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Getting the girl markus zusak pdf

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Getting The Girl by Markus Zusak PDF Download - homeranking.info The Book Thief in PDF Format: The Book Thief PDF LINK Author: Markus Zusak Liesel, a nine-year-old girl, is living with a foster family on Himmel Street. (PDF) Cheaters Always Prosper 50 Ways to Beat the System getting the girl wolfe brothers 3 markus zusak Ferrante & Teicher were a duo of American.


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Download and Read Free Online Getting the Girl Markus Zusak Getting the Girl by Markus Zusak Free PDF d0wnl0ad, audio books, books to read, good. MARKUS ZUSAK is the bestselling author of six novels, including THE BOOK THIEF. His books have been translated into more than forty languages, to both. (c) - page 1 of 7 - Get Instant Access to PDF File: 87f Getting The Girl By Markus Zusak EPUB KINDLE PDF. EBOOK.

Ships from and sold by Amazon. Escaping the ire of Sister Maria. His hand held the sweaty fabric of her pajamas. It probably had more to do with the hurled bombs, thrown down by humans hiding in the clouds. Please enter a valid email address.

Maybe he'd even have something to say. And those maybes change everything: Read more Read less. Discover Prime Book Box for Kids. Learn more.

Frequently bought together. Total price: Add both to Cart Add both to List. These items are shipped from and sold by different sellers. Show details. Buy the selected items together This item: Ships from and sold by Cambridge Glen Bookstore.

Ships from and sold by Amazon. Customers who viewed this item also viewed. Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1. I Am the Messenger. Markus Zusak. Bridge of Clay Signed Edition. The Book Thief. Fighting Ruben Wolfe. Read more. Product details Age Range: Push; Reprint edition June 1, Language: English ISBN Start reading Getting The Girl on your Kindle in under a minute.

Don't have a Kindle? Try the Kindle edition and experience these great reading features: Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review. Read reviews that mention getting the girl book thief markus zusak cameron wolfe fighting ruben sequel to fighting dogs cry main character simple story writing style teenage boy marcus zusak coming of age ruben wolfe even though protagonist cameron age story girl before the girl third book zusaks gift for writing.

Top Reviews Most recent Top Reviews. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later. Kindle Edition Verified Purchase. I know this is a YA book but it story goes beyond any age, Cam is a person, like most of us that spend their lives trying to find out who they are, who they really are.

I think Zusak said it best when he said that our lives are defined by moments and I thank him for sharing this stories moments. He writes with such emotion that regardless of your feeling for the characters you know that they are real feelings that Zusak has brought to the readers surface.

There are not many authors that can make you feel like Zusak does, I have read all of his books and feel the same about all of them. Getting The Girl is not the story that you think it is by the title, it is not about the act of getting the girl it is the journey that Cam spends getting there and what a journey it is that Zusak shares.

I would recommend this book to anyone regardless of age. There is a realness to the story that touches the emotions of the reader and always leaves you with a feeling of "okayness". Buy the book, read it and plan on reading it again. Once again, thanks Markus Zusak for sharing your talent.

Paperback Verified Purchase. The story centers on the life of Cameron Wolfe and his hunger, his desire to get a girl, "the" girl, the one who lives in the house up in Glebe he waits outside of.

This coming of age story feels so fresh that I swear my eyes started sweating. Like so many younger brothers, Cameron is trying to grow in the shadow of his brothers, and it's not working for him. Rubes gets all the girls, accomplishes all the heroics, and stands on his own in the world. Cameron can only "want" that. It takes Octavia, not the girl he thought he was waiting for, but the real thing, to enter his life by surprise and plant the seed of strength in Cameron that he didn't know he had soil for.

At first, Cameron's secret journal writings feel too advanced for the kid we meet, but he grows into them, or they grow into him. Either way, they work well to add a deeper level to this already emotionally complex novel. They reveal a maturity in Cameron that feels right when the end of the story comes around.

If our lives truly are made up of moments, as Cameron says they are, that those moments are the pieces of us, then this story is a piece worth carrying with you, one you'll want to applaud with your noble clapping hands. When the last raindrop has fallen, the question it's asking us might be -- "What moments make up that life of yours? This is the third book I have read by this author and I can't wait to read more.

All three of his books that I have found so far have been beautifully written and I enjoy his style as much as his stories. This book about a teenager, living in a not-so-gracious Sydney suburb, and how he finds out who he is and what he stands for, is thought-provoking as well as absorbing. The parallel penmanship of the main character is brilliantly conceived and gives the book a freshness and originality, almost like another dimension.

