The Book Thief

by Markus Zusak

Over the next few weeks and into summer, the midnight class began at the end of each nightmare. There were two more bed-wetting occurrences, but Hans Hubermann merely repeated his previous clean-up heroics and got down to the task of reading, sketching and reciting. In the morning’s early hours, quiet voices were loud.

Trudy and Mama sat silently, scaredly, as did Liesel. There was the smell of pea soup, something burning and confrontation.

All day long, as I carried the souls across it, that sheet was splashed with blood, until it was full and bulging to the earth.

I had completely forgotten that the grimm reaper was narrating this tale.

Competence was attractive.

I carried him softly through the broken street, with one salty eye and a heavy, deathly heart. With him I tried a little harder. I watched the contents of his soul for a moment and saw a black-painted boy calling the name Jesse Owens as he ran through an imaginary tape. I saw him hip-deep in some icy water chasing a book, and I saw a boy lying in bed, imagining how a kiss would taste from his glorious next-door neighbour. He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.

Death's emotions run deep