Page 248 - The Book Thief

The bell.

First out was the Fhrer, awkward-legged and bony, running at Max and jabbing
him firmly in the face. The crowd vibrated, the bell still in their ears, and their
satisfied smiles hurdled the ropes. The smoky breath of Hitler steamed from his
mouth as his hands bucked at Maxs face, collecting him several times, on the
lips, the nose, the chinand Max had still not ventured out of his corner. To
absorb the punishment, he held up his hands, but the Fhrer then aimed at his
ribs, his kidneys, his lungs. Oh, the eyes, the Fhrers eyes. They were so
deliciously brownlike Jews eyesand they were so determined that even Max
stood transfixed for a moment as he caught sight of them between the healthy
blur of punching gloves.

There was only one round, and it lasted hours, and for the most part, nothing
changed.

The Fhrer pounded away at the punching-bag Jew.

Jewish blood was everywhere.

Like red rain clouds on the white-sky canvas at their feet.

Eventually, Maxs knees began to buckle, his cheekbones silently moaned, and
the Fhrers delighted face still chipped away, chipped away, until depleted,
beaten, and broken, the Jew flopped to the floor.

First, a roar.

Then silence.

The referee counted. He had a gold tooth and a plethora of nostril hair.

Slowly, Max Vandenburg, the Jew, rose to his feet and made himself upright.
His voice wobbled. An invitation. Come on, Fhrer, he said, and this time, when
Adolf Hitler set upon his Jewish counterpart, Max stepped aside and plunged
him into the corner. He punched him seven times, aiming on each occasion for
only one thing.