I have been a part of many events and work that people, humans would call wrong. They take issue with what I do, but I take no pleasure in my job. I don't revel in the work. The task of gathering souls is monotonous, tiring.
If they ever spoke to me while they were alive they wouldn't see my endless collecting as evil, but as a job, a skill that no other can perform—this what humans think of as evil. I am the beginning and the end I take no pleasure in this fact. And I am your beginning and end; I'm not being cruel. I would stop if I could but one cannot shirk their duty no matter how it haunts them.
***AN INTERESTING FACT***
Colours to me are the most fascinating.
The myriad of hues that accompany an event are defining.
Humans rarely see the colours like I do.
For them it's the tastes, sights, smells.
For most the work of living would be easier if they stopped to notice the colour.
Of this I'm sure.
Notice I said most not all.
One girl did notice the colours, and the smells—sights—and sounds—
And they were a torment.
Liesel swiped a rag across the counter, brushing away scraps of fabric from the suit that had just been made. She caught the dark slivers in a dustpan and when the counter was clear once more she walked to the small fireplace in the corner of the room. She stared at the linen shreds before throwing the pieces in the fireplace.
The flames danced and leaped at the fuel. She watched the golden-red tendrils flicker and smelled the smoke. She breathed in smoky air, and she tasted ash on her tongue. The taste was sweet and bitter with the memories it brought.
A piece of wood curled and blackened, as it crumbled away into a dark powder. Nothing remained to remind her that it had ever been. Gray ash coated the crumbling fiery logs, leaving behind the lingering whiff of non-existence. She closed her eyes and let the tip of her tongue wander from her lips. They slowly caressed the pink, fleshy skin before she tentatively tasted the air; she needed the ash. It reminded her of being alive, the taste of ash and the smell of smoke.
The last night in heaven that had turned to hell was the first and last night that she had been fully, painfully aware of her existence. That one night was a memory she couldn't forget. The faded yellow of her Mama's nightgown. A strikingly blue Saumensch still coated on her lips. Her eyes half-open.
Her Papa, stretched out, his eyes a tarnished silver. The hint of a smile, soft and golden draped across his face.
Rudy, ground into the gravel, his hair the colour of lemons and faded-gold. A face that was so young and so old. The hint of a red victory swamping his body as he finally got his long awaited kiss.
Oh, yes the book thief couldn't forget the night, the tastes, the sights, the smells, but most of all...the colours. She was haunted. But that memory of was engulfed by an even larger memory. Her one last loss, that somehow was bigger than any of the others. Maybe because she didn't even know how it had happened.
Was it a dark night with gray slashed across the sky and bullets raining down into a group of kneeling prisoners?
A rough hand dragging a skeletal body into a chamber already packed tightly with wasted humanity as they waited for fluffy clouds of white to descend and end their suffering?
Or a slow draining brownish yellow, as skin wasted away and organs ceased to function, from lack of food?
The not knowing was worse than the knowing. The loss but not being sure how it had been lost hurt most. The memories were becoming faded. But murky eyes, hair tangled like twigs and soft like feathers and a voice that was yielding and almost invisible yet cutting like a knife still remained.
The faded pages of the word shaker had long been lost in the rubble of Himmel street. Heaven's death had devoured the scattered cracked pages, cool drops of rain had smeared the paint, but the memory of words and pictures and the person who had written them still remained.
"Liesel."
***THE SPEAKER.***
The man was older, much older than his years.
His memories had aged him just as they had aged the girl he had spoken to.
His name was Alex Steiner, but that wasn't who he was.
Not anymore.
Loss had stripped him down, but he tried not to let the girl he had in his charge lose everything thing to.
But he understood that knowing was sometimes better than not knowing.
Every glimpsed face, every opened door, was another disappointment.
And disappointment and repeated loss—could destroy you.
"Liesel."
The word shot into the air again, this time eliciting a flinch from book thief as the name hit her. Little crumbly beige pieces of startled confusion rained down from where the word had hit. She twisted to look at the man who had called her name; his face was pink, with a pale apology in his eyes as he said. "It's time to close up."
