A morsel of bread

That year, winter came as harsh as it had always been. The young bagel seller, wrapped in a thick wool scarf- perhaps knitted for him by his wife or mother- was yelling at the top of his lungs out on the frozen streets of Taksim.

“Fresh bagels! Fresh pastries! Bread!”

Few passersby had any interest in stopping for bread in such bitter weather. Though the well dressed woman who waited for her taxi could benefit from warming up by having a hot bagel.

Tightly wrapping the black coat around herself, the woman entered the car. She dropped the metal coins from her leather sac onto the driver’s palm.

The driver pocketed the money, an avaricious spark flashing in his eyes. He grinned, showcasing all of his yellow teeth.

“What’s up, lady?” he asked, “Where to?”

“Dandelion Vil.” she replied without hesitation. She placed her hands into the pockets of her thick coat in an attempt to get herself warm.

The driver scanned her up and down, gazing pensively.

“The money wasn’t enough?” she asked, pulling out the sac from the left side of the coat.

“No Miss, we ordinary people are quite content with what we have. It’s just I haven’t got the slightest idea what somebody like you would be doing in our modest village.”

“Dandelion is my home, if you could call it that.” The woman answered. “Visiting for a relative’s funeral.”

“Sorry for your loss, lady. It’s been a while since I have buried my mother.”

“I don’t remember mentioning my mother.” she opposed sternly, putting her head against the window.

“I don’t hear the village dialect whilst you speak.” The driver talked after a few minutes of silence. His eyes were fixed on the road.

“Oh, did they ever let me speak so I could learn?” She smiled in agony. “My speech and manners come from the cityfolk.”

The driver mumbled something in protest, but she no longer listened. She had fallen back into her past. All she could see now was a girl, around fifteen, and the floor table set in the living room.

They all sat on the thin sheets, having dinner. Father did not dare lift his head out of shame, while mother was battling her growling stomach by covering it with her thin, delicate voice.

The girl licked the crumbs on her plate. She had had a morsel of bread in front of her about ten seconds before, whereas her brother was chewing his thick slice with great pleasure.

“Mehmed, could you spare me a piece?” she cried. Mehmed ignored her. The girl turned her head in pain, as her mother had pinched her badly.

“Shirin, you are done with your ration… Go outside and play.”

“Mum, I want a whole loaf of bread as well!” Shirin stood her ground. She had come to the conclusion that it was impossible to trick her hunger. “I’ve been living off scraps for days.” She pointed her head towards her father’s plate, filled to the brim.

Her mother gaped at her in bewilderment. “They’re boys, honey. They work, they need fuel. They earn the bread.”

“Give me fuel so I can work, so I don’t get a chance to rest, mom,” Shirin begged. “I’ll bring you thousands of loaves of bread.”

“Maybe one day.” Her mother pressed her lips together and broke eye contact, indicating the argument was over.

Days passed. Shirin and her mother were getting skinnier day by day. Her mother could barely get out of bed now. Father was doing everything in his power to stay together while he returned home with two loaves of bread every single day.

On the contrary, Mehmed had grown to be a lovely little boy. The old woman who lived next door adored him very much, feeding him her apples and squeezing his chubby cheeks whenever he came around to play. She saw him and his innocence as a way to cleanse off long years steeped in sin. As for Shirin, she absolutely despised her, giving her nothing but a few dirty looks as she passed the street to get to the communal well. The old woman gossiped about her with the ladies of Dandelion nonstop.

“Shirin is so obnoxious. She’s a body to feed, nothing but weight for Sam and Nadia’s shoulders. God heard me when I spoke to them to be careful about the devil of the creature little girls are. They said they’d wed her in a beat, get their bloodline pride! Now tell me, who would like to marry skin and bones?”

One chilly autumn morning, Shirin sat in the living room. Her mother had her sewing against her will. Whatever, there was nothing to do anyway. She had to wait for Mehmed to get back from school.

Tick. Tock. It had been hours. Mehmed was stuck somewhere, and she could not bear it anymore. She called for her mother. No reply. Shirin stood up and pulled herself towards the other room of the house, which was the bedroom. She could hear her mother’s faint voice, and her father’s rough voice overpowering it.

She pressed her ear against the lock. Eavesdropping on the conversation in the bedroom for the hundredth time. But something was different this time.

Her father was not crying like he always did. Quite the opposite, actually. Shirin knitted her brows. Was he… excited? She couldn’t make it out, but was happy regardless. The only thing that could make her stern father beam was bread. More of it. For everyone. Finally.

But then, she heard her mother’s bleak cry.

“What is wrong with you Nadia?” her father demanded. “God heard our cries!”

Her mother cried harder at this, letting out a high-pitched shriek. Shirin pictured her poor, tiny mother standing against the giant she knew as father. Her heart sank.

“My baby doesn’t want all of this.” She wailed. “I can’t- we can’t do this. We can’t wed her.”

“We can’t feed her!” Father exclaimed. “You think I am fine with giving my daughter away just like that? I’m her father, for goodness sake. But she’s another throat to feed. Kian should take good care of her.”

Shirin froze at the spot. Her mother had stopped objecting. Just as her eyes filled with tears, her mother finally spoke:

“I promised her, I promised Shirin that she would earn her own bread!”

“Know your place, woman! She shall become a housewife. Our Shirin, forget a loaf, she wouldn’t be able to get her hands on a morsel of bread by herself!”

Nadia’s screams filled the house.

But Shirin couldn’t depend on her mother’s fight, or pray for her father’s mercy. She knew she had to take matters into her own hands. In a split second, she ran to the moneybox standing on the bottom shelf. She poured every penny into Mehmed’s old school bag frantically, noticing his school books while she did so. Clutching the bag with her trembling hands, she was out the door in seconds.