On a few occasions he would come over to the bed and begin to tell us a story. But then he'd break off, distracted. To tell the truth, we didn't mind. It made us uncomfortable that he'd keep stopping in the middle of a story and just stare into space. It was better if he just stayed by the stove sitting on his bushel basket.
Hunger is a terrible thing.
Those who haven't experienced it can't know what it is like. I remember that after we got our handful of puliszka and bolted it down in two mouthfuls, hot as it was, we children would jump out of bed and run to the wooden board where our mother had cut our portions. Here we would scrabble with our fingers or a pocket knife to rub off any leftover scraps. We would lick and lick our fingers for nourishment even though we were mostly eating wood splinters from the board. When hunger is so profound in a family, every mouth counts.