Markus Zusak

Book thief

Elizabeth and Helmut Zuzakam with love and admiration

RANGE OF BIT STONE

where our narrator presents:

yourself - paint - and a book thief

DEATH AND CHOCOLATE

Paints first.

Then people.

This is how I usually see the world.

Or at least I'm trying.

* * * HERE IS A SMALL FACT * * *

Someday you will die.

I'm not kidding my heart: I try to approach this topic lightly, although most people refuse to believe me, no matter how much I am indignant. Please believe me. I still how I can be light. I know how to be friendly. Friendly. Sincere. And this is in one letter D. Just don't ask me to be nice. This is not for me.

* * * REACTION TO THE ABOVE FACT * * *

Does this bother you?

I urge you - do not be afraid.

I'm just fair.

Oh yes, introduce myself.

To start.

Where are my manners?

I could introduce myself by all the rules, but there is no need for that. You will get to know me quite closely and pretty soon - with all the variety of options. Suffice it to say that some day and hour I will stand over you with all the cordiality. I will have your soul in my arms. Some paint will sit on my shoulder. I will carry you carefully away.

At this moment you will be lying somewhere (I rarely find a person on his feet). The body will harden like a crust on you. Perhaps it will happen unexpectedly, screaming in the air. And after that I will hear only one thing - my own breath and the sound of the smell, the sound of my steps.

The question is what colors everything will be painted the minute I come for you. What will the sky talk about?

Personally, I love chocolate. The sky is the color of dark, dark chocolate. They say this color suits me. However, I try to enjoy all the colors that I see - the whole spectrum. A billion flavors or so, and no two are exactly the same - and a palate that I slowly absorb. It all smooths out sharp edges my burden. Helps relax.

* * * SMALL THEORY * * *

People notice the colors of the day only at its birth and extinction, but I clearly see that every day with every passing second flows through a myriad of shades and intonations.

The only one hour can be composed of thousands of different colors.

Waxy yellow, blue with cloudy spit.

Dirty twilight. I have such a job that I made it a rule to notice them.

This is what I am hinting at: one skill helps me - to be distracted. It saves my mind. And it helps to manage - considering how long I have been doing this job. Will anyone be able to replace me - that is the question. Who will take my place while I vacation in one of your standard resort locations, beach or ski? The answer is clear - nobody, and this prompted me to a conscious and voluntary decision: distraction will be my vacation. Needless to say, this is a piece of vacation. Vacation in paints.

And still it is possible that one of you may ask: why does he need a vacation at all? From what does he need to be distracted?

This will be my second point.

Remaining people.

Survivors.

I can’t look at them, although in many cases I can’t resist. I deliberately look out for colors to distract my thoughts from the living, but from time to time I have to notice those who remain - crushed, thrown among the fragments of the puzzle of awareness, despair and surprise. Their hearts are punctured. The lungs are repulsed.

This, in turn, brings me to what I will tell you about this evening - or during the day, or whatever the hour and color. It will be the story of one of those eternally remaining ones - the survivalist.

A short story that says, among other things:

About one girl;

O different words;

About the accordionist;

About various fanatical Germans;

About the Jewish fighter;

And a lot of thefts.

I met the book thief three times.

BY THE RAILWAY

At first something white appeared. A dazzling variety.

Some of you probably believe in all sorts of rotten rubbish: for example, that white is really not a color. So, I came to tell you that white is a color. There is no doubt about the color, and personally it seems to me that you will not want to argue with me.

* * * Encouraging statement * * *

Please don't worry, even though I just threatened you.

All this bragging - I'm not ferocious.

I'm not angry.

I am the result.

Yes, everything is white.

It seemed to me that the entire globe was dressed in snow. He pulled it over himself, like pulling on a sweater. Near the railroad tracks are footprints sunk to the ankle. Trees under ice blankets.

As you might have guessed, someone died.

And they couldn't just take him and leave him on the ground. While this is not such a problem, but soon the path ahead will be restored, and the train will have to go further.

There were two conductors there.

And mother and daughter.

One corpse.

Mother, daughter and corpse are stubborn and silent.

Well, what more do you want from me?

One conductor was tall, the other short. The tall one always spoke first, even though he was not the boss. Now he looked at the short and round second. He had a fleshy red face.

Well, ”he replied,“ we can't just leave them here, right?

The high's patience was running out.

Why not?

Low was pissed off as hell. He rested his gaze on the chin of the tall one:

Spinnst du? Are you bad?

Loathing thickened on his cheeks. The skin tightened.

Come on, ”he said, stumbling in the snow. “We’ll take all three back to the carriage, if we have to. We will report to the next station.

And I have already made the most elementary mistake. I cannot convey to you the full extent of my dissatisfaction with myself. At first I did everything right:

He studied the blinding snow-white sky - it stood at the window of a moving car. I'm downright inhaled him, but still gave slack. I wavered - I wondered. Girl. Curiosity got the better of it, and I allowed myself to linger as long as my schedule would permit and observe.

Twenty-three minutes later, when the train stopped, I got out of the carriage after them.

I had a little soul in my arms.

I was standing slightly to the right of them.

The energetic duo of conductors headed back to the mother, the girl and the male corpse. I remember exactly how I breathed noisily that day. I am surprised that the conductors did not hear me. The world was already sagging under the weight of all this snow.

About ten meters to my left, a pale girl with an empty belly stood and froze.

Her lips trembled.

She folded her cold hands over her chest.

Tears froze on the face of the book thief.

ECLIPSE

The next one is black squiggles to show, if you will, the poles of my versatility. It was the darkest moment before dawn.

This time I came for a man of about twenty-four years old. In a way, it was wonderful. The plane was still coughing. Smoke oozed from both of his lungs.