I can't wait to read more from Zusak and thoroughly recommend all his books. What makes up an individual into the person one hopes to be? What components to a person's life are most crucial to this formation of self? To which extent is an understanding or reconciliation of these personal elements required for one to achieve a satiated level of "okayness"?

I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations.

Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Nice has nothing to do with me. A beginning. Where are my manners? You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. I will carry you gently away. At that moment, you will be lying there I rarely find people standing up.

You will be caked in your own body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the air. The question is, what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying? Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky. Dark, dark chocolate. People say it suits me. I do, however, try to enjoy every color I see—the whole spectrum. A billion or so flavors, none of them quite the same, and a sky to slowly suck on.

It takes the edge off the stress. It helps me relax. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them. It keeps me sane. The trouble is, who could ever replace me? Who could step in while I take a break in your stock-standard resort-style vacation destination, whether it be tropical or of the ski trip variety?

The answer, of course, is nobody, which has prompted me to make a conscious, deliberate decision —to make distraction my vacation. Needless to say, I vacation in increments. In colors. What does he need distraction from?

Which brings me to my next point. The survivors. I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs.

Which in turn brings me to the subject I am telling you about tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and color. Of the blinding kind. Some of you are most likely thinking that white is not really a color and all of that tired sort of nonsense. I am all bluster— I am not violent. I am not malicious.

I am a result. Yes, it was white. It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow. Like it had pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater. Next to the train line, footprints were sunken to their shins. Trees wore blankets of ice. As you might expect, someone had died. There were two guards. There was one mother and her daughter. One corpse. The mother, the girl, and the corpse remained stubborn and silent. The tall one always spoke first, though he was not in charge.

He looked at the smaller, rounder one. The one with the juicy red face. Are you stupid?!

His skin widened. I studied the blinding, white-snow sky who stood at the window of the moving train. I practically inhaled it, but still, I wavered. I buckled—I became interested. In the girl. Curiosity got the better of me, and I resigned myself to stay as long as my schedule allowed, and I watched. Twenty-three minutes later, when the train was stopped, I climbed out with them.

A small soul was in my arms. I stood a little to the right. The dynamic train guard duo made their way back to the mother, the girl, and the small male corpse. I clearly remember that my breath was loud that day.

The world was sagging now, under the weight of all that snow. Perhaps ten meters to my left, the pale, empty-stomached girl was standing, frost-stricken. Her mouth jittered. Her cold arms were folded. It was the darkest moment before the dawn. This time, I had come for a man of perhaps twenty-four years of age. It was a beautiful thing in some ways. The plane was still coughing.

Smoke was leaking from both its lungs. When it crashed, three deep gashes were made in the earth. Its wings were now sawn-off arms. No more flapping.

Not for this metallic little bird. I rush, and some people cling longer to life than expected. After a small collection of minutes, the smoke exhausted itself.

There was nothing left to give. A boy arrived first, with cluttered breath and what appeared to be a toolbox. With great trepidation, he approached the cockpit and watched the pilot, gauging if he was alive, at which point, he still was. The book thief arrived perhaps thirty seconds later. Years had passed, but I recognized her. She was panting. From the toolbox, the boy took out, of all things, a teddy bear. The smiling bear sat huddled among the crowded wreckage of the man and the blood.

A few minutes later, I took my chance. The time was right. I walked in, loosened his soul, and carried it gently away. All that was left was the body, the dwindling smell of smoke, and the smiling teddy bear. As the crowd arrived in full, things, of course, had changed. The horizon was beginning to charcoal. What was left of the blackness above was nothing now but a scribble, and disappearing fast.

The man, in comparison, was the color of bone. Skeleton-colored skin. A ruffled uniform. His eyes were cold and brown—like coffee stains—and the last scrawl from above formed what, to me, appeared an odd, yet familiar, shape.

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A signature. The crowd did what crowds do. As I made my way through, each person stood and played with the quietness of it. It was a small concoction of disjointed hand movements, muffled sentences, and mute, self-conscious turns. A final dirty joke. Another human punch line. He remained shrouded in his uniform as the graying light arm-wrestled the sky. As with many of the others, when I began my journey away, there seemed a quick shadow again, a final moment of eclipse—the recognition of another soul gone.

