“This precious loaf of bread I’m holding in my hands, fellows, has an epic story behind it,” declared the little boy standing on a small wooden chair. “I promised I would get it, and here it is,” he boasted.
His friends, who had gathered from every corner, route, and slum of the city, listened carefully as their little companion spoke proudly of how he managed to get their promised loaf back after those long days they spent watching the bread on sellers’ carts roaming the city, leaving them with nothing but an irresistible aroma. It was the same aroma their parents and grandparents smelled for years but never gained.
The little one continued, “He was a big, old man. The biggest man I have ever seen. He wore a strangely striped cloth of black and white on his head… .”
“A kufiya. That’s how I heard them call it,” a friend interrupted.
“Hush! They don’t have to know this,” whispered the little boy as he drew his head closer to his companion’s shoulder. His small audience was so enchanted by the loaf of bread that they didn’t notice this stealthy interaction. He adjusted his kippah on his head and went on, “I watched him day and night. He spread the bread on a small wooden pushcart as if it was ordinary bread. Oh, my friends, my heart bled seeing this happen to our bread. But I was patient and stood still until that one sparkling moment came. I walked slowly towards him, captured this loaf of bread, and ran away, with the old man’s cries chasing me.”
“Did he chase you?” a voice came from the crowd.
“At first he did not move. Maybe he didn’t see it coming.”
Maybe the story would not have been this interesting to his audience had he told them the rest of it: how he wasn’t the fast runner he thought he was and how he had almost been caught and how he begged the policeman for mercy. He did not tell them of the police who insisted, despite the old man’s pleas, to compromise. The police gave the boy only a crust and returned the rest to the old man. Still, his friends were even more captivated when he drew the bread near his beaming mouth and gulped a big part of it.
“What happened next?” someone asked.
“I felt sorry for the old, breathless man. He must have hated the fact that a youngster like myself had defeated him,” chuckled the boy, his voice choked by ultimate triumph rather than stolen bread. “You felt sorry? Are you saying you want to give it back to him?” a curious question arose.
“No, I snuck back and took the rest,” said the little one as he gulped the last bit of the old man’s bread.