Breakfast

By Beatrice Brecher

My father deserted from the American peace-time Army in 1912. He had been badgered by my mother who wanted him to take care of her and the baby. They had been married secretly a few months before. She was one of thirteen children who had been warned by her mother not to return home because she had enough to take care of. My father, upon hearing the news of her pregnancy, was very upset. He arranged for her to be taken care of by a neighbor. She was to be given a clean room and bed. But my mother came to him in tears and told him that the apartment was filthy and the bed full of bed bugs.

My father deserted and tried to find a way to take care of us. They lived under an assumed name, changing apartments every two or three months. He was 19, she was 17. They lived this way for a couple of years. He had some savings and they lived on that. He picked up odd jobs whenever he could, until she came to him one day and said, "we have no money and no food. You have to get some. I don't care how you do it, just get some".

He put on his great coat and high laced shoes and went out into the snow looking for work. He went back to the factories where he had previously worked as a laborer but there was no work. So he started back home, remembering that he had seen boxes on wheels, in front of grocery stores, filled with milk, eggs, bread, and maybe butter. He was very scared but he reached into one of the boxes and took food to bring home.

That morning, in that dingy little apartment, seated next to the coal stove, my mother whipped up breakfast which we quietly shared.

About the Author: Beatrice Brecher, a New York City native, lived in Manhattan until she was nine and then her family moved to the Bronx. She and her husband settled in Riverdale, where she now lives. Her hobbies include music, reading, and writing. She has two daughters