You see, to me, for just a moment, despite all of the colors that touch and grapple with what I see in this world, I will often catch an eclipse when a human dies. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness. Earlier, kids had been playing hopscotch there, on the street that looked like oil-stained pages. When I arrived, I could still hear the echoes. The feet tapping the road.

The children-voices laughing, and the smiles like salt, but decaying fast. Then, bombs. This time, everything was too late. The sirens. The cuckoo shrieks in the radio. All too late. Within minutes, mounds of concrete and earth were stacked and piled. The streets were ruptured veins. Blood streamed till it was dried on the road, and the bodies were stuck there, like driftwood after the flood.

They were glued down, every last one of them. A packet of souls. Was it fate? Is that what glued them down like that? Of course not. It probably had more to do with the hurled bombs, thrown down by humans hiding in the clouds. Yes, the sky was now a devastating, home-cooked red. The small German town had been flung apart one more time. Snowflakes of ash fell so lovelily you were tempted to stretch out your tongue to catch them, taste them.

Only, they would have scorched your lips. They would have cooked your mouth. Clearly, I see it. I was just about to leave when I found her kneeling there. A mountain range of rubble was written, designed, erected around her. She was clutching at a book. Apart from everything else, the book thief wanted desperately to go back to the basement, to write, or to read through her story one last time. In hindsight, I see it so obviously on her face. She was dying for it— the safety of it, the home of it—but she could not move.

It was part of the mangled landscape. Please, again, I ask you to believe me. I wanted to stop. To crouch down. I wanted to say: I did not crouch down. I did not speak. Instead, I watched her awhile. When she was able to move, I followed her. She dropped the book. She knelt. The book thief howled. I climbed aboard and took it in my hand, not realizing that I would keep it and view it several thousand times over the years.

I would watch the places where we intersect, and marvel at what the girl saw and how she survived. That is the best I can do— watch it fall into line with everything else I spectated during that time. Sometimes I manage to float far above those three moments. I hang suspended, until a septic truth bleeds toward clarity.

They fall on top of each other. The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red. Yes, often, I am reminded of her, and in one of my vast array of pockets, I have kept her story to retell.

It is one of the small legion I carry, each one extraordinary in its own right. Each one an attempt— an immense leap of an attempt—to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it. Here it is. One of a handful. The Book Thief. If you feel like it, come with me. I will tell you a story. That red sky. How does a book thief end up kneeling and howling and flanked by a man-made heap of ridiculous, greasy, cooked-up rubble?

Years earlier, the start was snow. The time had come. For one. It was packed with humans. A six-year-old boy died in the third carriage. The book thief and her brother were traveling down toward Munich, where they would soon be given over to foster parents. Almost an inspired spurt.

And soon after—nothing. When the coughing stopped, there was nothing but the nothingness of life moving on with a shuffle, or a near- silent twitch. A suddenness found its way onto his lips then, which were a corroded brown color and peeling, like old paint.

In desperate need of redoing. Their mother was asleep. I entered the train. My feet stepped through the cluttered aisle and my palm was over his mouth in an instant. No one noticed.

The train galloped on. Except the girl. With one eye open, one still in a dream, the book thief—also known as Liesel Meminger—could see without question that her younger brother, Werner, was now sideways and dead. His blue eyes stared at the floor. Seeing nothing. In the dream, she was attending a rally at which he spoke, looking at the skull-colored part in his hair and the perfect square of his mustache. She was listening contentedly to the torrent of words spilling from his mouth.

His sentences glowed in the light. In a quieter moment, he actually crouched down and smiled at her. The reason for that she would find out in due course.

It was January She was nine years old, soon to be ten. Her brother was dead. One eye open. One still in a dream. It would be better for a complete dream, I think, but I really have no control over that.

The second eye jumped awake and she caught me out, no doubt about it. It was exactly when I knelt down and extracted his soul, holding it limply in my swollen arms. He started melting in my arms.

Then warming up completely. For Liesel Meminger, there was the imprisoned stiffness of movement and the staggered onslaught of thoughts. Es stimmt nicht. And the shaking. Why do they always shake them? Yes, I know, I know, I assume it has something to do with instinct. To stem the flow of truth. Her heart at that point was slippery and hot, and loud, so loud so loud. Stupidly, I stayed. I watched. Next, her mother. She woke her up with the same distraught shake.

Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train. Snow had been falling consistently, and the service to Munich was forced to stop due to faulty track work. There was a woman wailing. A girl stood numbly next to her. In panic, the mother opened the door. She climbed down into the snow, holding the small body. What could the girl do but follow? They discussed and argued over what to do. The situation was unsavory to say the least. It was eventually decided that all three of them should be taken to the next township and left there to sort things out.

