The Book Thief

(Part I)

A book floated down the Amper River.

A boy jumped in, caught up to it and held it in his right hand. He grinned.

He stood waist-deep in the icy, Decemberish water.

‘How about a kiss, Saumensch?’ he said.

The surrounding air was a lovely, gorgeous, nauseating cold, not to mention the concrete ache of the water, thickening from his toes to his hips.

How about a kiss?

How about a kiss?

Poor Rudy.

A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT ABOUT RUDY STEINER

In your visions you see the sloppy edges of paper still stuck to his fingers. You see a shivering blond fringe. Pre-emptively, you conclude, as I would, that Rudy died that very same day, of hypothermia. He did not. Recollections like those merely remind me that he was not deserving of the fate that met him a little under two years later.

On many counts, taking a boy like Rudy was robbery – so much life, so much to live for – yet somehow, I’m certain he would have loved to see the frightening rubble and the swelling of the sky on the night he passed away. He’d have cried and turned and smiled if only he could have seen the book thief on her hands and knees, next to his lifeless body. He’d have been glad to witness her kissing his dusty, bomb-hit lips.

Yes, I know it.

In the darkness of my dark-beating heart, I know. He’d have loved it all right.

You see?

Even death has a heart.