Crashing, he cut the ground in three deep furrows. The wings were now like sawed-off hands. They won't wave anymore. This little iron bird won't fly anymore.

* * * SOME MORE FACTS * * *

Sometimes I come ahead of time.

I'm in a hurry, and some people cling to life longer than expected.

In a few minutes, the smoke dried up. There's nothing more to give.

The first was a boy: hesitant breathing, in his hand - like a suitcase with tools. Terribly worried, he went up to the cockpit and looked at the pilot to see if he was alive; he was still alive. The book thief came running in about half a minute.

Years passed, but I recognized her.

She was breathing heavily.

* * *

The boy took out of the suitcase - what do you think? - Teddy bear.

Putting his hand through the broken glass, he put the bear on the pilot's chest. The smiling bear sat huddled in a pile of human wreckage and a pool of blood. A few minutes later, I took a chance. The time has come.

I approached, freed my soul and carefully carried it out of the plane.

All that was left was a body, a melting smell of smoke and a teddy bear with a smile.

When the crowd gathered, everything, of course, changed. The horizon began to turn coal gray. Only scribbles remained from the blackness at the top - and they quickly disappeared.

Man, in comparison with the sky, has become the color of bone. The skin is skeletal. Crumpled jumpsuit. His eyes were cold and brown, like coffee stains, and upstairs, the last squiggle turned into something strange for me, but recognizable. In a squiggle.

The crowd was doing what the crowd was doing.

As I made my way through it, everyone who stood there somehow played along with this silence. A slight thickening of incoherent hand movements, muffled phrases, silent restless glances.

When I turned back to the plane, it seemed to me that the pilot was smiling with his open mouth.

Dirty joke under the curtain.

Another human acuity.

The man lay in a swaddling suit, and the gray light measured its strength against the sky. And as it happened so many times, as soon as I moved away, the fast shadow seemed to come running again - the last moment of the eclipse, the recognition that another soul had flown away.

You know, at some moment, despite the colors that lie and cling to everything that I see in the world, I often catch an eclipse when a person dies.

I've seen millions of eclipses.

I've seen so many of them that it's better not to remember.

The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like a stew, stirring and boiling. In some places it was burnt. Black crumbs and pellets of pepper flickered in the red.

Earlier, children played classics here - on a street like pages in greasy spots. When I arrived, there was still an echo. Feet stamped on the pavement. Children's voices laughed, salted with smiles, but decayed quickly.

And now - the bombs.

This time it was all late.

Sirens. The cuckoo screeches on the radio. It's all too late.

In a matter of minutes, hills of concrete and earth grew and perched. The streets have become severed veins. The blood ran along the road until it dried up, and the bodies were tied up in it, like logs after a flood.

Glued to the ground, every last one. A whole lot of souls.

Is this fate?

Bad luck?

Is that why they all stuck so well?

Of course not.

Don't be stupid.

Probably, it was, rather, in the strikes of bombs - they were dropped by those people who were hiding in the clouds.

Yes, the sky was now a devastating immense red homemade concoction. The German town was shattered to pieces again. Snowflakes of ash circled with such sweetness, which tempted them to catch with their protruding tongue, to taste. But those snowflakes would have scorched your lips. Boil the mouth itself.

So it stands before our eyes.

I was about to move away when I saw her on my knees.

Around was painted, decorated and erected a ridge of broken stone. She clung to the book.

Apart from everything else, the book thief desperately wanted to go back to the basement - to write or re-read his story one more time, the last one. Remembering, I can see it so clearly on her face. She was dying to go there - it was safe there, there was a house - but she could not move. And there was no more basement. It merged with the crippled landscape.

Again, I ask you - please believe.

I wanted to stay. Bend over.

I wanted to say:

Sorry baby.

But this is not allowed.

I didn't bent down. Didn't speak.

I just looked at her a little more. And when she was able to move from her place, he followed her.

She dropped the book.

I fell to my knees.

The book thief howled.

When the clearing began, her book was stepped on several times, and although the team was only to clear the concrete porridge, the girls threw the most precious thing into the garbage truck, and then I could not resist. I climbed into the back and took it in my hands, not knowing at all that I would keep it and look at it many thousands of times over the years. I will consider the places where we intersect, amazed at what this girl saw and how she survived. I can't do anything better anyway - here you can only watch how everything fits into the overall picture of what I saw then.

When I remember her, I see a long list of colors, but the three in which I saw her in the flesh resonate most strongly. It happens that I manage to soar high above those three moments. I hang in place, and the putrid truth bleeds until clarity comes.

That's when I see how they fit into the formula.

They overlap. Black careless squiggles on the white blinding globe and thick red soup.

Yes, I often have to remember her, and in one of my countless pockets I carried her story to retell. This is one of a small number of stories that I carry with me, and each one is exceptional in itself. Each is an attempt, and what is more, an attempt to prove to me that you and your human existence are worth something.

Here is the story. One of a handful.

Book thief.

If you are in the mood, come with me. I will tell you her.

I'll show you something.

PART ONE

"INSTRUCTION TO THE GRAVER"

with:

Himmel Strasse - The Arts of Piggy - Iron Fist Women - Kiss Tries - Jesse Owens - Sandpaper - Friendship Smell - Heavyweight Champion - and all the spanking spanking

ARRIVAL IN HIMMEL STRASS

Last time.

That red sky ...

Why did it happen that the book thief was on her knees and howling next to a man-made pile of absurd, greasy, someone concocted broken stone?

It started with snow many years ago.

The hour has struck. For someone.

* * * IMPRESSIVE TRAGIC MIG * * *

The train was going fast.

It was packed with people.

A six-year-old boy died in the third carriage.

The book thief and her brother were on their way to Munich, where they would soon be handed over to foster parents. Now, of course, we know that the boy didn't make it.