This time, the train limped through the snowed-in country. It hobbled in and stopped. They stood. The boy was getting heavy. Liesel had no idea where she was.

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All was white, and as they remained at the station, she could only stare at the faded lettering of the sign in front of her. For Liesel, the town was nameless, and it was there that her brother, Werner, was buried two days later. Witnesses included a priest and two shivering grave diggers. A pair of grave diggers. When it came down to it, one of them called the shots. The other did what he was told.

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The question is, what if the other is a lot more than one? For two days, I went about my business. I traveled the globe as always, handing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity. I watched them trundle passively on. I did not heed my advice. From miles away, as I approached, I could already see the small group of humans standing frigidly among the wasteland of snow. The cemetery welcomed me like a friend, and soon, I was with them. I bowed my head. An apprentice. When he walked away, after a few dozen paces, a black book fell innocuously from his coat pocket without his knowledge.

She was thanking him for his performance of the ceremony. The girl, however, stayed. Her knees entered the ground. Her moment had arrived. Still in disbelief, she started to dig. Frozen blood was cracked across her hands. Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces.

Each half was glowing, and beating under all that white. She realized her mother had come back for her only when she felt the boniness of a hand on her shoulder. She was being dragged away. A warm scream filled her throat. There was something black and rectangular lodged in the snow. Only the girl saw it. She bent down and picked it up and held it firmly in her fingers.

The book had silver writing on it. They held hands. A final, soaking farewell was let go of, and they turned and left the cemetery, looking back several times. As for me, I remained a few moments longer. I waved. No one waved back. Mother and daughter vacated the cemetery and made their way toward the next train to Munich.

Both were skinny and pale. Both had sores on their lips. Liesel noticed it in the dirty, fogged-up window of the train when they boarded just before midday. In the written words of the book thief herself, the journey continued like everything had happened.

When the train pulled into the Bahnhof in Munich, the passengers slid out as if from a torn package. There were people of every stature, but among them, the poor were the most easily recognized.

The impoverished always try to keep moving, as if relocating might help. They ignore the reality that a new version of the same old problem will be waiting at the end of the trip—the relative you cringe to kiss. I think her mother knew this quite well. The boy. Liesel was sure her mother carried the memory of him, slung over her shoulder. She dropped him. She saw his feet and legs and body slap the platform. How could that woman walk?

How could she move? She picked him up and continued walking, the girl clinging now to her side. Authorities were met and questions of lateness and the boy raised their vulnerable heads.

Liesel remained in the corner of the small, dusty office as her mother sat with clenched thoughts on a very hard chair. There was the chaos of goodbye. There had been some more dragging. Not that it was a living hell. The Hubermanns. In fact, no one ever really wanted to tell her anything. For Liesel, it was a ride in a car. Bundled up in that useless coat.

The platform would be long and uncomfortable—a slice of cold cement. Would she keep an eye out for the approximate burial site of her son on the return trip? Or would sleep be too heavy?

The car moved on, with Liesel dreading the last, lethal turn. The day was gray, the color of Europe. Curtains of rain were drawn around the car. Your new home. There is murky snow spread out like carpet.

There is concrete, empty hat-stand trees, and gray air. A man was also in the car. He remained with the girl while Frau Heinrich disappeared inside. He never spoke. Later, however, when the trouble did start, he simply sat there and watched. Perhaps he was only the last resort, the final solution. After a few minutes, a very tall man came out.

On one side of him was the medium-height Frau Heinrich. On the other was the squat shape of Rosa Hubermann, who looked like a small wardrobe with a coat thrown over it. There was a distinct waddle to her walk. Her husband walked straight, with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

He rolled his own. The fact was this: Liesel would not get out of the car. She said it again. A corridor of cold light invited her out. She would not move.

Ash stumbled from its edge and lunged and lifted several times until it hit the ground. It took nearly fifteen minutes to coax her from the car. It was the tall man who did it. There was the gate next, which she clung to. A gang of tears trudged from her eyes as she held on and refused to go inside. People started to gather on the street until Rosa Hubermann swore at them, after which they reversed back, whence they came.

Hans Hubermann had her by one hand. Her small suitcase had her by the other. Buried beneath the folded layer of clothes in that suitcase was a small black book, which, for all we know, a fourteen-year-old grave digger in a nameless town had probably spent the last few hours looking for. I should hasten to admit, however, that there was a considerable hiatus between the first stolen book and the second. Another noteworthy point is that the first was stolen from snow and the second from fire.

