There are six of us at the table, and one small loaf of bread.

“Lucky to have bread,” comments Jorzy, bending his head over his hands, even though he must be as hungry to start as the rest of us. The light from the oil lamp sharpens his features like a pencil. He’s also got the high forehead that we both get from Papa. Maybe we look alike, though it’s hard to tell, especially as my brother keeps his hair so short. I wish he’d hurry up. My mouth’s full of saliva just seeing the bread and with the steam of the soup rising up from my bowl. “Thanks to the provider, for giving us life,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “Thanks to the gods who provide, for the sun and the moon, the rain and the snow. Thanks to the gods who provide for giving us this bread.”

“Thanks!” the murmur runs round the table.

Then hands grab for a slice of the bread.

“Eat it slowly,” warns Nanna, “or you’ll get sore tummies.”

There are exactly six slices, no more, no less. I hold the bread to my nose, inhaling the heady scent. And it’s fresh – a wonder. We haven’t had fresh bread for such a long time. Mostly it’s stale, sometimes rock-hard, and Nanna has to soak it in water or milk and make pudding out of it. So the fresh bread is wonderful. Even Jorzy, by the way his eyes are gleaming, looks delighted. I take one bite and try to savour it. But I can’t help myself, and stuff the rest into my mouth, humming as I chew like I’m a little kid again. Then I start on the soup, sucking it down spoon by spoon, finding one slice of the sausage at the bottom of the bowl. All too soon, it’s gone.

The others must seem as thin and disappointed as I feel. Babet, who is the youngest at eight, starts to whine for more. Ma, sitting beside her, has saved a crust of her own bread for Babet.

“Jorzy,” Nanna says quickly, gathering up the bowls, “tell us a story.”

We forget about the lack of food then and look expectantly at Jorzy. He leans back in his chair and starts to tamp down his pipe. Because of his factory job and working so hard every day, sometimes he treats himself to a small wad of tobacco and Nanna pretends not to care that the tobacco might have meant extra bread or potatoes instead.

“Let me see,” he drawls, pretending to think about it, though we know that stories jump about in my brother’s head like fleas on a dog. His dark eyes twinkle as he glances around the table. He lights his pipe, taking his time, seeming to savour the taste of the baccy. Then he leans his head back and sends a puff of smoke up to the stained ceiling.