"Ja." Liesel thought the words, or maybe she said them. But it didn't matter. She and Alex Steiner had repeated this routine time and time again. Close up shop, eat dinner, sleep, wake up, and repeat. In between, the times when it was quiet then the memories would drift in blackening the walls of the shop, with decayed laughter from long-dead children. Frozen Saumenschs hanging midair as the person who gave them warmth was silent. A bold laugh hitting the ground as the gold-haired boy who kept it aloft couldn't make the effort anymore for it to rise. The last smoky lingering notes of unheard accordion music wafting through the air.
And the worst yet glimpses of white as each footstep, opened door, new customer, brought hope and then drenched it again in a foggy gray of disappointment. Liesel cleaned the rest of the shop, helping to straighten the bolts of fabric, and put the tools away. Then she dragged herself to the back room and methodically began preparing soup.
***A NOTE***
It wasn't pea soup.
Pea soup was her Mama's pride.
It was a half eaten bowl that her and her Papa challenged each other to finish.
It was the ill-received meal of one-half starved Jew.
Pea soup was so much more than soup.
Liesel was engrossed in her task, and yet not even caring as she idly stirred the pot. She vaguely registered the door to the shop open, and her heart fluttered, but she ignored the feeling. It would soon settle down, as the latest customer asked for a new suit or his trousers to be taken in. She listened as she heard a voice, but it was muffled and indistinct. Steiner replied but his words didn't register. She tuned the voices out focusing on her task—and her memories.
Then a small missile sailed through the air touching her again. She jumped at the contact as the words hit her. The hope, the tone. It was all different, but she wouldn't allow herself to believe it. She listened as she heard Herr Steiner "May I ask who's calling for her?"
She waited for another voice to speak, she needed to be sure, but the seconds it took for the voice to respond were eternity. If it truly was him she couldn't wait a second longer. And if it wasn't
...then she had already waited forever.
She pulled off her apron and stepped out just as the stranger was about to speak. A pale blue name dripped from his mouth, trickling out to fall to the shop floor unheard. Their eyes met—murky eyes locked with her own. A look of disbelief frozen—on the stranger's—Max's face.
She didn't move, she couldn't believe what she was seeing, her heart was pounding. Then she decided she didn't care. They both moved towards each other-their bodies crushed against each other. Max's clothes dragged against his starved body, the book thief's dress tugged tight revealing her small form. Steiner couldn't find it in himself to disapprove of the contact with his young charge. He couldn't bring himself to say anything as he witnessed the older man and the younger woman barely more than a girl clutching at each other like they were one.
Liesel felt tears dripping down and as Max's lips brushed her cheek, she moisture wet the side of her face. The taste of salt was on her tongue. The smell of fear, hope, and shared nightmares blocked her nose. Panting breaths of disbelief squeezed the air. Both her and Max were speaking, but the words were unimportant. She slipped a hand up allowing herself to feel the familiar feathers.
She found she couldn't stand anymore; she was still crying and as she fell to the floor she didn't release Max, but he didn't let her go as his legs gave out too. They both laid there wrapped up in each other, tears streaming down their cheeks. They were so close; their faces were inches apart. They could feel each other's breath. They could feel they were alive.
Tears fell for all those they had lost and all they had found. They pulled slightly away from each other and the book thief stared up into a gaunt, sunken face that was so familiar—and so handsome to her. "Max." She whispered the name. It was more than a name, but she didn't need to explain what it meant.
He answered her in kind. "Liesel." The word slipped off his tongue, almost silent and yet as powerful as thunder. Their eyes remained boring into the other's and their arms were entwined tightly. Mingled tears and grief had formed a bond closer than any either one of them had ever had.
*** A FINAL OBSERVATION***
Humans are always searching for something.
They hunt, plan, and map.
The extensive search is unnecessary.
Usually what they seek out is waiting for them.
.
This story was written for Hedwig Black for the gift-giving extravaganza 2013, who requested something in the book thief fandom. Feedback is very much welcome, by any readers. And if you have your own request feel free to visit my page and leave a request. Thanks to all who read, review and follow.