Decidedly this subject of conversation had no more success than the other.
Silently our prisoners continued their meal; but the German did not go away. He stood there motionless in front of them, with a stupid air, watching them open a box of preserves and cut up a French loaf, the whiteness of which called forth his admiration.
“You have good bread,” said he.
“In France we don’t make any other. Even the poorest eat this bread. Just compare it with your K. bread. You will have a nice stomach at the end of the war, you and your children.”
“Ah yes! The children, it is very sad for them.”
“You have some? Many?”
“Seven,” replied the sentinel.
“And how do you manage to feed them?”
“The allowance that my wife receives is not enough; everything is beyond our means. It is misery.”
“In France the wives of the soldiers receive a much higher sum, and yet the food is cheaper and more plentiful than here. Look at the white bread and the preserves that we receive. France is rich, and we can still fight for a long time.”