Set during the book burning (The Book of Fire), the last few pages of Part Two in 'The Book Thief'. This is in the point of view of Ilsa Hermann, and during the last few paragraphs of this, she witnesses Liesel stealing a book from the fire (The Shoulder Shrug).
I stared at the fire with blank eyes. Such a blazing fire; it was so beautiful, and yet so deadly. I watched as book after book was thrown into those greedy flames. My expression didn't change at all. To outsiders, I may have looked uncaring, but inside, a tiny part of me died.
I wasn't a child. I knew why those particular books were being burned. I knew that they were evil, that they corrupted the minds of the people who read them. Somehow, I couldn't bring myself to believe it.
The mayor, my husband, stalked around the fire, a small smile upon his face. He watched gleefully as the books smouldered, as the pages crumbled, as the words disappeared. At that moment in time, just for a tiny second, I resented him, but then, I shook my head, appalled that I even thought what I did.
The book burning was drawing to a close, and I prepared myself to go home, back into the cool silence of the house. However, my eyes flickered over to my right. What had captured my attention was the silhouette of a girl. She looked like a frightened mouse, her brown eyes – dangerous eyes – flashed to and fro, seeking out observers. She didn't see me. When she found no one looking, she bent down and quietly snatched a book from the edge of the fire.
I don't know why I was so interested. After all, she was merely a child doing something she shouldn't. It was simply a book; there was no need to report it. It would be too tiring. If one little thing goes wrong, then all these Nazi soldiers would show up and pester me. I was weary of that; I simply wanted peace and quiet. In any case, I witnessed wrong-doers all the time. I was part of the background, a shadow, and because of that, no one really noticed me, and if they did, they simply thought I was a strange woman. I could not be troubled to correct those rumours. Let people think what they want.
Quiet people were observant, and I saw what no one else did: a girl stealing a book.
Perhaps the reason why I found her so engaging was because of her eyes. To most people, they were brown, nothing more, nothing less. But I looked deeper. They were the eyes of someone who had seen things that a girl her age shouldn't have. She was wise beyond her years, and yet she was still a child. She still didn't fully understand the horrors of the real world, but she had experienced them. Her eyes showed loss. They revealed sadness, grief and sorrow. Her eyes told me that she had found happiness, somewhat. Her eyes told me that she was someone not to be taken lightly, that she was not some helpless little child.
The girl slipped the book under her shirt, and then glanced around again. Finally, her eyes – such intriguing eyes – found me. Surprise flashed across her face, and she said something quietly. It sounded suspiciously like, "Gott verdammt." God dammit. She hurried away. I heard someone call out, "Liesel." She reacted to that, and quickened her pace.
Liesel. That was her name.
I would remember it.
Yah, another one of my English tasks. I like writing in the point of view of Ilsa. She is such an interesting character.