* * * HOW DID IT HAPPEN * * *

Sudden outburst of violent coughing.

Almost inspired impulse.

And behind him - nothing.

When the coughing stopped, there was nothing left but the insignificance of life that shuffled away, or an almost soundless convulsion. Then the suddenness made its way to his lips - they were rusty-brown in color and peeled off, like old painting... An urgent need to repaint.

Their mother was asleep.

I got on the train.

My feet stepped into the blocked passage, and in an instant, my hand rested on the boy's lips.

Nobody noticed.

The train rushed forward.

Except for the girl.

Looking with one eye, and still seeing a dream with the other, the book thief - aka Liesel Meminger - understood without question that younger brother Werner lies on his side and dead.

His blue eyes looked at the floor.

And they saw nothing.

Before awakening, the book thief had a dream about the Fuhrer - Adolf Hitler. In a dream, she was at a rally where the Fuhrer spoke, looking at his skull-colored parting and a perfect square of a mustache. And listened with pleasure to the stormy stream of words pouring out of his mouth. His phrases shone in the light. In a calm moment, the Fuhrer took it and bent down - and smiled at her. She answered him with a smile and said: “Guten Tag, Herr F? Hrer. Wie geht "s dir heut?" She never learned to speak beautifully, or even to read, because she rarely went to school, and she will find out the reason for this in due time.

And as soon as the Fuehrer was about to answer, she woke up.

It was January 1939. She was nine years old, soon to be ten.

Her brother died.

One eye is open.

One is still in a dream.

Probably, it would be better if she was completely asleep, but in truth I cannot influence this.

The dream flew from the second eye, and she caught me, there is no doubt about it. Just as I knelt down, took out the boy's soul and it went limp in my swollen arms. The boy's spirit quickly warmed, but the moment I picked it up, it was sluggish and cold as ice cream. He began to melt in my arms. And then he began to warm up and warmed up. And he recovered.

And Liesel Meminger was left with only a locked stiffness of movements and a drunken rush of thoughts. Es stimmt nicht. It is not really. It is not really.

And shake it off.

Why do they always shake them?

Yes, I know, I know - I admit it has something to do with instincts. Block the flow of truth. The girl's heart at that moment was slippery and hot, and loud, so loud, loud.

I was stupid - I was late. Look.

And now the mother.

Liesel woke her with the same crazy shaking.

If you find it difficult to imagine this, imagine an awkward silence. Imagine despair floating in pieces and debris. It's like drowning in a train.

Snow fell steadily, and the Munich train was stopped due to work on the damaged track. A woman howled on the train. Next to her, a girl froze in a daze.

In panic, the mother flung open the door.

Holding a corpse in her arms, she climbed out into the snow.

What was left for the girl? Just follow.

As you have already been informed, two conductors also got off the train. They decided what to do and argued. The situation is unpleasant, to say the least. Finally, it was decided that all three should be taken to the next station and left there, let them sort it out themselves.

Now the train limped across the snowy terrain.

So he stumbled and froze.

They went out onto the platform, the body in the arms of the mother.

The boy began to grow heavy.

Liesel had no idea where she was. Everything is white around, and while they waited, she could only look at the faded letters on the plate. For Liesel, the station was nameless; it was here two days later that her brother Werner was buried. A priest and two numb gravediggers were present.

* * * OBSERVATION * * *

A couple of conductors.

A couple of gravediggers.

When it came to business, one would give orders.

The other did as he was told.

And here's the question: what if another- much more than one?

Blunders, blunders - sometimes I seem to be only capable of them.

For two days I went about my business. As always, he rode around the globe, bringing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity. I saw them rolling limply away. Several times I warned myself to stay away from Liesel Meminger's brother's funeral. But he did not heed his advice.

As I approached, I could see from a distance a bunch of people standing coldly in the middle of the snowy desert. The cemetery greeted me like an old friend, and soon I was with them. He stood with his head bowed.

To Liesel's left, two gravediggers were rubbing their hands and whining about the snow and the inconvenience of digging in this weather.

Such a burden to cut into this permafrost ... - And so on.

One was no more than fourteen. Journeyman. When he was leaving, some black book innocently fell out of the pocket of his jacket, but he did not notice. I managed to walk away, maybe twenty steps.

A few more minutes, and the mother went from there with the priest. She thanked him for his service.

The girl remained.

The ground gave under the knees. Her hour has come.

Still in disbelief, she began to dig. It cannot be that he died. It cannot be that he died. Can not…

Almost immediately, the snow bit into her skin.

Frozen blood cracked on her hands.

"Book Thief" is a 2006 novel by Markus Zusak. Was on the list " The new York Times Best Seller list ”for over 230 weeks. Another name - Book Thief

"Book Thief" summary

The action takes place in Nazi Germany, starting in January 1939. The story is told from the perspective of Death. main character the novel is Liesel Meminger, nine, who gets older as the plot unfolds. Liesel has a difficult fate: her father, who is unknown to the Communists, disappeared without a trace, and her mother, unable to take care of the girl and her brother, decides to give her children up to foster parents, thereby saving her from the persecution of the Nazi authorities. On the way to the new home, Liesel's brother dies a serious death from an illness, which happens right in front of the girl, leaving a heavy impression for her whole life. Brother Liesel is buried in the cemetery, where the girl picks up her first book in her life - “ Instructions for the gravediggers».