Not to omit that others were also given to her. All told, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon. When she came to write her story, she would wonder exactly when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything. Was it when she first set eyes on the room with shelves and shelves of them?

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Was it reading in the shelters? The last parade to Dachau? Was it The Word Shaker? Perhaps there would never be a precise answer as to when and where it occurred. Upon her arrival, you could still see the bite marks of snow on her hands and the frosty blood on her fingers. Everything about her was undernourished. Wirelike shins.

Coat hanger arms. She did not produce it easily, but when it came, she had a starving smile. Her hair was a close enough brand of German blond, but she had dangerous eyes.

Dark brown. There was really only one thing she knew about her father. It was a label she did not understand. And that word. That strange word was always there somewhere, standing in the corner, watching from the dark. It wore suits, uniforms. No matter where they went, there it was, each time her father was mentioned.

She could smell it and taste it. At one boardinghouse, there was a healthier woman who tried to teach the children to write, using charcoal on the wall. Liesel was tempted to ask her the meaning, but it never eventuated. One day, that woman was taken away for questioning.

When Liesel arrived in Molching, she had at least some inkling that she was being saved, but that was not a comfort. The fact that she knew the answer—if only at the most basic level—seemed beside the point. Her mother was constantly sick and there was never any money to fix her.

Liesel knew that. No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment. Nothing changed the fact that she was a lost, skinny child in another foreign place, with more foreign people. The Hubermanns lived in one of the small, boxlike houses on Himmel Street. A few rooms, a kitchen, and a shared outhouse with neighbors.

The roof was flat and there was a shallow basement for storage. It was supposedly not a basement of adequate depth.

When air raids started, they always needed to rush down the street to a better shelter. In the beginning, it was the profanity that made an immediate impact.

It was so vehement and prolific. Every second word was either Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch. Sau, of course, refers to pigs. In the case of Saumensch, it serves to castigate, berate, or plain humiliate a female. It simply is. In fact, you could say that Rosa Hubermann had a face decorated with constant fury. That was how the creases were made in the cardboard texture of her complexion.

Liesel, naturally, was bathed in anxiety. There was no way she was getting into any bath, or into bed for that matter. She was twisted into one corner of the closetlike washroom, clutching for the nonexistent arms of the wall for some level of support.

There was nothing but dry paint, difficult breath, and the deluge of abuse from Rosa. His gentle voice made its way in, as if slipping through a crowd. The tiles were cold and unkind. When the hour was up, Liesel could roll a cigarette moderately well. The main thing he enjoyed about smoking was the rolling.

He was a painter by trade and played the piano accordion. This came in handy, especially in winter, when he could make a little money playing in the pubs of Molching, like the Knoller.

He had already cheated me in one world war but would later be put into another as a perverse kind of reward , where he would somehow manage to avoid me again. To most people, Hans Hubermann was barely visible. An un-special person. Certainly, his painting skills were excellent. His musical ability was better than average.

He was always just there. Not noticeable. Not important or particularly valuable. There most definitely was value in him, and it did not go unnoticed by Liesel Meminger. The human child—so much cannier at times than the stupefyingly ponderous adult.

She saw it immediately. His manner. The quiet air around him. They were made of kindness, and silver. Like soft silver, melting. Liesel, upon seeing those eyes, understood that Hans Hubermann was worth a lot.

To supplement the Hubermann income, she did the washing and ironing for five of the wealthier households in Molching. Her cooking was atrocious. She possessed the unique ability to aggravate almost anyone she ever met. But she did love Liesel Meminger. Her way of showing it just happened to be strange. It involved bashing her with wooden spoon and words at various intervals.

When Liesel finally had a bath, after two weeks of living on Himmel Street, Rosa gave her an enormous, injury- inducing hug. Quick answers were appreciated in this household. Call me Mama when you talk to me. He looked over at Liesel and winked. She would have no trouble calling him Papa. Every night, Liesel would nightmare. Staring at the floor. She would wake up swimming in her bed, screaming, and drowning in the flood of sheets.

On the other side of the room, the bed that was meant for her brother floated boatlike in the darkness. Slowly, with the arrival of consciousness, it sank, seemingly into the floor. Possibly the only good to come out of these nightmares was that it brought Hans Hubermann, her new papa, into the room, to soothe her, to love her. He came in every night and sat with her.

