Book Thief

 In the summer before third grade, we moved to a small town far from Dayton.  The ramshackle house we rented was across the street from the public library.  With its pink-marble columns, the library seemed to exist in another world.  I began spending all of my free time there.  

My frequent visits to the library became an issue for the librarians. The head librarian considered me a pest and nuisance. Many library staff were territorial and made it clear that I was an unwelcome guest. They were unforgiving of my bad habits.  I would leave stacks of books scattered anywhere I happened to be.  Also, even though I was only allowed to check out two books at a time, I was plagued by fines for overdue books.  Because I didn’t have the money to pay the modest fines, I spent even more time in the library.

I read through the children’s collection and then the young adult’s section.  In the back of the library stood the fascinating and mysterious stacks of books for grownups.  I was irresistibly drawn to the siren song of those books.  I had to have the secret information they contained!

In those days, children under 12 were forbidden from borrowing books from the grownup stacks.  Yes, there were such rules then.  The staff decreed that I wasn’t even allowed to browse those books.  This decree meant that most of the library was forbidden to me.  Of course, that only made me more determined to read those books.

Despite the rules, I would slip in and out of the grownup stacks and peruse those powerful books.  History and art were my particular passions.  Sometimes I managed to sneak one of the forbidden books and read it in peace at one of the library’s tables, being careful to hide it if one of the librarians approached.

I spent more and more time sneaking into the grownup stacks until one black day.  I was studying a slender volume of Renoir reproductions when I was nabbed!  I had rabbit ears and could disappear whenever an adult approached, but this time I was so engrossed in the art that the head librarian was able to sneak up on me and catch me red-handed.

The horrible punishment was swift: banished from the library!  The head librarian made clear that I was an unwelcome rule-breaker who abused and ruined the books for the deserving children.  She added that she didn’t believe for a moment that I could read so many books.  This last accusation surprised me.  It had never occurred to me that she might think that I didn’t read the books.  As for the other accusation, I had gotten stains on books–it was true–and once I dropped a book in the street and broke its spine.  “I didn’t mean to,” was all I managed.

“If I had my way, you would be banned forever,” she finished.

I was heartbroken at this grievous wound.  To the head librarian, I was a hooligan who plagued the library out of a delinquent desire to destroy books to deprive the ‘deserving children.’

One side effect was that the librarian’s punishment confirmed for all time my view: books are powerful and dangerous.

During my banishment, I took the bus on my own to Lorain to visit their library.  It was not usual in those days for children to take bus trips unescorted. Lorain’s library dwarfed ours.  Not only that, the Lorain library didn’t have silly rules about books forbidden to children.  Even so, during my first visit, I fled at the approach of any librarian.  I couldn’t believe the undreamed-of miracle when the librarians offered to help me find books.  They showed me where the grown-up books were located and smiled at my piles of books.  Unfortunately, I didn’t have the money for frequent trips, and because we didn’t live in Lorain, I couldn’t get a library card there.  I remember spending a day there reading books about WWI.  My grandfather, whom I never met, was gassed in the Battle of the Meuse-Argonne in 1918. I still remember reading about that in the Lorain library.

After my banishment, armed with my new knowledge of real librarians, I immediately resumed my former habit of slipping into the grownup stacks.  Indeed, I was brazen about it.   That library was mine, and no one was going to keep its treasures from me. For some reason, the librarians loosened their vigilance and left me unmolested while I explored the world’s treasures.   Although left alone, I was still not allowed to borrow the forbidden books.  That slender, white-bound volume of Renoir reproductions became a talisman for me.


One afternoon, I slipped the book into my trousers and moved slowly toward the door.  With a great effort of will, I paused near the front desk to study the magazine covers.  My face was sweating when I stepped outside.  I expected to feel the librarian’s hand on my shoulder and her voice hissing in my ear:

“Banned forever, Book Thief!”

She didn’t stop me.   I raced across the street to my bedroom where I greedily studied the book without fear of interference.   I can remember the feel of the book in my hands and see its reproductions in my mind’s eye.

I loved Renoir.  Later I studied his life and career and then the careers of the other Impressionists.

The joy of possessing the talisman was short-lived.  The burden of owning a forbidden and stolen book became unbearable.  Didn’t my act confirm what the librarian maintained about me?   When I returned to the library the next day, I was shamefaced and, for the first time felt I didn’t belong.

I decided to return the book.  On the day I appointed for myself, I made my way into the forbidden stacks.  The spot from where I had taken the book was still empty and undisturbed.  I removed the book from my trousers and put it back in its rightful place.

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