Disclaimer: Don't own Alex Rider or The Book Thief. Apparently Santa's sleigh souldn't fit the book rights, just like the pony I wanted last year. GAH! The stress is unbelievable.

I want to dedicate this chapter to my marvellous betas, daily ruse and CunningMascara. Where would I be without you? Probably still bashing my computer in a fruitless effort to get my bloody Spell Check working again. Seriously though, you're both amazing.

READ ON!

Yes, an illustrious career. I hasten to add, however, that there was a considerable hiatus between the acquiring of the first book and the second. But the hunger had awoken, and it was definitely there. Yassen Gregorovich was very proud of his literacy on the streets of Moscow. He was very proud of himself. Because somewhere along the track, the lines of text in his books separated.

They began to form words. Shapes. Colours. Stories. Adventures. Yassen would tell you that he saved himself on the streets. But in reality, it was Pavel Demichev who gave him the tools to survive.

But, pardon me, I'm getting ahead of myself. Before we read further into that particular topic, let me first give you a tour of Yassen Gregorovich's beginnings in Estrov, and the art of saukerling.

Yassen's first nine years of life had been rather abnormal. He'd known the cramped sensation of a boarding house packed full of people. He learned not to ask questions. Not to ask people for food. Not to play chasing in the street. And, most importantly, not to mention his father to anyone but his sister, and even then in whispers.

When he arrived in Estrov, questions clouded Yassen Gregorovich's brain. He knew, somewhere at the very back of his mind, that he was being saved. But why did that mean being abandoned? Why did his mother die? What killed her?

The simple fact of the matter was this: She no longer had the will to live. She died because her love for her children was not great enough to convince her to live. She felt she had nothing that was worth clinging on for. And, secretly, I agree. Twice in her life she had tried to take her own soul to me. Didn't she see I was busy already?

But this is Yassen's story. Not hers. So onward we must move.

The Demichevs lived in one of the small block houses on a street called Moscow Street. A few rooms, a kitchen, a library and an indoor toilet, which Olga was very proud of. The roof was flat and there was a shallow basement where Pavel kept research papers and print-outs from his office.

In the beginning, it was the profanity that distracted Yassen from his situation.

Yassen and Yeva Gregorovich had lived for half their very short lives in a townhouse with three storeys. They'd been raised with the impeccable manners of well brought up children. Prior to their stay in Estrov, they had never heard any swear words, except for when their mother ran out of food, with brought on a 'Scheisse!'.

Every second word was Saumensch or Saukerl or Arshloch. For people who aren't familiar with these words, I should explain. Sau, of course, refers to pigs. In the case of Saumensch, it serves to castigate, berate or plain humiliate a female. Saukerl (pronounced 'saukrail') is for a male. Arschloch can be translated directly into arseholes. The word, however, does not differentiate between genders, which allowed Olga to insult both Gregorovichs with one word instead of two.

"Saukerl! Why won't you have a bath like your sister!?" Olga yelled at Yassen the first night, when he refused to have a bath. Yassen kept his gaze on the floor.

"Olga, leave him to me. You take Yeva up to bed" Pavel Demichev's voice slipped through Olga's hateful words, as though he himself was sliding through a crowd. Olga's face contorted in anger. Her mouth opened and closed twice, like a fish out of water.

"You saukerl! You arshloch! You think I'd let you take him and spoil him rotten!?" Olga yelled, shaking her fist angrily at her husband. Pavel frowned and folded his arms across his chest, eying Yassen once with a studious look. He was weighing whether it was worth sticking up for the boy against Olga. I don't think there was any doubt in his mind about what to do.

"Take Yeva to bed. I will look after the boy" Pavel said, fixing Yassen with another long look.

Olga huffed, gripped Yeva's hand in a vice lock hold and dragged her from the bathroom, muttering to herself about 'That saukerl'. Pavel closed the door after them and locked it slowly before turning back to face Yassen.

In credit to him, Yassen didn't flinch away, even though he thought he knew what was to come. Yassen had known the sting of a belt. His mother may have been ill and frail. Starving. BUt she always had a reserve to beat manners into her children. You think this is cruel? Life is cruel. And the blows Yassen's mother inflicted on him never stung as much as the blows life beat into him. Life punished Yassen Gregorovich. Death freed him.