The first couple of times, he simply stayed—a stranger to kill the aloneness. The girl knew from the outset that Hans Hubermann would always appear midscream, and he would not leave. It was a mixture of dead cigarettes, decades of paint, and human skin. At first, she sucked it all in, then breathed it, until she drifted back down.

Each morning, he was a few feet away from her, crumpled, almost halved, in the chair. He never used the other bed. Liesel would climb out and cautiously kiss his cheek and he would wake up and smile. Some days Papa told her to get back into bed and wait a minute, and he would return with his accordion and play for her.

Liesel would sit up and hum, her cold toes clenched with excitement. No one had ever given her music before.

She would grin herself stupid, watching the lines drawing themselves down his face and the soft metal of his eyes—until the swearing arrived from the kitchen. A few times, purely to incense Mama a little further, he also brought the instrument to the kitchen and played through breakfast.

His left hit the buttons. She especially loved to see him hit the silver, sparkled button—the C major. In the kitchen on those mornings, Papa made the accordion live. I guess it makes sense, when you really think about it. You check for breathing. The sound of the accordion was, in fact, also the announcement of safety. During the day, it was impossible to dream of her brother. She would miss him and frequently cry in the tiny washroom as quietly as possible, but she was still glad to be awake.

Staring at the letters on the cover and touching the print inside, she had no idea what any of it was saying. It was what it meant that was more important. The last time she saw her brother. The last time she saw her mother. But those were small miseries compared to the terror of her dreams. At those times, in the enormous mileage of sleep, she had never felt so completely alone.

The Hubermanns had two of their own, but they were older and had moved out. Hans Junior worked in the center of Munich, and Trudy held a job as a housemaid and child minder. Soon, they would both be in the war. One would be making bullets.

The other would be shooting them. School, as you might imagine, was a terrific failure. Although it was state-run, there was a heavy Catholic influence, and Liesel was Lutheran. Not the most auspicious start. Humiliatingly, she was cast down with the younger kids, who were only just learning the alphabet. Even though she was thin-boned and pale, she felt gigantic among the midget children, and she often wished she was pale enough to disappear altogether.

Unofficially, it was called the midnight class, even though it usually commenced at around two in the morning. More of that soon. In mid-February, when she turned ten, Liesel was given a used doll that had a missing leg and yellow hair. Hans continued his examination of the remaining leg while Liesel tried on her new uniform.

Ten years old meant Hitler Youth.

Getting the Girl

Hitler Youth meant a small brown uniform. Being female, Liesel was enrolled into what was called the BDM. Then you were taught to march straight, roll bandages, and sew up clothes. You were also taken hiking and on other such activities.

Getting the Girl

Wednesday and Saturday were the designated meeting days, from three in the afternoon until five. Each Wednesday and Saturday, Papa would walk Liesel there and pick her up two hours later. They never spoke about it much.

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They just held hands and listened to their feet, and Papa had a cigarette or two. The only anxiety Papa brought her was the fact that he was constantly leaving. Lick my ass! He never looked back, or at least, not until he was sure his wife was gone. Briefly, his long, ghostly hand would rise before he turned again and walked slowly on. The next time Liesel saw him would be at two in the morning, when he dragged her gently from her nightmare.

Evenings in the small kitchen were raucous, without fail. Rosa Hubermann was always talking, and when she was talking, it took the form of schimpfen. She was constantly arguing and complaining. There was no one to really argue with, but Mama managed it expertly every chance she had.

She could argue with the entire world in that kitchen, and almost every evening, she did. Once they had eaten and Papa was gone, Liesel and Rosa would usually remain there, and Rosa would do the ironing. A few times a week, Liesel would come home from school and walk the streets of Molching with her mama, picking up and delivering washing and ironing from the wealthier parts of town.

Knaupt Strasse, Heide Strasse. A few others. Mama would deliver the ironing or pick up the washing with a dutiful smile, but as soon as the door was shut and she walked away, she would curse these rich people, with all their money and laziness.

He throws it away on women and drink. And washing and ironing, of course. They were all guilty of something. Apart from his drunkenness and expensive lechery, Ernst Vogel, according to Rosa, was constantly scratching his louse-ridden hair, licking his fingers, and then handing over the money.

Right under my nose!

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A large house, high on a hill, in the upper part of Molching. That crook. A giant brown door with a brass knocker stood atop a small flight of steps.

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Move it. She walked the path, climbed the steps, hesitated, and knocked. A bathrobe answered the door.