Soon Liesel arrives in the non-existent town of Molching to visit his new adoptive parents Hans and Rosa Hubermann (who work as a house painter and a laundress, respectively), who live on Himell-Strasse (which means "Heavenly Street"). Rose does not greet the girl very friendly, but Liesel soon gets used to the local manner of communication and gets closer to her adoptive mother, realizing Rose's inner kindness, hidden under a touch of rudeness. But with Hans, the girl develops an excellent relationship and full understanding comes. In addition, Hubermann is an anti-fascist, which plays an important role in the development of events. Living on Himmel Strasse, Liesel quickly makes new friends, one of whom is Rudy Steiner, the boy next door who is destined to become her best friend... Rudy is haunted by the laurels of the great sprinter Jesse Owens, the black athlete who smashed Nazi white supremacy theories and won four gold medals at the Berlin Olympics. But for obvious reasons, he can only tell about his idol Liesel. Friends go to school together, play football, steal food from hunger - they experience all the events of their lives together.

As the plot progresses, Hans teaches Liesel to read by writing letters in paint on the basement wall. Reading fascinates her so much that she begins to steal books, she turns out to be a real "book thief". The first book stolen is “ Shrug of the shoulders"Which Liesel pulled from the ashes in the square where the Nazis burned books of" racially inferior "authors. Then the burgomaster's wife gives Liesel the book “ Whistler". As the plot develops, the author develops the idea that books mean much more to Liesel than it seems. They nourish her soul, give her food for the mind and soil for development. Books are the only joy in the difficult life of a girl. In the climax of the novel, Liesel has new friend- Max Wattenburg, a fugitive Jew who temporarily settled with the Hubermanns, hiding him in the basement of their own house from the Nazis. Max's father saved Hans Hubermann's life during the First World War, and he considers it necessary to return the debt to his deceased comrade, saving his son. Max and Liesel move closer without realizing it. Gradually, they become friends, and Max gives Liesel a book consisting of his own drawings and inscriptions. Ironically, Max writes this book, having painted over the pages of Hitler's book Mein Kampf, the leitmotif of the work is the words of Liesel: “ You have feather hair”, Uttered by her when she first saw Max. A spiritual connection is established between them, they become attached to each other for the rest of their lives. In 1942, Max still leaves the house on Himell Strasse when the threat of his discovery arises. After some time, he is caught and sent to a concentration camp near Munich.

The whole life of Liesel is permeated with the events of the Second World War. The plot of the novel reflects everything: the idea of ​​the Nazis, the persecution of Jews, the division of the German people into two halves - those who joined the NSDAP and those who are against Hitler's ideology. The Hubermans are shown as an ordinary German family, not sharing fascist views, but at the same time afraid to say anything against it, since the consequences may be irreversible. Liesel is a victim of her time. A girl who hates Adolf Hitler, who ruined her entire family (native, and later adopted), can do absolutely nothing. She sees with her own eyes all the humiliations that people who do not belong to the Aryan race have to endure, and all this falls like a heavy stone in her soul. The book ends tragically - at night bombs fall on Himell-Strasse and only Liesel remains alive, who that night was sitting in the basement, where she fell asleep while writing down her story. Liesel, who at that time is already fifteen years old, is taken by the burgomaster and his wife. Then Rudy Steiner's father Alex returns from the war, who maintains a studio and Liesel often helps him there. There she is found by Max, who returned from the liberated concentration camp.

In the epilogue, Liesel, being married and already an elderly woman, lives in Sydney, Australia. Death visits her there, which shows that he found her book. Before picking up Liesel, he tells her his main secret: “ I am overwhelmed by people».

"Book thief" composition

The novel is built in an unusual way - the story is told from the perspective of Death, which the author has a man. Death is a rather vague image, but its presence in the novel plays an important role. Death talks about his hard work and often gives his own comments about what is happening in the book.

The novel is divided into ten parts, each with its own title. The final, tenth part, is called the same as the book itself - "The Book Thief".

"Book Thief" main characters

• Death (as narrator)
• Liesel Meminger
• Rosa Hubermann, "Mama"
• Hans Hubermann, "The Pope"
• Rudy Steiner
• Max Vandenburg
• Ilsa Hermann

Australian writer Markus Zusak became famous for his highly acclaimed novel The Book Thief. The book immediately became a bestseller, and was subsequently filmed. The unusual style of storytelling evokes particular admiration.

The story is told in the name of Death. He (and in the book the death of a male) conveys the story hard life one girl Liesel Meminger. Along the way, Death shares his reasoning with the reader.

The second World War, 1939, Germany. Liesel's father disappeared, and her mother cannot support her two children: Liesel and her brother. Then the mother decides to give them to a foster family. On the way to the new parents, the girl's brother dies, it happened before her eyes and left a great trauma in her soul. At the cemetery where her brother was buried, Liesel finds a book and takes it for herself.

The girl comes to a new family. These are Rosa and Hans Hubermann. Initially, Rose seems rude to her, but then the girl sees her real kindness, they have a wonderful relationship with Hans. Hans is against fascism, which plays an important role. The Hubermann family lives on the street with the symbolic name Heavenly Street. Liesel finds a real friend - Rudy's neighbor, with whom they spend a lot of time together, steal food and go to school.

Hans teaches Liesel to read, they read together for a long time. The girl realizes that she really likes books, and since there is war and poverty around, she cannot buy them. Then she starts stealing them. After all, books are the most valuable thing in her life. Hard trials will fall to the lot of this girl, she has a very difficult fate. Only books will help her survive all difficulties, they are the source of her spiritual development and strength.

Despite the fact that the events take place during the war and the book is quite tragic, it is in many ways positive. This work is about the strength of the spirit and the desire to live, no matter what happens. The plot is instructive and will be of interest to a wide range of readers. One involuntarily ponders whether the war is worth its goals, and what humanity really is.

On our website you can download the book "The Book Thief" Markus Zusak for free and without registration in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format, read the book online or buy a book in the online store.

"Book Thief" is a 2006 novel by Australian writer Markus Zuzak. Has been on The New York Times Best Seller list for over 230 weeks.

