“Truck drivers are mad, you know?” the middle European twang readily apparent. “I used to drive a truck, from Dapto to Adelaide. Stupid things we did in them days.”
“Didn’t have much choice, you know? Me wife was alive then, and I had two little kids and a mother. I brought her out not long after I arrived in ’64. I came here when I was 24. No point staying in Macedonia, wasn’t called that then, was part of Yugoslavia, with Tito. Who wasn’t so bad really, but I wanted more.”
“Driving trucks was no good. Too long without sleep. Too many rules. Too many cops. Me wife’s gone now. Three years ago. Cancer, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink. Now where’s the justice in that?”
Looking down at “The Book Thief”, I was still on page 200. The darkness had been stroking Max for over twenty minutes.