He stood stock still, feet rooted to the ground, staring up at his foster father. Pavel winked down at the boy slowly and pulled a towel from the hot press that groaned in the corner.

"Now. About this bath. You take one every week. If you want, Olga can bathe you. But I warn you, she will scrub until you are red raw. Or you can be a grown up and bathe yourself. Richtig?" Pavel offered the words and the towel to Yassen.

Yassen took the towel carefully and flung into the bath full of cooling water. Pavel frowned, a wrinkle appearing between his eyes. He crossed the room in two strides and fished the towel from the bath, hanging it over the side after a moment of indecision.

"That was not a good thing to do. Now I must punish you for that. Wait here" Pavel ordered, disappearing from the room. Yassen stared at the tiles on the floor, his mouth pulled into a stubborn little mould. He scuffed circles on the rotting tiles, his toes drawing a quiet noise from the floor. Pavel's footsteps echoed throughout the house as he reappeared in the door of the bathroom, two heavy tomes under his arms.

Yassen flinched at the sight of the large, weighty books. He took a hesitant half step backwards. He seemed to be debating fight or flight. Pavel watched the boy curiously, observing the unspoken terror lurking in Yassen's eyes.

Finally Yassen held out both hands in front of him, closing his eyes, waiting for the heavy blow to bite into his palms. Pavel Demichev watched uncomprehendingly as the boy clenched his eyes shut, his lips pursed determinedly. Finally, recognition sparked in his pupils and he shook his head silently.

"I am not going to hit you, Yassen. Not for refusing to take a bath. And I hope that nothing you do ever requires me to hit you. Spread your arms out. Further. Stretch them as far as they will go. What are you, a mouse? Further. Good." Pavel said, watching as Yassen strained to widen his arm span.

Gently, Pavel balanced one book on one palm, and the second book on Yassen's other palm. The boy's arms wobbled once. Pavel watched carefully as Yassen balanced both books as steadily as possible.

"My Papa, he used to do this to me. If I misbehaved, he would place The Bible on my right hand and The Complete Works of Shakespeare on the other. I stood like that a minute for every year I'd lived. Nine minutes for you Yassen. But the strangest thing was that after my Papa removed the weight, my arms would not stay down. My heart would be in my boots but my arms would rise of their own accord. Let this be a lesson to you. Punishment can set you free" Pavel said.

Some Facts About Pavel Demichev:

He was over six feet tall with sky grey hair and cloudy blue eyes.

His nose was rather large and hooked, giving him a sharp appearance. His cheekbones were high and a very dominant feature of his face.

He had cheated me in both the first World War and the second. I had long been due my pound of flesh.

There are perhaps four men like him in the world at anytime. You may have seen one.

He had only once raised his hand to a child of his and had regretted it ever since.

Pavel Demichev was a relic of times long past. A gentleman, by all accounts. Fiercely proud of his library. Polite. Amiable. But fierce when defending that which he loved. He was one of the good people in Estrov. I did not carry his soul away. He walked beside me.

Yassen did his nine minutes. His arms did indeed refuse to stay at his sides. Man and boy stood in the bathroom and spoke monosyllabically until the water had turned icy cold. It was the kind of conversation that wielded both words and silence with many minutes lapsing between each remark.

Pavel took both books back to his office and left them on his desk before leading Yassen Gregorovich downstairs. He toasted two thin slices of bread, giving one and a half of them to Yassen. Olga appeared halfway through the somber little meal and scowled at the boy.

"He didn't have a bath!" she barked at her husband.

"I know" Pavel retorted, simply chewing his bread thoughtfully. Yassen kept his gaze on his lap and swallowed the dry bread noisily, forcing it down his throat. This was before the days of toasters and the bread was plain, with no butter. Whatever butter was taken into the house was usually saved up until there was enough to be more than just scrapings.

"And?" Olga asked, bustling about the kitchen.

"And what?" Pavel replied, winking at Yassen. The boy finished the last of his toast and Pavel got to his feet, dusting off his trousers. Olga frowned at her husband as Pavel held out a hand to the child in the kitchen with them.

