A Meal in Winter by Hubert Mingarelli Page B

childhood home, and we didn’t want to spoil the innocent mood. We were smoking cigarettes, warm and cosy in front of the flames that lit up our faces with a familiar light, our senses floating gently in the smell of the soup. If we threw the Pole outside, that would mean fighting, getting riled up, opening the door and letting in the cold, and almost certainly fighting again once we were outside. We feared that, after all of that, we would end up eating the soup in full awareness of the discomfort of this filthy little Polish hovel, our emotions still riled up, and that the soup would stick in our throats.
    Bauer took a good swig and handed me the flask. I took a good swig too. Emmerich didn’t want any more. Bauer stood up and put more wood in the stove. And while he was stirring the soup with his spoon, the Pole, without looking up, still carving his wood, muttered something, and Bauer replied: ‘Keep working, little man, instead of talking. Hurry up – it’s nearly cooked.’
    â€˜Is that true?’ I asked.
    â€˜Yeah, the cornmeal’s getting thicker. It’s sticking to the bottom.’
    â€˜So unstick it,’ I said. ‘It’ll burn.’
    He did that, then asked me to hand him the flask. Andthe amount of alcohol he poured into the soup! It was partly to make the Pole pay, and partly because we would be eating it so soon, the taste of the alcohol would not have time to evaporate.
    Bauer handed me the almost empty flask, and the Pole finished working with his knife. He put it away in his pocket and began sanding the spoon’s hollow on a corner of the stove. He showed no fear: he pressed down with all his strength, as though he were sanding a tree stump.
    â€˜If he breaks it now,’ said Bauer, closing his eyes to imagine this happening, ‘I will die laughing.’
    â€˜Let me see,’ I said to the Pole, gesturing with my hand.
    He stopped sanding and stared at me. I made the same gesture, more insistently, and he handed me the spoon with a threatening look on his face. I turned it in my hands, examining the hollow, weighing it up, and said (because it was the truth): ‘It’s pretty well done.’
    I passed it to Emmerich. ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘He’s done it.’
    â€˜Give it to me,’ said Bauer, holding out his hand.
    â€˜What are you going to do?’
    â€˜Throw it in the fire.’
    The Pole stared at Emmerich. Bauer was still holding out his hand, grinning now, his eyes fierce. Emmerichfigured out the best way to do it. He moved the spoon close to Bauer – but careful not to get too close – and turned it around so that he could see it from every angle. Then he handed it back to the Pole. Still grinning, Bauer said, ‘It’s ready.’
    He grabbed the saucepan’s handle with two hands and placed it carefully on the table, then he went back to the stove and picked up the slices of bread. Emmerich and I turned around so we were facing the table, and took out our spoons and tin mugs. Bauer stepped over the bench and sat between us.

AND SUDDENLY THE hunger, which had left us for a while – that hunger sent to sleep by the cigarettes and the potato alcohol and the fire in the stove – awoke and rose from the saucepan and fell upon us as if it were a living creature. The soup looked good and smelled good. The slices of salami floated on the surface, carried there by the cornmeal, now cooked. The melted lard was still boiling.
    We turned away from the stove, and the heat caressed our backs. We watched steam rise from the soup. My head was spinning. We looked at the slices of bread. The soup was continuing to simmer. The edges of the bread were toasted, reminding us of things past. As if imparting a secret, but loud enough for Emmerich to hear too, Bauer said to me: ‘We’ll tell our nephew about this.’
    Relaxed and fully in agreement, I nodded. Emmerich whispered, ‘We