I wrote this short story a while ago for school. It is my version of the chapter Max In the amazing novel, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.
I implore all of you who are up to a challenge to read it. Because yes, this book is a challenge, but if you have the patience to decipher it I assure you you will enjoy it immensely.
This piece may not make a whole lot of sense if you have not read the book.
Tell me what you think of it!
***(Small) SPOILER ALERT***
Lemon Coloured Waking
Hitler resisted my arms no more and all could breath again.
Time was non-existent for Liesel Meminger. She divided her life into sleeping and waking. The waking she spent mainly at the Steiner Tailor Shop. The sleeping was spent in the house on top of the hill that she knew so well.
Life was black for Liesel. Charred from the fires that rained down from above. She walked through the hazy, blurry, complex world with a simplified vision of what it could become.
The tailor shop was her getaway. A beacon of colourful hope for the old life she could not turn back to. Business was nonexistent and the seemingly worthless papers were few and far between. Liesel worked for the distraction from her new life and the opportunity to see the translucent outline of Rudy come to greet her every day after school. She would stand and meet his lips briefly before he left to complete his important homework and assignments.
The tailor shop was bright from the warm yellow light hanging in the middle of the room. The colour of lemons emanated from it and filled the room with life.
Life from someone dead.
I like that idea. That someone dead to everyone else can bring life and near happiness to two despairing mortals.
The sky was a yellowy-white and seemed solid from inside the tailor shop. The white walls dotted with sketches of old suits and dresses. The wooden men standing in the window wore masterpieces of tree green, blackberry and charcoal. The clothes fit for a funeral.
It was one lemon coloured waking when Liesel found him. Her friend in times of need, her feather topped Jew. When he walked through those doors Liesel very nearly fell down with gladness. She ran, not with the speed of someone living only on what Ilsa Hermann could coax down her throat; but with the speed of someone who was being reunited with an old friend after a time of loss and grieving. They embraced and she talked to make up for the times they had sat in silence together. To the disapproval of Herr Hermann, Max stayed at the Hermanns’ for many sleepings. Liesel spoke only with Max.
Two years and forty-eight days later, Liesel stopped grieving on the outside.
Eighty two year old Liesel smiled in her sleep, took one last breath and muttered.
Many souls came to me with faces blank and grey. With faces that told no stories. No journeys. No life. Except for one. She painted life with words of lemon.