Four Scraps of Bread Read Online Free Page B
Author: Anthony T.; Magda; Fuller Hollander-Lafon
companions. We had threemonths ahead of us in the beautiful countryside around Namur. I was neither happy nor sad. I let myself sink into a protective half-consciousness. Come on, weâll see later â¦
A R EAL H OUSE
Our landlady was an old woman bent double. She had a pyramidlike nose, and washed-out blue eyes sunk deep into their sockets. Her face was streaked with dirty wrinkles. Behind her tight lips she hid her bad mood and her completely toothless mouth.
She welcomed us with a tight grimace. Here were five young girls upsetting her peace. She was living in the basement of her large two-story home with a colony of lazy, ugly cats.
She took us around the building. We were dazzled. A real interior, full of furniture. In the bedrooms there was a bed ⦠Seeing these familiar objects, whose very existence I had forgotten, was an emotional experience. The wooden plank of yesterday was now a too-soft bed.
The group of huts in the camp had now transformed into a real house.
The strip of barbed wire was now a garden in bloom.
Could it all be real? Or was it, too, a trap?
I needed time to understand.
It took me several weeks to rediscover the joy of a soft bed.
We swallowed entire loaves with omelets made from powdered egg.
This dreamlike sensation of no longer being on rations was intoxicating and almost made us ill.
Little by little we realized that we were in possession of ourselves, to do as we wished, freely.
This freedom, once acknowledged, was heavy with promise and anxiety.
My body was satisfied, but the soul that dwelt within was aching and sick.
Where should I look? How could I find the cure for the sickness of living?
The sight of a copulating couple in Auschwitz, the discarded woman blue and trembling, kept me at a safe distance from the American soldiers at whom some of my fellow prisoners were throwing themselves.
The soldiers were quite plump. They sparkled with medals and carelessness.
They were plucking low-hanging fruit without asking questions.
No, for me, that was not freedom.
T HE S MILE
Crushed by loneliness, I roamed around the sun-filled countryside. Life was weighing on me. The respite organized by the welcome committees would be over by the end of August 1945. What would I do? What would I choose? To whom or to what would I turn? I was only alive in my own eyes. For others, who was I?
I had the choice between two solutions: end it all, or carry on. But not at any price. My legs kept me moving, but I could not see anything. A silent war was raging inside me. It made the pendulum of my decision swing wildly.
A couple found me. I did not see them coming. There they were in front of me: too late to run away. I was fascinated by the ladyâs smile. Its kindness woke me up to life, but at the same time dragged me into an incomprehensible, troubling world. I was paralyzed by my inability to communicate. All we had were gestures and the warmth of our voices, then the uneasiness of an awkward silence.
I was anxious to get away and reconnect with the me that definitely existed, cast to the winds. These new friends picked up on this and left me alone in the middle of this crossroads of a thousand paths.
This chance meeting later became the live wire that led to a new beginning. I did a lot of acrobatics on this wire, but I have never forgotten the warmth and the kindness of that first smile.
I chose the path that was lit up by this chance smile. It was full of brambles on which I was often hurt, but the sun came out at the right moments. By now love has begun to heal my wounds, which have become openings onto the paths of friendship.
T O D IE
This blessed life would have let go of me
If I had allowed it
It was easy
A dizzy flash
The fleeting joy of a moment
But Spring was making noise
In my young, wounded memory
And I could hear it
Beyond the barbed wire
T HE S UITCASE F ULL OF H OLES
In September 1945 I reentered life with a suitcase full of holes. Instead of
A R EAL H OUSE
Our landlady was an old woman bent double. She had a pyramidlike nose, and washed-out blue eyes sunk deep into their sockets. Her face was streaked with dirty wrinkles. Behind her tight lips she hid her bad mood and her completely toothless mouth.
She welcomed us with a tight grimace. Here were five young girls upsetting her peace. She was living in the basement of her large two-story home with a colony of lazy, ugly cats.
She took us around the building. We were dazzled. A real interior, full of furniture. In the bedrooms there was a bed ⦠Seeing these familiar objects, whose very existence I had forgotten, was an emotional experience. The wooden plank of yesterday was now a too-soft bed.
The group of huts in the camp had now transformed into a real house.
The strip of barbed wire was now a garden in bloom.
Could it all be real? Or was it, too, a trap?
I needed time to understand.
It took me several weeks to rediscover the joy of a soft bed.
We swallowed entire loaves with omelets made from powdered egg.
This dreamlike sensation of no longer being on rations was intoxicating and almost made us ill.
Little by little we realized that we were in possession of ourselves, to do as we wished, freely.
This freedom, once acknowledged, was heavy with promise and anxiety.
My body was satisfied, but the soul that dwelt within was aching and sick.
Where should I look? How could I find the cure for the sickness of living?
The sight of a copulating couple in Auschwitz, the discarded woman blue and trembling, kept me at a safe distance from the American soldiers at whom some of my fellow prisoners were throwing themselves.
The soldiers were quite plump. They sparkled with medals and carelessness.
They were plucking low-hanging fruit without asking questions.
No, for me, that was not freedom.
T HE S MILE
Crushed by loneliness, I roamed around the sun-filled countryside. Life was weighing on me. The respite organized by the welcome committees would be over by the end of August 1945. What would I do? What would I choose? To whom or to what would I turn? I was only alive in my own eyes. For others, who was I?
I had the choice between two solutions: end it all, or carry on. But not at any price. My legs kept me moving, but I could not see anything. A silent war was raging inside me. It made the pendulum of my decision swing wildly.
A couple found me. I did not see them coming. There they were in front of me: too late to run away. I was fascinated by the ladyâs smile. Its kindness woke me up to life, but at the same time dragged me into an incomprehensible, troubling world. I was paralyzed by my inability to communicate. All we had were gestures and the warmth of our voices, then the uneasiness of an awkward silence.
I was anxious to get away and reconnect with the me that definitely existed, cast to the winds. These new friends picked up on this and left me alone in the middle of this crossroads of a thousand paths.
This chance meeting later became the live wire that led to a new beginning. I did a lot of acrobatics on this wire, but I have never forgotten the warmth and the kindness of that first smile.
I chose the path that was lit up by this chance smile. It was full of brambles on which I was often hurt, but the sun came out at the right moments. By now love has begun to heal my wounds, which have become openings onto the paths of friendship.
T O D IE
This blessed life would have let go of me
If I had allowed it
It was easy
A dizzy flash
The fleeting joy of a moment
But Spring was making noise
In my young, wounded memory
And I could hear it
Beyond the barbed wire
T HE S UITCASE F ULL OF H OLES
In September 1945 I reentered life with a suitcase full of holes. Instead of
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