Plot

The action takes place in fascist Germany starting in January 1939. The main character of the novel is a nine-year-old German girl, Liesel Meminger, who is getting older as the plot develops. Liesel has a difficult fate: her father, who is unknown to the communists, disappeared without a trace, and her mother, unable to take care of the girl and her brother, decides to give the children up to foster parents. On the way to the new home, Brother Liesel dies a serious death from an illness, this happens right in front of the girl, leaving a heavy impression for her entire life. Brother Liesel is buried in the cemetery, where the girl picks up her first book in her life - "Instructions to the Gravediggers."

Soon Liesel arrives in the town of Molching, to her new adoptive parents who live on Himell-Straße, which means "Heavenly Street". The adoptive mother, Rosa Hubermann, does not greet the girl very friendly, but Liesel soon gets used to the local manner of communication and customs. But with Hans Hubermann, the adoptive father, the girl has an excellent relationship and full understanding comes. In addition, Hubermann is an anti-fascist, which plays an important role in the development of events.

Living on Himmel Strasse, Liesel quickly makes new friends, one of whom is Rudy Steiner, a neighbor's boy destined to become her best friend. Liesel and Rudy go to school together, play football, steal food from hunger - they go through all the events of their lives together.

As the plot develops, Liesel learns to read, and this occupation fascinates her so much that she begins to steal books, she turns out to be a real "book thief". The first book to be stolen is "Shrug of the Shoulders", in the development of which Hans Hubermann, her adoptive father, willingly helps her. Together with him, Liesel reads all his other books, including "Whistler" and others. Books mean more to Liesel than you think. They nourish her soul, give her food for the mind and soil for development. Books are the only joy in the difficult life of a girl.

In the culminating part of the novel, Liesel has a new friend - Max Wattenburg, a fugitive Jew who temporarily settled with the Hubermanns. Max and Liesel move closer without realizing it. Gradually, they become friends, and Max gives Liesel a book consisting of his own drawings and inscriptions. A spiritual connection is established between them, they become attached to each other for the rest of their lives.

Liesel's whole life is permeated with the events of World War II. The plot of the novel reflects everything: the idea of ​​the Nazis, the persecution of Jews, the division of the German people into two halves - those who joined the NSDAP and those who are against Hitler's ideology. The Hubermans are shown as an ordinary German family, not sharing fascist views, but at the same time afraid to say anything against it, since the consequences may be irreversible. Liesel is a victim of her time. A girl who hates Adolf Hitler, who ruined her entire family (native, and later adopted), can do absolutely nothing. She sees with her own eyes all the humiliations that people who do not belong to the Aryan race have to endure, and all this falls like a heavy stone in her soul.

The book ends tragically - the Hubermanns and other people close to Liesel are dying under the bombing. The girl, who at that time is already fifteen years old, is left alone. Subsequently, she will write a book called "The Book Thief", where she will talk about her fate.

Composition of the novel

The novel is built in an unusual way - the story is told from the perspective of Death. Death is a rather vague image, but its presence in the novel plays an important role. Death talks about his hard work, and often gives his own comments about what is happening in the book.

The novel is divided into ten parts, each with its own title. The final, tenth part, is called the same as the book itself - "The Book Thief".

main characters

• Death (as narrator)
• Liesel Meminger
• Rosa Hubermann, "Mama"
• Hans Hubermann, "The Pope"
• Rudy Steiner
• Max Vandenburg
• Ilsa Hermann
• and etc.

World press about the novel "The Book Thief"

• The "book thief" will be praised for the author's insolence. The book will be read everywhere and admired as it tells a story in which books become treasures. And you can't argue with that. - New York Times
• The "book thief" hurts the soul. It is an unsentimental book, but deeply poetic. Its gloom and the tragedy itself are passed through the reader, like a black-and-white movie from which colors have been stolen. Zuzak may not have had a chance to live under the thumb of fascism, but his novel deserves a place on the shelf next to The Diary of Anne Frank and The Night by Elie Wiesel. It looks like the novel will inevitably become a classic. - USA Today
• This weighty tome is no small literary achievement. The Book Thief challenges all of us. - Publisher's Weekly
• Literary gem. - Good reading
• This story will break the hearts of both teenagers and adults. - Bookmarks Magazine
• A triumph of writing discipline ... one of the most unusual and compelling Australian novels of modern times. - The age

© 2006 by Trudy White

© Translation. N. Mezin, 2007

© Eksmo Publishing House LLC, 2007

* * *

about the author

Australian writer Markus Zusak was born in 1975 and grew up listening to his parents - emigrants from Austria and Germany who survived the horrors of World War II. Australian and American critics call him a "literary phenomenon" for a reason: he is recognized as one of the most inventive and poetic novelists of the new century. Markus Zusak is the recipient of several literary awards for books for teens and young adults. Lives in Sydney.

World press about the novel "The Book Thief"

The "book thief" will be extolled for the author's insolence ... The book will be read everywhere and admired as it tells a story in which books become treasures. And you can't argue with that.

New York Times

The "book thief" hurts the soul. It is an unsentimental book, but deeply poetic. Its gloom and the tragedy itself are passed through the reader, like a black-and-white movie from which colors have been stolen. Zusak may not have had a chance to live under the thumb of fascism, but his novel deserves a place on the shelf next to The Diary of Anne Frank and The Night of Elie Wiesel. It looks like the novel will inevitably become a classic.

USA Today

Zusak doesn't sweeten anything, but the perceived darkness of his novel can be endured in the same way as Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5 - here, too, a sense of humor somehow sternly comforts.

Time Magazine

An elegant, philosophical and touching book. Beautiful and very important.

Kirkus Reviews

This weighty tome is no small literary achievement. The Book Thief challenges all of us.

