AN: so, i wrote this for my english teacher last year. I tried my best at immitating the writing style of Markus Zusak. Enjoy :)
SCHWEIN
It has been 4,722 days since The Last Human Stranger was stolen from the shelves of Ilsa Hermann's library.
100 since she turned with one foot on the earth, and the other in the sky to wave at the figures of Max and Alex Stein. By them, the transparent form of Hans Hubermann smiled as he brought a cigarette to his lips while Rosa Hubermann shook her fist and shouted "You'd better watch yourself, saumensch!" Her brother isn't with them, but she didn't mind.
With both feet in a yellow sky and a belly of lead, she watched the grey ashes of Germany disappear beneath milky clouds.
She had seen many great things within the uncertain margins of Himmel Street; the earnest wish of a boy knee deep in decemberish water, iron and cardboard melting in the silence of an accordion, the small happiness of rolling cigarettes, the man who fought the Führer in the basement with only a small girl to hold his hand. It was nothing less then the glory of life magnified by the ignorance of human beings.
But now she was here, miles away, across the world.
She never knew of the things that could exist beyond Himmel Street. People with different faces telling of different stories passed by her every day and she wondered if they ever wondered about hers. She walks by miles of unbroken road with no mouthfuls of bread scattered on the ground for a starving Jew. A building filled with the dry rustle of old paper and the muted settling of dust. A bibliothek, a library, except the words in the window say something else.
***AN ENGLISH WORD***
Bookstore
It feels nothing like Ilsa's cold library with its cloth bound books and many shelves. It is a desert of books with dunes of paperbacks piled haphazardly and row upon row of printed spines seeming to stretch endlessly.
She pulls one from its place and mouths the unfamiliar title.
Disappointment catches in her throat and the edges of her lips are pulled downwards. A bitter fist clenches painfully in her chest. Her cheeks grow hot and her fingers press into the book as if to keep it from tattling to its friends. She keeps herself from screaming her frustration.
She is not Leisel Meminger. Leisel Meminger can read. She, whoever she is, cannot.
She does not see the boy who approaches her from behind a teetering tower of Adams, Austens and Walkers until he speaks to her. She jumps and her eyes grow wide.
His hair is the sickeningly familiar color of lemons. She tastes charcoal and acid.
***WHAT THE BOY SAID***
A Tale of Two Cities is my favorite book.
His eyes follow the words. His lips make their shape before he devours them off the page.
The book thief listens carefully to the smooth cadence and widening of his voice. She says it to herself now and saves the words for later.
He laughs like sunlight filtered through dusty windows. He says more words and Liesel nods and smiles, unsure about anything else. Some words she thinks she knows, but he says so many she cannot remember them all.
His brow furrows; a dent in his skin appearing without warning. Clouds move over the windows. He asks something, his tone grows accusing. Liesel shakes her head violently. She understands the last word even if the rest means nothing.
***WHAT THE BOY ASKED***
You don't understand me, do you? You look German, are you German? My father was in the war, he was killed by a German. They're nothing more than swine.
The storm passes briefly, and he smiles again. He says more words and walks out under a darkening sky of ashes. His breath smelt of sour milk.
***A GERMAN WORD***
Schwein
A noun sounding uncannily similar to its English counterpart
Outside of her desert, it has begun to rain. Drops fall and bounce off the roof sounding like marbles hitting one another. They pound into her head. In her hands, the book begins to smolder.
Her fingertips scan the rough spines of the books looking for familiar words. She finds what she needs squeezed in the nonexistent space between a pink book with silly squiggles for words and a heavy leather bound book.
***DEUTSCH ZU ENGLISCH ***
ENGLISCH SU DEUTSCH WÖRTERBUCH
German to English, English to German Dictionary
The two books are slipped under her shirt and secured with the waistband of her skirt. They burn her skin. She walks into the rain with measured steps. Her palms sweat and water drips down her back. She feels a set of eyes following her but she keeps her head down and pretends to ignore it. When she is soaked through, and the shapes of the books become prominent, she throws her arms over them and runs.
Somewhere deep inside her a bubble of laughter grows till she feels the lightness in her feet. It bursts from her lips in a peal of breathless giggles. The books are burning her up from the inside unhindered by the weather. Her happiness tastes like champagne.
For a moment, she had forgotten who she was. Her name was Liesel, she was a book thief who, after all these years, couldn't read the books she had stolen.
She laughed at the irony.
Liesel Meminger had seen many things beyond the uncertain margins of Himmel Street; a boy with lemon colored hair who wasn't Rudy, some English words she can and cannot understand, a book that sets her on fire, and a gift given by the narrow-minded. It is nothing more than the gloriousness of being alive magnified by the ignorance of human beings.