Acts of Desperation

Margaret woke up to the dim light of dawn slowly creeping through the cracks of the worn-down shed. She shivered. The shelter barely kept out the cold, and she didn’t know how they would survive the winter months ahead. Margaret glanced around the shed. It was a cramped space, barely big enough to fit them all. The few belongings that Margaret could gather in their frantic rush to flee were stacked neatly in one corner: a few blankets, some worn-out clothes, a couple of cooking utensils, and a cherished family photo. Beside her, Rosie and Doris huddled together for warmth. Their small bodies were frail and thin, their faces pale from weeks of being on the move and little to no food. Doris had Erika in her arms, protecting her from the world around them. Since the night they left home, Doris had been a constant source of comfort for Erika, holding her close during the most frightening moments. Margaret watched them for a moment, before pushing the blanket back and sliding, quietly, out of bed. It was time to get up. The day’s work would begin soon, and lateness was frowned upon. They were working on the harvest for the Heinrichs, the family that had taken her and her children in. With a heavy sigh, she stood up, feeling the familiar gnaw of hunger in her stomach; she had given most of last night’s food to her children, as she had done the previous nights. Though Margaret was grateful for the roof over their head, the price she had to pay was steep.

Outside in the middle of the vast, muddy field, Margaret knelt down, shivering as a cold blast of wind cut through her like a knife. She looked up at the sky, the thick, grey, low-hanging clouds stretching endlessly over the landscape. She looked down at her knees and winced. The ground was uneven, and the clumps of hardened soil and rocks were digging into her flesh with every movement. The repetitive chore of digging into the soil and pulling out the potatoes was exhausting. While she worked, she would reminisce about the time before the war, when everything was still alright. She thought about the candlelit evenings with her husband and children, the sound of their laughter, now a rare memory, echoing in her mind, reminding her of the joy she once knew.

As she dug her hands into the cold earth, Margaret’s fingers brushed against a particularly large potato. She paused; her children’s cries from the night before echoed in her head, their thin faces marked with pain. The rations that the Heinrichs provided were barely enough to survive, let alone keep them healthy. She quickly looked around the field, ensuring no one was watching. The other workers were busy on the opposite side of the field, their voices faint in the distance. Margaret’s heart pounded as she hesitated, the potato still half-buried in the soil. Why had it come to this? She thought, her hands trembling as they dug into the soil. With a quick, decisive move, she slipped the potato into the deep pocket of her apron. Her heart began to race and she quickly continued working, her hands moving mechanically, while her mind was racing with doubt and anxiety.

Am I doing the right thing? The question gnawed at her, but she pushed it aside. This isn’t theft, Margaret told herself. I’m not a thief, I’m just trying to keep my children alive. Her thoughts raced, and she recalled the tales of Robin Hood from her childhood. He stole from the rich to give to the poor. Wasn’t she doing the same thing?

But what would happen if she got caught? Would they lose the shed? Where would they go?  The thought of her girls not having a roof over their heads made her stomach turn. Then she remembered the stories about how Mr. Heinrich liked his belt. Would he raise his hands against her children? Her heart stopped for a second, and a cold wave of fear washed over her, making her hands tremble. Was he really capable of that? The thought of his belt cracking through the air haunted her, her pulse quickening as she fought to keep working.

Suddenly the sharp voice of Mr. Heinrich echoed over the fields. Margaret’s jaw tightened as she listened to his commanding voice.

‘You have to finish this field in the next half hour, so hurry up!’

Margaret paused to wipe the sweat from her brow, looking out over the field with a mixture of bittersweet relief. Another potato won’t hurt, she thought to herself, emboldened, and quickly slipped another potato into the pocket of her apron.

That evening, after bedtime, she boiled the stolen potatoes over a small fire.

‘Mama, why are we eating again?’ Doris asked.

‘This is a secret and special meal just for us. You cannot tell the other children about this, you both have to promise,’ Margaret said.

‘I promise,’ Doris said.

‘Me too,’ Rosie said.

Margaret mashed the potatoes with a little water, stretching them as far as it would go. Her children’s eyes were brightening. Margaret sat on the wooden floor, cradling Erika in her arms and feeding her with a small spoon of mashed potatoes.

For the first time in weeks that night, they fell asleep without crying.