"Come little one, it is time for bed" Pavel said. Yassen took the man's hand hesitantly and allowed himself to be led further up into the heart of the house. Pavel led him to a room. The chamber was occupied by two single beds and a rickety-looking desk. Yassen could see the outline of his sister in the occupied single bed even as Pavel led him over to the other one.

Yassen allowed Pavel to lift him into the bed but drew the line at being tucked in. The nine year old burrowed under the blanket himself, giving Pavel a look that promptly dismissed any notions of a bedtime story or hug. God forbid a kiss goodnight.

I like that. I like that a lot.

Pavel got the message and after a short goodnight and an awkward pause, the man drifted from the room. Yassen nestled between the blanket and the pillow. A slight stirring in the other bed made his ears prick up. His sister's solitary voice drifted across the room, the silent, shaded corners watching curiously.

"Yassen, you stink. Take a bath" she said, sobbing quietly.

"You take a bath" Yassen retorted snappily.

Yes, a pathetic comeback. I suppose nine year olds aren't conventionally known for snappy comebacks.

Yassen listened to his sister sob for a minute, refusing himself tears. He would not cry. Yeva was allowed cry, she was a girl. Yassen, a boy. He'd been instilled with the same amount of manly pride that every nine-year-old managed to posses. Somehow. He was to protect his sister, not weep with her.

"I miss Mama" Yeva added to the tears trooping down her cheeks in little gangs.

The words hung in the air of the small bedroom. Silence darted forward, swallowing them whole, blanketing the room in mute noise. The moonlight strolling through the window made Yeva's tears glint on her pillow. Yassen listened to her silent sniffles and whispered words of comfort in his brain. Sounds that made powerful words to make her happy. But they simply sat on his tongue, refusing to drip from his mouth.

Yeva's pillow was saturated with silence that night.

It would be unfair of me to lead you to believe that the Gregorovich's weren't happy in the Demichev household. Things were as close to happy as circumstances allowed.

Yassen did bathe eventually, after a fifteen minute threat filled rant at the hands of Olga. There I go again. Leading you to believe the Demichev's were cruel people. Olga Demichev is still a rather shadowed character of this story, isn't she?

Some Facts About Olga Demichev:

She was just five feet tall and had an expression of perpetual fury on her face.

She had raised five children of her own and straightened out a few foster children as well.

She had a peculiar love/hate relationship with her husband and had never really forgiven him for the loss of their third child.

She did love Yeva and Yassen Gregorovich.

She just showed it in a strange way that involved flaying them with words.

The day after Yassen bathed he was allowed out into the street to play with the other children of the area.

What about Yeva? You ask yourself this. Yeva Gregorovich was a very ill child. She had been born two months premature and had nearly been killed by Scarlet Fever at the age of two. She was permanently exhausted and shockingly underweight. Because of this she lacked energy and was very fragile. She was sickly. And seeing as the children of the neighbourhood were notorious for rough-housing, Olga made the executive decision to contain Yeva for a few weeks.

Yassen ambled out into the street, looking smaller than usual in an outfit much too big. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets as he stood, uncomfortably alone while the other children of the street played a game of football.

It would be worthy of note that Yassen's new home was on Moscow Street. Ironic in a twisted way really. Yassen sought refuge in Moscow twice in his life. Once the street, then the city. I really am drifting, aren't I? Moscow Street was recognized as the poorest street in Estrov. Most of the residents were on food stamps and goods tokens.

Yassen was one of those children who wasn't shy. He just didn't really feel at ease with other children who he didn't know well. He wasn't the kind of boy who went over and introduced himself to other children. He sat on the steps of the Demichev's house and watched the other children charging around, kicking the ball up and down, the street the only football stadium they needed, imaginary crowds cheering them on.

Aloow me to give you a picture of Moscow Street football:

Feet scuff the road loudly, a rasp of contact.
The rush of boyish breath working hard to fuel the efforts of the players.
Shouted words. "Here! This way! Pass!"
The vulgar bounce of ball on road.

One of the children playing football glanced up. It was boy. His name was Ludwig.

