was battered and beaten up, and not from smiling this time. Liesel could see it on her face. Blood leaked from her nose and licked at her lips. Her eyes had blackened. Cuts had opened up and a series of wounds were rising to the surface of her skin. All from the words. From Liesel's words.

Now she managed it. She fell silent.

Book in hand, and straightening from a crouch to a standing hunch, Ilsa Hermann began the process again of saying sorry, but the sentence did not make it out.

Slap me, Liesel thought. Come on, slap me.

Ilsa Hermann didn't slap her. She merely retreated backward, into the ugly air of her beautiful house, and Liesel, once again, was left alone, clutching at the steps. She was afraid to turn around because she knew that when she did, the glass casing of Molching had now been shattered, and she'd be glad of it.

As her last orders of business, she read the letter one more time, and when she was close to the gate, she screwed it up as tightly as she could and threw it at the door, as if it were a rock. I have no idea what the book thief expected, but the ball of paper hit the mighty sheet of wood and twittered back down the steps. It landed at her feet.

"Typical," she stated, kicking it onto the grass. "Useless."

On the way home this time, she imagined the fate of that paper the next time it rained, when the mended glass house of Molching was turned upside down. She could already see the words dissolving letter by letter, till there was nothing left. Just paper. Just earth.

"No washing today," Liesel told her.

"What did you do there, you little Saumensch?" The sentence was numb. She could not muster her usual venom.

At home, as luck would have it, when Liesel walked through the door, Rosa was in the kitchen. "And?" she asked. "Where's the washing?"

Rosa came and sat down at the kitchen table. She knew. Suddenly, she appeared much older. Liesel imagined what she'd look like if she untied her bun, to let it fall out onto her shoulders. A gray towel of elastic hair.

"It was my fault," Liesel answered. "Completely. I insulted the mayor's wife and told her to stop crying over her dead son. I called her pathetic. That was when they fired you. Here." She walked to the wooden spoons, grabbed a handful, and placed them in front of her. "Take your pick."

Rosa touched one and picked it up, but she did not wield it. "I don't believe you."

Liesel was torn between distress and total mystification. The one time she desperately wanted a Watschen and she couldn't get one! "It's my fault."

As Liesel left the room, she could hear the wooden spoons clicking back into position in the metal jar that held them. By the time she reached her bedroom, the whole lot of them, the jar included, were thrown to the floor.

"All right, you said them."

Later, she walked down to the basement, where Max was standing in the dark, most likely boxing with the Fuhrer.

"It's not your fault," Mama said, and she even stood and stroked Liesel's waxy, unwashed hair. "I know you wouldn't say those things."

Max showed her and occasionally lifted her torso to help, but despite her bony appearance, Liesel was strong and could hold her body weight nicely. She didn't count how many she could do, but that night, in the glow of the basement, the book thief completed enough pushups to make her hurt for several days. Even when Max advised her that she'd already done too many, she continued.

"I said them!"

"Max?" The light dimmed on -- a red coin, floating in the corner. "Can you teach me how to do the push-ups?"

In bed, she read with Papa, who could tell something was wrong. It was the first time in a month that he'd come in and sat with her, and she was comforted, if only slightly. Somehow, Hans Hubermann always knew what to say, when to stay, and when to leave her be. Perhaps Liesel was the one thing he was a true expert at.

"Is it the washing?" he asked.

Liesel shook her head.

Papa hadn't shaved for a few days and he rubbed the scratchy whiskers every two or three minutes. His silver eyes were flat and calm, slightly warm, as they always were when it came to Liesel.

When the reading petered out, Papa fell asleep. It was then that Liesel spoke what she'd wanted to say all along. "Papa," she whispered, "I think I'm going to hell."

Her legs were warm. Her knees were cold.

She remembered the nights when she'd wet the bed and Papa had washed the sheets and taught her the letters of the alphabet. Now his breathing blew across the blanket and she kissed his scratchy cheek.

"You need a shave," she said.

For a few moments, she watched his face. Then she lay back down, leaned on him, and together, they slept, very much in Munich, but somewhere on the seventh side of Germany's die.

"You're not going to hell," Papa replied.