Don't Know how Good they Got it  

Damn kids. The three of ‘em are huddled together whimpering. Marsha, she’s tried to eat some of hers, but Trent and Neil, their bowls are still practically full. Sitting there, all three of them, snivelling, like I was trying to poison them or something.

Your ma isn’t coming home, you better get used to eating what you get and liking it!  Jesus, the tears, it’s almost funny. Okay, I lied: she’ll be back on Thursday, she’s just having bunions removed, but I figure I’ll use it. Why the hell not? You tell me what’s wrong with giving kids good food and asking them to eat it. Are they working in the salt mines? Are they being forced to haul steel cables up a frozen slope in below-zero weather? Are they being starved? Jesus, to look at them – to hear them sobbing – you’d think I’d made them kneel on the bamboo pole in the snow for five hours or – ah, what the hell. Margaret’s spoiled them, that’s why they’re like this. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, toasted raisin bread, cups of Ovaltine for breakfast – you’ve never seen anything like it. Spoiled rotten.

When we were kids, oatmeal was what we had for breakfast. Ma would make up a big pot and we’d all get a share. You had it hot or you had it cold, but you had it and you were goddamn grateful for it, too. That’s what I tell Margaret when the kids turn up their noses at food, but does she listen? Hell, no.

So here we are. Marsha’s taken another spoonful; she’s got snot running down her face and her eyes are all red and rubbery-looking from crying. She’s gagging now, like she’s swallowing wallpaper paste. Trent – he’s the middle one and the one Margaret’s spoiled the most on account of his scrawny size – he’s still rocking back and forth, acting like he’s dying. I slapped him a couple of times and his nose bled a little. Hell – you’d have thought I fried him in oil. Jesus, the carrying on, the dramatics. I swear to God, this kid wouldn’t have lasted a week in Mitsushima.

Neil still hasn’t touched his bowl, he tries to get up and leave, but I tell him to get back there and eat his goddamn oatmeal. So he starts snivelling too and I’m leaning over when I can smell it. Then I can see it. He’s gone and peed in his pants. Christ.

You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that in January 1945, a bowl of oatmeal would’ve been worth its weight in diamonds. Those of us who were still alive, we’d have fought for it, risked our lives for a mouthful. I’m thinking Higgins got beat to death when they caught him with an onion. I’m thinking we were picking beans out of the guards’ shit and eating those.

And I’m thinking that no matter how long they live, these kids are never going to understand how good they’ve got it.