A Meal in Winter by Hubert Mingarelli

the sound of it in our ears. It gave us light too, as the sun was going down outside. Steam rose from the soup. It would be thick and nourishing – we were sure of it now. Among all the different smells, the onion was the strongest. We each drank a mouthful. It burned our tongues, but transported us to a gentler world. So we drank another. The Pole had put one elbow on the bar of the stove and was resting his temple on his hand, as easy in his mind as we were now that he knew he would be getting some soup. I no longer thought about the flash of malice I’d seen on his face. His dog sniffed occasionally.
    Suddenly I realised that, without the door that we had taken down and which was now cheerfully burning, the house had changed. Was it the storeroom that had enteredour space, here around the bench? Or was it the other way round? Either way, it felt very different now.
    While I looked around, attempting to pinpoint the cause of this change, the Jew in the storeroom began to unbutton his coat. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he took it off, rolled it up, put it on the floor and sat on it. Because, of course, even if it was warm now in the storeroom, the floor was still freezing. It would have taken a day and a night with good coal in the stove to warm up the concrete slab.
    He still wore a heavy reefer jacket under his coat, orange and dirty but very thick, and quilted, which was unusual. There were undoubtedly other layers beneath that. But it was his reefer jacket that had saved him in the forest. He had pushed his wool hat even further up his forehead. It was folded now, and from here the embroidered snowflake was invisible.
    We no longer stirred on the bench, we no longer spoke. Not a single movement or sound. Each of us had been isolated from the others by the heat, the smell of the soup and the potato alcohol, and sleep was calling to us. Even the Pole was beginning to fall asleep, while leaning against the stove.
    I closed my eyes for a few seconds. My imaginationbegan to see things that weren’t there. Better open them, I thought. The Pole’s dog had woken up. It was still lying with its head on its front paws, and it was observing Emmerich, Bauer and me, and its kindly blinking eyes reminded me of a dog I’d once had, a long time ago.
    In order to think about something else, I whispered, ‘I hope he has a spoon.’
    â€˜What?’ Emmerich asked, also in a whisper.
    â€˜The Pole,’ I said. ‘What’s he going to eat with?’
    â€˜If he hasn’t got one, we’ll chuck him outside,’ replied Bauer. ‘I don’t want that ugly mouth of his touching the soup.’
    â€˜Me neither,’ I said.
    We looked at him. He was almost asleep, leaning on the stove. Up to this point, we had been able to stand him. But soon his disgusting mouth would be eating at the table with us.
    Emmerich leaned towards me with a questioning expression.
    â€˜We’ll see,’ I replied. ‘Maybe he does have one.’
    But suddenly Bauer said, ‘No, we won’t see. I’m going to chuck him outside, even if he does have a spoon.’
    â€˜I’ll give him mine if he doesn’t have one,’ I joked.
    But Bauer was on the warpath now. ‘I want to chuck him outside. Are we scared of him?’
    â€˜Hang on, let’s wait and see,’ I said, putting a hand on his leg.
    He calmed down a little, but not for long.
    â€˜I don’t care what he does, but that mouth is not going near our soup,’ he said.
    All of this had been said in a whisper. The Pole was still dozing, his eyes half-closed. Suddenly Bauer yelled: ‘Hey, you! What are you planning to eat with? Not with your filthy gob, I’m telling you that now. Because it makes me want to puke.’
    The Pole had jumped at this. Now he was looking at each of us in turn, trying to work out who had spoken.
    In a nasty voice, Bauer repeated, ‘Hey, what are you planning