A/N: Just a small fragment that I wrote. Death thinking back to the time pre-bombing. Reviews and feedback very much welcomed. Short but sweet.

As I stroke the words in the little black book, faded by time, smudged by tears and coffee stains so much so that you can hardly make out the words, I can see so clearly in my mind the lemon coloured hair bobbing through the school yard. I can see the carefree grin plastered on a young face; feel the breeze that kicks the dust into youthful eyes; smell the remains of a childhood broken by bombs that fell in the night; sense the need to be kids… just for a bit longer. It scares me what humans are capable of, both the good and the bad. I am haunted by it.

Rudy Steiner's face is covered in mud. No, he's entirely covered in mud. The boy seems almost determined to oust washing powder and from the look of things I have no doubt that he's succeeding. There's mud in his hair, in the creases round his eyes, in the hollows of his ears… Saukerl. That's what Liesel would say. I can almost hear the word rolling off her tongue even now. Saukerl.

The mud covered boy grins in my memory (And gosh! Even his teeth are covered in mud!) as he dribbled across the schoolyard.
"And Rudy Steiner has the ball! And he's running! Weaving past the defenders, unbeaten in 17 matches. And will he do it? Will he score? No! I can't believe it! GOOAALLLLLL!"
Liesel yawns as Rudy celebrates his success, pretending to be disinterested… I let a small smile slip onto my face; (For yes, even death can smile.) both me and Liesel know what's coming next.
"How about a kiss, Saumensch?"
She's not even going to attempt to answer that.

That night Mrs Steiner was gifted with a hallway of muddy footsteps and a boy deprived of the one thing he wants most in the world.

Oh Rudy, she thinks, there'll be a time for that. There'll be a time for girlfriends and kisses and smiles.

Sometimes bombs steel that time, steal like boys and girls in fields of apples. But without the laughter and the innocence.

Mrs Steiner smiled that evening, thinking of her son, but in three weeks she'll be lying, breathless, in a pile of rubble. The air crushed from her lungs.