for Liesel Meminger
Liesel held it with soft hands. She stared. “Thanks, Mama.”
She embraced her.
There was also a great longing to tell Rosa Hubermann that she loved her. It’s a shame she didn’t say it.
She wanted to read the book in the basement, for old times’ sake, but Mama convinced her otherwise. “There’s a reason Max got sick down there,” she said, “and I can tell you one thing, girl, I’m not letting you get sick.”
She read in the kitchen.
Red and yellow gaps in the stove.
The Word Shaker.
• • •
She made her way through the countless sketches and stories, and the pictures with captions. Things like Rudy on a dais with three gold medals slung around his neck. Hair the color of lemons was written beneath it. The snowman made an appearance, as did a list of the thirteen presents, not to mention the records of countless nights in the basement or by the fire.
Of course, there were many thoughts, sketches, and dreams relating to Stuttgart and Germany and the Führer. Recollections of Max’s family were also there. In the end, he could not resist including them. He had to.
Then came.
That was where The Word Shaker itself made its appearance.
It was a fable or a fairy tale. Liesel was not sure which. Even days later, when she looked up both terms in the Duden Dictionary, she couldn’t distinguish between the two.
On the previous page, there was a small note.
PAGE 116
Liesel—I almost scribbled this story out. I thought you might be too old for such a tale, but maybe no one is. I thought of you and your books and words, and this strange story came into my head. I hope you can find some good in it.
She turned the page.
THERE WAS once a strange, small man. He decided three important details about his life:
He would part his hair from the opposite side to everyone else.
He would make himself a small, strange mustache.
He would one day rule the world.
The young man wandered around for quite some time, thinking, planning, and figuring out exactly how to make the world his. Then one day, out of nowhere, it struck him—the perfect plan. He’d seen a mother walking with her child. At one point, she admonished the small boy, until finally, he began to cry. Within a few minutes, she spoke very softly to him, after which he was soothed and even smiled.
The young man rushed to the woman and embraced her. “Words!” He grinned.
“What?”
But there was no reply. He was already gone.
Yes, the Führer decided that he would rule the world with words. “I will never fire a gun,” he devised. “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.
He planted them day and night, and cultivated them.
He watched them grow, until eventually, great forests of words had risen throughout Germany …. It was a nation of farmed thoughts.
WHILE THE words were growing, our young Führer also planted seeds to create symbols, and these, too, were well on their way to full bloom. Now the time had come. The Führer was ready.