The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

frustrations, preferring to
watch as others were marched out to the corridor and given their just rewards.
The sound of 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, in triumph. 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