I’m not one of these ‘the characters write themselves; the story just fell out of me’ kind of writers. Wish it was like that.
She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn’t matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.
Voices climbed over shoulders and the smell of pure German sweat struggled at first, then poured out. It rounded corner after corner till they were swimming in it. The words, the sweat. And the smiling. Let’s not forget the smiling.
The fuhrer decided he would rule the world with words. “I will never fire a gun,” he said, “I will not have to.” Still, he was not rash. Let’s allow him at least that much. He was not a stupid man at all. His first plan of attack was to plant the words in as many areas of his homeland as possible.
German children were on the lookout for stray coins. German Jews kept watch for possible capture.
I waved. No one waved back.
Trust the murderer to be unkillable at the one moment he was better off dead.
He’s the type who is unafraid to make a decision. In this case, Rudy had already made up his mind about Liesel Meminger.
God, there was such joy and fear there, such brilliant commotion.
He warmed up soon after, but when I picked him up originally, the boy’s spirit was soft and cold, like ice cream. He started melting in my arms. Then warming up completely. Healing.
As far as dispositions go, hers wasn’t really enviable, although she had a good record with foster kids in the past.
Even inaction is a powerful choice.
She loved and hated her best friend, Rudy Steiner, which was perfectly normal.
The human heart is a line, whereas my own is a circle, and I have the endless ability to be in the right place at the right time. The consequence of this is that I’m always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugliness and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both.
Or till the stars were dragged down again, into the waters of the German sky.
Sono perseguitata dagli esseri umani.
Her cooking was atrocious.
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.
Pimples were gathered in peer groups.
Don’t ask him for help,” Mama pointed out. “That Saukerl.” Papa was staring out the window, as was often his habit. “He left school in fourth grade.” Without turning around, Papa answered calmly, but with venom, “Well, don’t ask her, either.” He dropped some ash outside. “She left school in third grade.
Still, it’s possible that you might be asking, why does he even need a vacation? What does he need distraction from? Which brings me to my next point. It’s the leftover humans. The survivors.