Four Scraps of Bread Read Online Free Page A

effort in the fog and deprivation.
    I marched
    without seeing anything.
    I tripped on stones
    with one thought only:
    do not fall.
    I no longer had the strength to be scared nor to hope.
    For several days we had been living on nothing
    We had been sleeping outside in the sticky mud
    Our convoy had grown thinner every hour.
    All that was left were shadows spattered with grime and mud.
    With great, dead eyes.
    Owl faces.
    I marched with my head down to focus my efforts.
    I wanted to come back from this other world.
    To stay standing.
    My existence had no place in time.
    It was out of my reach.
    I marched.
    Long after I came back, I studied people’s faces.
    I would question their hearts.
    I would weigh people by the measure of their kindness:
    Who would have helped us to march?
    Who would have shared their bread?
    I was desperate to read kindness on the faces of the living.

T O Y OU
    I no longer remember the time when I met you. I have often been abandoned by my memory. I know that our friendship, formed in a moment when time stood still, in suffering, continues, alive today.
    Do you remember the entire loaves stolen from the stores in Frankfurt? More aware of the danger I was facing, you were very scared for me.
    And our awkwardness in front of that huge weaving machine in Zillertal whose noise and speed made our heads spin? But in fact that was the one place in all those years where we were not treated like nothing but useless numbers.
    You were so good at reciting poems, with that great dreamer’s look of yours. I would listen to you ardently, so little did I know compared to you.
    I can still hear the lice cracking under our nails, and our teeth chattering with cold and with fear, under the frozen tent in Ravensbrück. Death was grasping our hand so powerfully.
    Whenever courage let me down, your look would call me back to life.
    Do you remember, on our journey of exodus, how our hearts were beating when we left the convoy? There should have been three of us, but five of us gathered in the thick brambles, waiting for our liberators.We spent six long days without food in the forest of Bischofferode. 7 There, you were scared that I would abandon you. You doubted my friendship, but you were so weak, consumed with fever and scabies.
    After the Liberation we did not see each other much, but time does not exist for us. We need no excuses or explanations. We have learned to read closed lips.
    How many feelings I could never have expressed or which would never have had the same life in me without your friendship.
    I am carried away with joy and hope by a smile or a look. This friendship remains a source of energy in me, and I still drink from those living waters.

T HE S MELL OF B READ
    Our journey back to rebirth stretched out over two days. We were numbed by fatigue and hunger. The Paris of which we dreamed was still far off. Here was Namur. 8 Curiosity, the delicious smell of bread, sharp and smooth, pulled us out of our numbness. We got off, we ate, and we stayed.
    Bread … Sun … Life … The light was stunning. We were happy and worried. What were we going to do with this new life? We still had no path.
    Having barely had our fill, there we were already being mixed up, counted, and passed around. Astonished or blank looks—whatever expression was appropriate; we were surrounded by superficial pity and easy emotion. We wanted to run away. But we had to talk, to justify our presence. “Name? Age?” Memory gap, silence. “Come on, speed up. You’re not the only one …” We had to remember at all costs. Come back to our senses quickly. Say something, at any rate.
    It was tiring to come back to life in a world that was already moving on. The speed was dizzying. I was out of breath. No sooner had my eyes opened than I wanted to close them again.
    The advantage of my age—seventeen years—and my rundown state earned me some rest and individual care along with four of my