Bread and Water | A Short Story

By Savannah Jane McCrary

     “I’m hungry,” Jakob sighed. “I’m so tired of just bread and water.” He frowned at the dry crust of bread and tin cup of tepid water in his chapped hands, illuminated by the shaft of sunset light from the single barred window. Frowning at it won’t change it. He lifted his gaze to his cellmate, Martin. 

     At eighteen, Martin was six years older than Jakob. Like Jakob, he stared at his meager portion of bread and water. But then he looked up and smiled. 

     “You know, my mother used to say, ‘Bread and water can so easily be toast and tea.’” 

     Jakob’s gaze traveled over the dismal stone walls of the prison cell. “Not here. We’ve no tea leaves, no way to heat the water if we did. No butter–”

     Martin interrupted, “I think she meant it figuratively. She meant something bad can be turned into something good if only you have eyes to see it. It’s all about how you look at it.”

     He held up his crust of bread like a priest blessing the Eucharist. “‘Just bread,’ you say. But think about it. A grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies so that it can bear fruit. It’s crushed so that it can be made into nourishment. In Hebrew, the word for ‘bread’ was also used to simply mean ‘food.’ That’s how important bread was. And Jesus–He called Himself the Bread of Life. He was the bread broken for us; the grain crushed to give us life.” 

     Martin broke his piece of bread in two and handed a portion to Jakob. “Eat it.”

    Both boys nibbled their bread in silence. Then Martin raised his cup of water. “Just water? Two hydrogen molecules and an oxygen one. Essential for life. It sustains trees, plants, animals, and man. Water is what we are baptized with. It symbolizes the washing away of the old and the birth of the new. And Jesus–He told the woman at the well He would give her living water. Jah, this water points us to the only One who can truly satisfy our deepest thirst.” 

     Martin drank deeply. Jakob swallowed the lukewarm liquid, then spoke bitterly, “I am a Christian. I believe Yeshua, Jesus, is the Messiah. But a lot of good it’s done me. We told the Nazis we were Christians. But they said, ‘Anyone can convert to avoid trouble. You’re dirty Jews. Get in the truck.’ They arrested my mother, my father, my brother, my sisters. I haven’t seen them for months.” 

     Martin stared at the empty cup. “I’m sorry, Jakob. I haven’t seen my family for months either. I was arrested for speaking out against the Nazis’ crimes at my college.”

       Silence ensued. After a while, Martin said, “You can sleep on the cot tonight.” 

     “Thanks,” Jakob muttered. Martin got off the cot, and Jakob stepped over his legs to get onto it. The cell was so small. Simply moving from the door to the cot was a challenge akin to an obstacle course. 

       Jakob stretched out on the cot and fell asleep. 

***

      The next morning Jakob awoke to the cell door opening. Not just the little food slot, but the whole door. 

     “Jakob Arenberg.” The guard’s voice was clipped and commanding. “Come with me.” 

     Jakob’s heart turned over in his chest, and chills rushed over him. He slowly got up. Where am I going? Concentration camp? A hundred horrifying thoughts rushed through his mind. Firing squad. Gas chamber. Experimental medical procedures. O God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, please protect me.

     As he made his way over to the door, he glanced at Martin. The older boy gave him a weary smile. “Remember the bread and water,” he whispered. 

     “Schnell! Hurry up!” The guard’s rough hand grabbed Jakob’s skinny arm and pulled him along. Jakob stumbled to keep up. The Nazi dragged him out of the prison and ordered him into the back of a truck with a number of other boys. The truck lurched forward and rumbled down the road. 

     Hours later, it ground to a halt. The sight that met Jakob’s eyes made his heart sink. 

A concentration camp. Concrete buildings. A smashed landscape. Barbed wire fence. Locked gates. Gun-wielding guards. 

   Trembling all over, Jakob went with the other boys into the camp. Once through the gate, they followed the guards over to a building. A few prisoners glanced at the newcomers as they passed, worn, dejected, hopeless glances. Jakob and the other boys were herded inside, stripped of their few remaining belongings, given a prison uniform, and assigned a number that they would now be known by. Jakob’s was 40635. 

   After that, another building, another long line, then supper. A bowl of gray soup, a hunk of bread, a cup of water. 

   Jakob paused and studied the food. What were those chunks floating in the soup? Perhaps it is better not to know. At least it was something besides just bread and water. No sooner had he thought it, than he heard Martin’s words in his mind: “The Bread of Life. Living Water.”

     He began to whisper a prayer of thanksgiving, but a shove sent him stumbling forward. Soup sloshed out of the bowl and onto his shoes. 

     “Schnell! Get to the barracks!” the guard beside Jakob shouted and waved his hand impatiently. Jakob shuffled into place in the line of prisoners as they trudged on to yet another gray concrete building. When they entered, Jakob decided it was the worst one yet. 

     Bunks, several rows high, nearly filled the space. The room swarmed with men and boys. Jakob found a place to stand against the wall and finished eating. By the time he’d swallowed the last morsel of bread, his legs felt too weak to stand any longer. He made his way over to the already crowded bunks. The top row was as crammed full as it could be. Jakob wearily crawled into the second row. He couldn’t even sit up.

     Claustrophobia nearly overwhelmed him. His heart rate quickened, and his chest tightened. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. He shut his eyes. What if the crowded top row collapses on top of me? He attempted to steady his breathing. 