Publisher "s Weekly

Zusak's novel is a tightrope walker taut rope, woven from emotional plasticity and ingenuity.

The Australian

A triumph of writing discipline ... one of the most unusual and compelling Australian novels of modern times.

The age

A fast-paced, poetic and superbly written tale.

Daily telegraph

Literary gem.

Good reading

A brilliant whimsical tale.

Herald-Sun

Brilliant and ambitious ... Such books are life-changing because, without denying the inherent immorality and randomness of the natural order of things, The Book Thief offers us hope so hard won. And she is invincible even in poverty, war and violence. Young readers need such alternatives to ideological dogmas and such discoveries of the importance of words and books. And they will not interfere with adults.

The New York Times Review of Books

One of the most anticipated books in recent years.

The wall street journal

This book acts on the reader like a graphic novel.

The Philadelphia Inquirer

Wonderfully written and populated with memorable characters, Zusak's book is a poignant tribute to words, books and the power of the human spirit. This novel can not only be read - it is worth living in.

The Horn Book Magazine

Markus Zusak has created a work that deserves the most close attention not only sophisticated adolescents, but also adults, - a hypnotic and original story, written in poetic language that makes readers revel in every line, even if the action inexorably drags them forward. Extraordinary storytelling.

School Library Journal

The thickness of the book, its themes and the author's approach may be scary for teenagers, but the book undoubtedly captivates with its inspiring storytelling.

The Washington Post "s Book World

This story will break the hearts of both teens and adults.

Bookmarks Magazine

Stunning human characters, written out without unnecessary sentimentality, grab the reader by the soul.

Booklist

Elizabeth and Helmut Zusak with love and admiration

PROLOGUE
RANGE OF BIT STONE
where our narrator presents:
yourself - paint - and a book thief

DEATH AND CHOCOLATE

Paints first.

Then people.

This is how I usually see the world.

Or at least I'm trying.

*** THIS IS A SMALL FACT ***

Someday you will die.

I'm not kidding my heart: I try to approach this topic lightly, although most people refuse to believe me, no matter how much I am indignant. Please believe me. I still how I can be light. I know how to be friendly. Friendly. Sincere. And this is in one letter D. Just don't ask me to be nice. This is not for me.

Oh yes, introduce myself.

To start.

Where are my manners?

I could introduce myself by all the rules, but there is no need for that. You will get to know me quite closely and pretty soon - with all the variety of options. Suffice it to say that some day and hour I will stand over you with all the cordiality. I will have your soul in my arms. Some paint will sit on my shoulder. I will carry you carefully away.

At this moment you will be lying somewhere (I rarely find a person on his feet). The body will harden like a crust on you. Perhaps it will happen unexpectedly, screaming in the air. And after that I will hear only one thing - my own breath and the sound of the smell, the sound of my steps.

The question is what colors everything will be painted the minute I come for you. What will the sky talk about?

Personally, I love chocolate. The sky is the color of dark, dark chocolate. They say this color suits me. However, I try to enjoy all the colors that I see - the whole spectrum. A billion flavors or so, and no two are exactly the same - and a palate that I slowly absorb. All of this smooths out the sharp edges of my burden. Helps relax.

*** SMALL THEORY ***

People only notice the colors of the day when it is born.

and fading, but I can clearly see that every day

with every passing second

through the myriad of shades and intonations.

The only one hour can be composed of thousands of different colors.

Waxy yellow, blue with cloudy spit.

Dirty twilight. I have a job like this

that I made it a rule to notice them.

This is what I am hinting at: one skill helps me - to be distracted. It saves my mind. And it helps to manage - considering how long I have been doing this job. Will anyone be able to replace me - that is the question. Who will take my place while I vacation in one of your standard resort locations, beach or ski? The answer is clear - nobody, and this prompted me to a conscious and voluntary decision: distraction will be my vacation. Needless to say, this is a piece of vacation. Vacation in paints.

And still it is possible that one of you may ask: why does he need a vacation at all? From what does he need to be distracted?

This will be my second point.

Remaining people.

Survivors.

I can’t look at them, although in many cases I can’t resist. I deliberately look out for colors to distract my thoughts from the living, but from time to time I have to notice those who remain - crushed, thrown among the fragments of the puzzle of awareness, despair and surprise. Their hearts are punctured. The lungs are repulsed.

This, in turn, brings me to what I will tell you about this evening - or in the afternoon, or whatever the hour and color. It will be the story of one of those eternally remaining ones - the survivalist.

A short story that says, among other things:

- about one girl;

- about different words;

- about the accordionist;

- about various fanatical Germans;

- about the Jewish fighter;

- and a lot of thefts.

I met the book thief three times.

BY THE RAILWAY

At first something white appeared. A dazzling variety.

Some of you probably believe in all sorts of rotten rubbish: for example, that white is not really a color. Now, I have come to tell you that white is a color. There is no doubt about the color, and personally it seems to me that you will not want to argue with me.

*** ENCOURAGING STATEMENT ***

Please don't worry, even though I just threatened you.

All this bragging - I'm not ferocious.

I'm not angry.

I am the result.

Yes, everything is white.

It seemed to me that the entire globe was dressed in snow. He pulled it over himself, like pulling on a sweater. Near the railroad tracks are footprints sunk to the ankle. Trees under ice blankets.

As you might have guessed, someone died.

And they couldn't just take him and leave him on the ground. While this is not such a problem, but soon the path ahead will be restored, and the train will have to go further.

There were two conductors there.

And mother and daughter.

One corpse.

Mother, daughter and corpse are stubborn and silent.

- Well, what more do you want from me?

One conductor was tall, the other short. The tall one always spoke first, even though he was not the boss. Now he looked at the short and round second. He had a fleshy red face.