Slowly, Ludwig pulled away from the game and jogged over to where Yassen sat. When I say jogged, I mean a mixture of a fast walk and a loping stride. Ludwig was much taller than Yassen and was known on Moscow Street for his large ears and unerring clumsiness. He was also perhaps the worst footballer Moscow Street had ever seen.

"You just moved in with the Demichevs, huh?" Ludwig asked, hands on his hips. Yassen shifted on the steps, squirming. He blushed and nodded slowly, searching for words to put to the situation. Ludwig didn't seem to expect any. He simply plopped down beside Yassen on the steps and gestured vaguely at the game.

"You want to play? You can be on my team. We're four down. Need a miracle" Ludwig said pleasantly. Ludwig lived in an apartment with his mother and father and his younger sister eight doors down from the Demichevs and he had a part time job delivering newspapers. He was well accustomed to the wrath of Olga whenever the paper was late or the snow ruined the print.

Again Yassen nodded, lifting himself to his feet roughly. Even his stance was unsure. Unknown to him, Pavel Demichev watched from his office window, a distant smile on his face. Ludwig trotted back over to the game and grinned apologetically at Yassen. At the sight of the small, malnourished looking boy the game drew to a pause, the ball trapped under the elbow of one of the boys.

Yassen cocked his fists and remembered distantly his father telling him not to let himself be pushed around. The other boys drew reluctantly around Yassen, eying him up studiously. It wasn't quite clear who decided but somehow each boy reached the conclusion that Yassen was worthy of admittance to their game.

Being the new kid in town, he was of course lumped into goals, freeing Ludwig from his post. I like to puzzle over Ludwig sometimes. Perhaps Yassen's first friend. What on Earth possessed him to approach the lonely boy? Was he bored of the drubbing his team were taking? Or did he simply want to be that boy? Who knows. I don't think I ever will. That's the thing about humans. You overthrow my worst expectations.

It was going rather smoothly for a few minutes. Yassen made a save. Well, he poked the ball away from the goal with his toe. He was even starting to get used to the idea of playing in the street until the fateful moment when Viktor Abramovich was upended into the dirt by a Ludwig Engel foul of frustration.

Ludwig protested loudly of his innocence in the way that only young boys can.

"What!? What did I do!?" he called loudly, throwing his arms up in the perfect gesture of desperate innocence.

A penalty was awarded by everyone on Viktor's team and then it was time. Viktor Abramovich going head to head with the new kid on the street, Yassen Gregorovich. Almost immediately Yassen's team-mates rushed over and ordered him out of the goal. As you might have guessed, Yassen protested.

Viktor Abramovich was a star in the making. He hadn't missed a penalty in thirty shots even when he was shooting on someone made of stronger stuff than Ludwig Endel. No matter who was in goal, Viktor Abramovich always got his goal. It was a fact of life. Like morning dew or water being wet.

"Let him stay" Viktor insisted, his grin casting a shark-like appearance on his face. His eyes were lit with oppurtunity. He could smell his third goal of the day. He was ready to do victory lap of the street. After all, Yassen Gregorovich wasn't exactly intimidating, standing as he did. Shivering between two jumper goal posts, his clothes much too large for him.

The chatter and scuffing sounds of happy feet ceased. Time himself seemed to hold his breath while Viktor placed the ball on the spot designated as the penalty area. The girls who had been sitting on the stairs, chatting or playing hopscotch gathered around. Yassen watched his breath steam into the air. Another favourite picture of mine. This time I imagine the scene from Pavel Demichev's point of view. Watching from above with him as he protectively oversees Yassen's debut in Moscow Street football.

However, I always imagine Yeva in the background of the scene, one of the faceless children crowded to watch. Her huge eyes devouring the image of her brother. Yes, Yeva is there the way I see it in my mind's eye.

Viktor shuffled forward and fired the ball. Yassen dived and somehow managed to deflect the ball with an elbow. He picked himself up from the ground a minute later and listened to the war whoops of the other children. Deep down he cheered with them. But all that came out was a chuckle and a wide smile. Not bad for a future killer.

Viktor Abramovich winked at Yassen before hurling mud at him. Yassen blinked as chortles rang in his ears. He blushed and wiped furiously at his face, the mud cold and stinging madly.

"Nice save," Viktor called before racing off in pursuit of the ball.

