Page 185 - The Book Thief

When he was nine, his mother was completely broke. She sold the music studio

that doubled as their apartment and they moved to his uncles house. There he
grew up with six cousins who battered, annoyed, and loved him. Fighting with
the oldest one, Isaac, was the training ground for his fist fighting. He was
trounced almost every night.

At thirteen, tragedy struck again when his uncle died.

As percentages would suggest, his uncle was not a hothead like Max. He was the
type of person who worked quietly away for very little reward. He kept to
himself and sacrificed everything for his familyand he died of something
growing in his stomach. Something akin to a poison bowling ball.

As is often the case, the family surrounded the bed and watched him capitulate.

Somehow, between the sadness and loss, Max Vandenburg, who was now a
teenager with hard hands, blackened eyes, and a sore tooth, was also a little

disappointed. Even disgruntled. As he watched his uncle sink slowly into the
bed, he decided that he would never allow himself to die like that.

The mans face was so accepting.

So yellow and tranquil, despite the violent architecture of his skullthe endless
jawline, stretching for miles; the pop-up cheekbones; and the pothole eyes. So
calm it made the boy want to ask something.

Wheres the fight? he wondered.

Wheres the will to hold on?

Of course, at thirteen, he was a little excessive in his harshness. He had not
looked something like me in the face. Not yet.

With the rest of them, he stood around the bed and watched the man diea safe
merge, from life to death. The light in the window was gray and orange, the
color of summers skin, and his uncle appeared relieved when his breathing
disappeared completely.

When death captures me, the boy vowed, he will feel my fist on his face.