“Well,” he replied, “we can't just leave them here, right?

The high's patience was running out.

- Why not?

Low was pissed off as hell. He rested his gaze on the chin of the tall one:

- Spinnst du? Are you bad?

Loathing thickened on his cheeks. The skin tightened.

“Come on,” he said, stumbling in the snow. “We’ll take all three back to the carriage, if we have to. We will report to the next station.

And I have already made the most elementary mistake. I cannot convey to you the full extent of my dissatisfaction with myself. At first I did everything right:

He studied the blinding snow-white sky - it stood at the window of a moving car. I'm downright inhaled him, but still gave slack. I wavered - I wondered. Girl. Curiosity got the better of it, and I allowed myself to linger as long as my schedule would permit and observe.

Twenty-three minutes later, when the train stopped, I got out of the carriage after them.

I had a little soul in my arms.

I was standing slightly to the right of them.

The energetic duo of conductors headed back to the mother, the girl and the male corpse. I remember exactly how I breathed noisily that day. I am surprised that the conductors did not hear me. The world was already sagging under the weight of all this snow.

About ten meters to my left, a pale girl with an empty belly stood and froze.

Her lips trembled.

She folded her cold hands over her chest.

Tears froze on the face of the book thief.

ECLIPSE

The next one is black squiggles to show, if you will, the poles of my versatility. It was the darkest moment before dawn.

This time I came for a man of about twenty-four years old. In a way, it was wonderful. The plane was still coughing. Smoke oozed from both of his lungs.

Crashing, he cut the ground in three deep furrows. The wings were now like sawed-off hands. They won't wave anymore. This little iron bird won't fly anymore.

*** SOME MORE FACTS ***

Sometimes I come ahead of time.

I'm in hurry,

and other people cling

for life longer than expected.

In a few minutes, the smoke dried up. There's nothing more to give.

The first to appear was a boy: hesitant breathing, in his hand, as it were, a suitcase with tools. Terribly worried, he went up to the cockpit and looked at the pilot to see if he was alive; he was still alive. The book thief came running in about half a minute.

Years passed, but I recognized her.

She was breathing heavily.

* * *

The boy took out of the suitcase - what do you think? - Teddy bear.

Putting his hand through the broken glass, he put the bear on the pilot's chest. The smiling bear sat huddled in a pile of human wreckage and a pool of blood. A few minutes later, I took a chance. The time has come.

I approached, freed my soul and carefully carried it out of the plane.

All that was left was a body, a melting smell of smoke and a teddy bear with a smile.

When the crowd gathered, everything, of course, changed. The horizon began to turn coal gray. Only scribbles remained from the blackness at the top - and they quickly disappeared.

Man, in comparison with the sky, has become the color of bone. The skin is skeletal. Crumpled jumpsuit. His eyes were cold and brown, like coffee stains, and upstairs, the last squiggle turned into something strange for me, but recognizable. In a squiggle.

The crowd was doing what the crowd was doing.

As I made my way through it, everyone who stood there somehow played along with this silence. A slight thickening of incoherent hand movements, muffled phrases, silent restless glances.

When I turned back to the plane, it seemed to me that the pilot was smiling with his open mouth.

Dirty joke under the curtain.

Another human acuity.

The man lay in a swaddling suit, and the gray light measured its strength against the sky. And as it happened so many times, as soon as I moved away, the fast shadow seemed to come running again - the last moment of the eclipse, the recognition that another soul had flown away.

You know, at some moment, despite the colors that lie and cling to everything that I see in the world, I often catch an eclipse when a person dies.

I've seen millions of eclipses.

I've seen so many of them that it's better not to remember.

FLAG

The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like a stew, stirring and boiling. In some places it was burnt. Black crumbs and pellets of pepper flickered in the red.

Earlier, children played classics here - on a street like pages in greasy spots. When I arrived, there was still an echo. Feet stamped on the pavement. Children's voices laughed, salted with smiles, but decayed quickly.

And now - the bombs.

This time it was all late.

Sirens. The cuckoo screeches on the radio. It's all too late.

In a matter of minutes, hills of concrete and earth grew and perched. The streets have become severed veins. The blood ran along the road until it dried up, and the bodies were tied up in it, like logs after a flood.

Glued to the ground, every last one. A whole lot of souls.

Is this fate?

Bad luck?

Is that why they all stuck so well?

Of course not.

Don't be stupid.

Probably, it was, rather, in the strikes of bombs - they were dropped by those people who were hiding in the clouds.

Yes, the sky was now a devastating immense red homemade concoction. The German town was shattered to pieces again. Snowflakes of ash circled with such sweetness, which tempted them to catch with their protruding tongue, to taste. But those snowflakes would have scorched your lips. Boil the mouth itself.

So it stands before our eyes.

I was about to move away when I saw her on my knees.

Around was painted, decorated and erected a ridge of broken stone. She clung to the book.

Apart from everything else, the book thief desperately wanted to go back to the basement - to write or re-read his story one more time, the last one. Remembering, I can see it so clearly on her face. She was dying to go there - it was safe there, there was a house - but she could not move. And there was no more basement. It merged with the crippled landscape.

Again, I ask you - please believe.

I wanted to stay. Bend over.

I wanted to say:

Sorry baby.

But this is not allowed.

I didn't bent down. Didn't speak.

I just looked at her a little more. And when she was able to move from her place, he followed her.

She dropped the book.

I fell to my knees.

The book thief howled.

When the clearing began, her book was stepped on several times, and although the team was only to clear the concrete porridge, the girls threw the most precious thing into the garbage truck, and then I could not resist. I climbed into the back and took it in my hands, not knowing at all that I would keep it and look at it many thousands of times over the years. I will consider the places where we intersect, amazed at what this girl saw and how she survived. I can't do anything better anyway - here you can only see how everything fits into the overall picture of what I saw then.

