It was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to name just a few. Forget the scythe, Goddamn it, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a vacation.

I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue.

A SMALL PIECE OF TRUTH

I do not carry a sickle or scythe.

I only wear a hooded black robe when it's cold.

And I don't have those skull-like facial features

There were certainly some rounds to be made that year, from Poland to Russia to Africa and back again. You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is, but sometimes the human race likes to crank things up a little. They increase the production of bodies and their escaping souls. A few bombs usually do the trick. Or some gas chambers, or the chitchat of faraway guns. If none of that finishes proceedings, it at least strips people of their living arrangements, and I witness the homeless everywhere. They often come after me as I wander through the streets of molested cities. They beg me to take them with me, not realizing I'm too busy as it is. "Your time will come," I convince them, and I try not to look back. At times, I wish I could say something like, "Don't you see I've already got enough on my plate?" but I never do. I complain internally as I go about my work, and some years, the souls and bodies don't add up; they multiply.

I actually feel quite self-indulgent at the moment, telling you all about me, me, me. My travels, what I saw in '42. On the other hand, you're a human -- you should understand self-obsession. The point is, there's a reason for me explaining what I saw in that time. Much of it would have repercussions for Liesel Meminger. It brought the war closer to Himmel Street, and it dragged me along for the ride.

you seem to enjoy pinning on me from a distance.

You want to know what I truly look like?

2. The Russian soldiers -- taking only small amounts of ammunition, relying on the fallen for the rest of it.

Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.

On the surface: unflappable, unwavering.

They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-colored clouds, beating like black hearts.

1. The desperate Jews -- their spirits in my lap as we sat on the roof, next to the steaming chimneys.

Making his way through all of it.

And then.

AN ABRIDGED ROLL CALL FOR 1942

There is death.

So many colors.

So many humans.

I could go on, but I've decided for now that three examples will suffice. Three examples, if nothing else, will give you the ashen taste in your mouth that defined my existence during that year.

3. The soaked bodies of a French coast -- beached on the shingle and sand.

In all honesty (and I know I'm complaining excessively now), I was still getting over Stalin, in Russia. The so-called second revolution -- the murder of his own people.

In fact, I reach for one now.

Then came Hitler.

I believe you know half of it already, and if you come with me, I'll show you the rest. I'll show you the second half of a book thief.

Often, I try to remember the strewn pieces of beauty I saw in that time as well. I plow through my library of stories.

Unknowingly, she awaits a great many things that I alluded to just a minute ago, but she also waits for you.

They say that war is death's best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thing, incessantly: "Get it done, get it done." So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.

Handfuls of frosty water can make almost anyone smile, but it cannot make them forget.

Here she comes.

She's carrying some snow down to a basement, of all places.