     “It’s all right, Jakob,” he told himself. But in his mind, it was his mother’s voice he heard. His whole life, she had been there to comfort him when he was frightened. Until a few months ago. His family had hoped to leave Germany, but before they could, they’d been arrested. Arrested for no other reason than that they were Jewish. 

     Noises filled the room–squabbling, cursing, people moving around. 

     A sudden little pain made Jakob open his eyes. A bug bite. The straw he lay on was crawling with tiny insects. Were they fleas?

     Now he began to itch all over. How could he ever sleep in this place? 

     But somehow, he did. He had to. 

***

     The days settled into a dreary monotony of roll calls, lines, meager meals, curfews, work details, and the ever-prowling guards with their batons. 

     Slowly, almost without realizing it, Jakob quit praying. He quit reciting Scripture to himself. He quit hoping. He even almost stopped thinking of his family. His sole occupation became to survive–to somehow live through this place of cruelty and suffering and hunger. He learned to blend in and obey orders promptly, thereby avoiding most of the punishments. 

     He hardly spent any time thinking; every day it was one task after another until he collapsed onto his bunk at the end of the day, too exhausted to mind the fleas. 

     Until one morning. 

     Jakob stood in the predawn roll call. He’d learned it was best to stand in the middle of the throng, the farthest from the guards and their swinging clubs. Of course, that meant someone else had to be nearer the guards. But Jakob told himself he couldn’t worry about that. He had to survive himself. He couldn't think about the other prisoners, couldn’t care. 

     A freezing, drenching, bone-numbing rain pelted him. He shivered, but other than that, he remained still. He’d memorized the drill. Keep your head down. Don’t move or speak until they call your number. Ignore the weak ones who don’t make it through the roll call. 

     He’d been through it a hundred times in the last weeks. 

     But today, suddenly, a thought sprang unsummoned into his fatigued mind. “God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” A prayer. How long had it been since he prayed? “God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jakob,” he repeated in the silence of his thoughts. It had always brought him comfort to call Adonai by that name. For He was not only the God of the patriarch Jacob, but of Jakob Arenberg. 

      Jakob’s mind began to wander. How many names did God have? There were so many in the Scriptures. 

     “Jehovah Jireh”– “The God Who Provides.”   “Jehovah Rapha”– “The God Who Heals.”

     “My Shield. My Glory and the One Who Lifts Up My Head. My Strength. My Deliverer.” 

     Tears began to slip out of Jakob’s eyes. Truly Adonai was–and is–all that. Jakob had suffered, but he had not been forsaken. 

     Then he remembered two more names he had not thought of since his first night in the concentration camp. “The Bread of Life. Living Water.” 

     “I’m sorry,” Jakob whispered. “I’m sorry I forgot to pray.” And he began to pray then. 

     A nudge from a fellow prisoner jolted him out of his silent communion with God. 

      "40635!” barked the harsh voice of the guard. 

     “Here,” said Jakob. But in his heart, he told himself, “That number is not who I am. My name is Jakob. And I am a child of God.” 

     His circumstances hadn’t changed a bit, but Jakob’s outlook was far brighter as he joined his work detail. He was given a shovel and put to work alongside dozens of other prisoners digging a trench. As he slogged through the mud, flinging aside one shovelful after another, he recited psalms and hymns to himself. And he thought of his family. Mama. Papa. Rachel. Rebekah. Renate. Joseph. 

     Soon a much less pleasant course of thought broke in. A guard struck the boy beside Jakob. 

     “Is that the best you can do? Get a move on, filthy Jew!” 

     For the first time, Jakob looked at his neighbor. The dark-haired boy was about his own age. His face reddened, and his grip tightened around his shovel handle. The guard stepped back but continued to hurl names and insults at the boy, each worse than the previous. 

     The boy released his shovel and reached for a rock on the ground. His mouth set in a thin line; his fingers curled around the stone. 

     Jakob grabbed his arm. “Don’t. You’ll only make things worse.”

   “But–”

   “Please,” Jakob whispered. “If you throw that stone at the guard, he’ll kill you. ‘Vengeance is Mine. I will repay,’ says the Lord.” 

     “No talking!” shouted the guard. “Kalte kost for both of you!”

     Kalte kost. The threat that forever hung over their heads. It meant no soup, only bread and water. Jakob quickly turned back to his work. He stole a glance at the boy beside him as he scooped the muck. He, too, had returned to his task. 

     Jakob did not get a chance to speak to him again until they stood in line for food. Speaking softly, as talking was forbidden then as well, Jakob asked, “What is your name?”

    The boy glanced back at him, then turned his gaze forward. 

     “Motta,” he whispered.

     “I am Jakob.”

     As they neared the soup tureen, the all-too-familiar voice of the cruel guard snapped, “No soup for those two! Kalte kost!” 

     The man who passed out the rations, a gaunt fellow prisoner, handed them each a hunk of bread. 

     As they entered the barracks, Jakob nudged Motta. “You can sit with me.” 

     Motta nodded. The two walked to the water spigot for a drink, then sat against the wall. 

     Motta spoke bitterly. “We slave all day for the Nazi pigs, end the day exhausted, shivering, and famished, and what do we get? Just bread and water.”

     Jakob looked first at Motta, then at the bread in his hands. He broke a piece off, and a thin smile crept into his weary features. “Motta, it’s not just bread and water…”

THE END.