
Bread
Margaret Atwood
Imagine a piece of bread. You don’t have to imagine it, it’s right here in the
kitchen, on the breadboard, in its plastic bag, lying beside the bread knife. The
bread knife is an old one you picked up at an auction; it has the word BREAD carved
into the wooden handle. You open the bag, pull back the wrapper, cut yourself a
slice. You put butter on it, then peanut butter, then honey, and you fold it over.
Some of the honey runs out onto your fingers and you lick it off. It takes you
about a minute to eat the bread. This bread happens to be brown, but there is also
white bread, in the refrigerator, and a heel of rye you got last week, round as a full
stomach then, now going moldy. Occasionally you make bread. You think of it as
something relaxing to do with your hands.
Imagine a famine. Now imagine a piece of bread. Both of these things are
real but you happen to be in the same room with only one of them. Put yourself
into a different room, that’s what the mind is for. You are now lying on a thin
mattress in a hot room. The walls are made of dried earth, and your sister, who is
younger than you, is in the room with you. She is starving, her belly is bloated,
flies land on her eyes; you brush them off with your hand. You have a cloth too,
filthy but damp, and you press it to her lips and forehead. The piece of bread is
the bread you’ve been saving, for days it seems. You are as hungry as she is, but
not yet as weak. How long does this take? When will someone come with more
bread? You think of going out to see if you might find something that could be
eaten, but outside the streets are infested with scavengers and the stink of
corpses is everywhere.
Should you share the bread or give the whole piece to your sister? Should
you eat the piece of bread yourself? After all, you have a better chance of living,
you’re stronger. How long does it take to decide?
Imagine a prison. There is something you know that you have not yet told.
Those in control of the prison know that you know. So do those not in control. If
you tell, thirty or forty or a hundred of your friends, your comrades, will be caught
and will die. If you refuse to tell, tonight will be like last night. They always choose
the night. You don’t think about the night however, but about the piece of bread
they offered you. How long does it take? The piece of bread was brown and fresh
and reminded you of sunlight falling across a wooden floor. It reminded you of a