The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

brink of burndom. It appeared that there was great joy in cigarettes, and it was a happy time in the Hubermann household.
    It ended a few weeks later.

THE TOWN WALKER
    The rot started with the washing and it rapidly increased.
    When Liesel accompanied Rosa Hubermann on her deliveries across Molching, one of her customers, Ernst Vogel, informed them that he could no longer afford to have his washing and ironing done. “The times,” he excused himself, “what can I say? They’re getting harder. The war’s making things tight.” He looked at the girl. “I’m sure you get an allowance for keeping the little one, don’t you?”
    To Liesel’s dismay, Mama was speechless.
    An empty bag was at her side.
    Come on, Liesel.
    It was not said. It was pulled along, rough-handed.
    Vogel called out from his front step. He was perhaps five foot nine and his greasy scraps of hair swung lifelessly across his forehead. “I’m sorry, Frau Hubermann!”
    Liesel waved at him.
    He waved back.
    Mama castigated.
    “Don’t wave to that
Arschloch,”
she said. “Now hurry up.”
    That night, when Liesel had a bath, Mama scrubbed herespecially hard, muttering the whole time about that Vogel
Saukerl
and imitating him at two-minute intervals. “‘You must get an allowance for the girl ….’” She berated Liesel’s naked chest as she scrubbed away. “You’re not worth
that
much,
Saumensch
. You’re not making me rich, you know.”
    Liesel sat there and took it.
    Not more than a week after that particular incident, Rosa hauled her into the kitchen. “Right, Liesel.” She sat her down at the table. “Since you spend half your time on the street playing soccer, you can make yourself useful out there. For a change.”
    Liesel watched only her own hands. “What is it, Mama?”
    “From now on you’re going to pick up and deliver the washing for me. Those rich people are less likely to fire us if
you’re
the one standing in front of them. If they ask you where I am, tell them I’m sick. And look sad when you tell them. You’re skinny and pale enough to get their pity.”
    “Herr Vogel didn’t pity me.”
    “Well …” Her agitation was obvious. “The others
might
. So don’t argue.”
    “Yes, Mama.”
    For a moment, it appeared that her foster mother would comfort her or pat her on the shoulder.
    Good girl, Liesel. Good girl. Pat, pat, pat.
    She did no such thing.
    Instead, Rosa Hubermann stood up, selected a wooden spoon, and held it under Liesel’s nose. It was a necessity as far as she was concerned. “When you’re out on that street, you take the bag to each place and you bring it straight home,
with
the money, even though it’s next to nothing. No going to Papa if he’s actually working for once. No mucking around with that little
Saukerl
, Rudy Steiner. Straight. Home.”
    “Yes, Mama.”
    “And when you hold that bag, you hold it
properly
. You don’t swing it, drop it, crease it, or throw it over your shoulder.”
    “Yes, Mama.”
    “Yes, Mama.”
Rosa Hubermann was a great imitator, and a fervent one. “You’d better not,
Saumensch
. I’ll find out if you do; you know that, don’t you?”
    “Yes, Mama.”
    Saying those two words was often the best way to survive, as was doing what she was told, and from there, Liesel walked the streets of Molching, from the poor end to the rich, picking up and delivering the washing. At first, it was a solitary job, which she never complained about. After all, the very first time she took the sack through town, she turned the corner onto Munich Street, looked both ways, and gave it one enormous swing—a whole revolution—and then checked the contents inside. Thankfully, there were no creases. No wrinkles. Just a smile, and a promise never to swing it again.
    Overall, Liesel enjoyed it. There was no share of the pay, but she was out of the house, and walking the streets without Mama was heaven in itself. No finger-pointing or cursing. No people staring at them as she