Yassen stalked from the road to the steps of the Demichev house, wiping his face on his sleeve disdainfully. His hands curled back into fists and he clenched his teeth.

"Saukerl". Even at that age, Yassen was a remarkably fast learner.

Some Facts About Viktor Abramovich:

He was three months older than Yassen Gregorovich and had bony knees, very white teeth, dark blue eyes and hair the colour of straw or hay.

The third of eight children he was perpetually hungry and sat in a slouched way to stop his stomach from moaning loudly.

On Moscow Street he was greatly respected, considered insane and feared.

The first trait came from his sporting and academic ability.

The second trait from an incident widely known but rarely discussed that involved two kidnapped chickens, a sheet, copious amounts of time, patience and rope, a dog and resulted in a broken leg for Viktor. People referred to it as 'The Incident'.

The third came from the hiding he gave a boy called Pietor because Viktor didn't want Pietor to speak with his sister.

I think he was always destined to be Yassen's partner in crime in Estrov. A mudball is as close as nine year olds get to affection. The mud cemented the friendship. No-one was sure when it happened except for Viktor but at some stage the two became inseparable, rarely seen without the other.

Viktor Abramovich liked Yassen a lot (hence the mudball). He had made up his mind about Yassen Gregorovich the instant the boy had stepped out of the Demichev's house. In fact, if Ludwig hadn't approached Yassen, Viktor would have. He'd been on the verge of drawing the boy into the game when Ludwig leaped in. Yes, Viktor Demichev was persistent. He decided after the penalty that he and Yassen would become friends.

But he insisted on maintaining his pride. He wasn't a girl. He wouldn't just walk over and say 'Let's be friends'. No. He would be subtle. Sly. It was destiny. Who was he to fight it?

Yassen opened the door of the Demichev's house and stormed in. He stomped up to the small attic like bedroom and threw himself down on his bed with a snort of derision. Five minutes later Pavel Demichev contemplated knocking but dismissed the idea.

Yeva Gregorovich listened to the sound of children playing outside and hummed a little song to herself. She sat on the floor of the kitchen while Olga peeled the potatoes that were to become dinner.

She was sure she would like living on Moscow Street.

Four years later Yassen sits on the same steps that he first sat on. The view is much the same. Huddled, miserable houses clinging together for warmth. Viktor Abramovich sits at his side, the pair bathing in the silence that only teenage boys can be comfortable with.

"You kissed my sister, didn't you?" Viktor says, the words lounging out of his mouth.

Yassen glances at his best friend calmly, a quiet sparkle just visible in his gaze. Four years of happy living have made him slightly more normal.

Both boys are rather oddly built. Stretched, with Viktor the taller by half a head. Hungry-looking. Though Yassen slightly less so. The kind of boys who are quite good looking but still have to grow into their faces.

"And?" Yassen replies, knowing his crime perfectly.

"You know what I did to Pietor years ago for even looking like he wanted to kiss Katya?" Viktor says, letting the question hang in the air above their heads. Yassen knows the story much too well to feign innocence.

"I know. What, you're going to try and give me a hiding?" Yassen asks, rumpling his hair.

"No, of course not. I wouldn't fancy my chances as much as I did against Pietor. She likes you a lot." Viktor says, crossing his legs and adopting a seat like a Native American.

"Yes. We went ice-skating last week. I would have taken her down to the river today if Sister Egorov hadn't kept me" Yassen responds.

"I'm glad it's you" Viktor says.

The words wait there and dissolve into the silence, warming the boys. The sun goes down, snow falls and they sit for another half hour on the cold steps.

The lighter quality in Yassen's eyes would soon fade from a sparkle to terror, grief and finally ice. Perhaps I am ruining the story for you. But I want to soften the blow when it comes. So here, I have the pillow, the cushion to protect you.

They all die.

Viktor, Katya, Olga, Pavel, Yeva. Gone. I picked them up and took them with me.

They warmed my skin as I watched the train speed away to Moscow, an unexpected passenger part of the cargo.

And I couldn't help but smile a little.

What's that word again? Begins with 'R' ends with 'W'? No, it's not 'Renew'. Please Review. Look. You've reduced me to begging. Pretty please? With a cherry and sugar on top?