When I remember her, I see a long list of colors, but the three in which I saw her in the flesh resonate most strongly. It happens that I manage to soar high above those three moments. I hang in place, and the putrid truth bleeds until clarity comes.

That's when I see how they fit into the formula.

They overlap. Black careless squiggles on the white blinding globe and thick red soup.

Yes, I often have to remember her, and in one of my countless pockets I carried her story to retell. This is one of a small number of stories that I carry with me, and each one is exceptional in itself. Each is an attempt, and what is more, an attempt to prove to me that you and your human existence are worth something.

Here is the story. One of a handful.

Book thief.

If you are in the mood, come with me. I will tell you her.

I'll show you something.

PART ONE
"INSTRUCTION TO THE GRAVER"
with:
himmel-strasse - the arts of pigs -
women with iron
fist - kiss attempts - jessie owens -
sandpaper - the smell of friendship - heavyweight champion
weight - and all spanking spanking

ARRIVAL IN HIMMEL STRASS

Last time.

That red sky ...

Why did it happen that the book thief was on her knees and howling next to a man-made pile of absurd, greasy, someone concocted broken stone?

It started with snow many years ago.

The hour has struck. For someone.

*** IMPRESSIVE TRAGIC MIG ***

The train was going fast.

It was packed with people.

A six-year-old boy died in the third carriage.

The book thief and her brother were on their way to Munich, where they would soon be handed over to foster parents. Now, of course, we know that the boy didn't make it.

*** HOW DID IT HAPPEN ***

Sudden outburst of violent coughing.

Almost inspired impulse.

And behind him - nothing.

When the coughing stopped, there was nothing left but the insignificance of life that shuffled away, or an almost soundless convulsion. Then the suddenness made its way to his lips - they were rusty-brown in color and peeled off like old paint. An urgent need to repaint.

Their mother was asleep.

I got on the train.

My feet stepped into the blocked passage, and in an instant, my hand rested on the boy's lips.

Nobody noticed.

The train rushed forward.

Except for the girl.

Looking with one eye, and still seeing a dream with the other, the book thief - aka Liesel Meminger - realized without question that her younger brother Werner was lying on his side and dead.

His blue eyes stared down at the floor.

And they saw nothing.

Before awakening, the book thief had a dream about the Fuhrer - Adolf Hitler. In a dream, she was at a rally where the Fuhrer spoke, looking at his skull-colored parting and a perfect square of a mustache. And listened with pleasure to the stormy stream of words pouring out of his mouth. His phrases shone in the light. In a calm moment, the Fuhrer took it and bent down - and smiled at her. She answered him with a smile and said: “Guten Tag, Herr F? Hrer. Wie geht's dir heut? " She never learned to speak beautifully, or even read, because she rarely went to school. She will find out the reason for this in due time.

And as soon as the Fuehrer was about to answer, she woke up.

It was January 1939. She was nine years old, soon to be ten.

Her brother died.

One eye is open.

One is still in a dream.

Probably, it would be better if she was completely asleep, but in truth I cannot influence this.

The dream flew from the second eye, and she caught me, there is no doubt about it. Just as I knelt down, took out the boy's soul and it went limp in my swollen arms. The boy's spirit quickly warmed, but the moment I picked it up, it was sluggish and cold as ice cream. He began to melt in my arms. And then he began to warm up and warmed up. And he recovered.

And Liesel Meminger was left with only a locked stiffness of movements and a drunken rush of thoughts. Es stimmt nicht. It is not really. It is not really.

And shake it off.

Why do they always shake them?

Yes, I know, I know - I admit it has something to do with instincts. Block the flow of truth. The girl's heart at that moment was slippery and hot, and loud, so loud, loud.

I was stupid - I was late. Look.

And now the mother.

Liesel woke her with the same crazy shaking.

If you find it difficult to imagine this, imagine an awkward silence. Imagine despair floating in pieces and debris. It's like drowning in a train.

Snow fell steadily, and the Munich train was stopped due to work on the damaged track. A woman howled on the train. Next to her, a girl froze in a daze.

In panic, the mother flung open the door.

Holding a corpse in her arms, she climbed out into the snow.

What was left for the girl? Just follow.

As you have already been informed, two conductors also got off the train. They decided what to do and argued. The situation is unpleasant, to say the least. Finally, it was decided that all three should be taken to the next station and left there, let them sort it out themselves.

Now the train limped across the snowy terrain.

So he stumbled and froze.

They went out onto the platform, the body in the arms of the mother.

The boy began to grow heavy.

Liesel had no idea where she was. Everything is white around, and while they waited, she could only look at the faded letters on the plate. For Liesel, the station was nameless; it was here two days later that her brother Werner was buried. A priest and two numb gravediggers were present.

*** OBSERVATION ***

A couple of conductors.

A couple of gravediggers.

When it came to business, one would give orders.

The other did as he was told.

And here's the question: what if another - much more,

than one?

Blunders, blunders - sometimes I seem to be only capable of them.

For two days I went about my business. As always, he rode around the globe, bringing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity. I saw them rolling limply away. Several times I warned myself to stay away from Liesel Meminger's brother's funeral. But he did not heed his advice.

As I approached, I could see from a distance a bunch of people standing coldly in the middle of the snowy desert. The cemetery greeted me like an old friend, and soon I was with them. He stood with his head bowed.

To Liesel's left, two gravediggers were rubbing their hands and whining about the snow and the inconvenience of digging in this weather.

- Such a burden to cut into this permafrost ... - And so on.

One was no more than fourteen. Journeyman. When he was leaving, some black book innocently fell out of the pocket of his jacket, but he did not notice. I managed to walk away, maybe twenty steps.