Vienna's Southern Suburbs.
Rolf Adorno fingered the three five-Kreuzer paper notes in his pocket, calculating how to divide up the bread he would buy when he got back.
Karen, one and a half pounds; Gretel, one pound; himself, two and a half pounds...
He shook his head.
The neighbor's Dieter was about the same age as Gretel, yet half a head taller. Better give the child one and a half pounds.
And Karen was sick at the moment. If he ate any less, his body would surely give out. That meant only two pounds left for himself.
He did not know whether so little food would let him last through a full day's work. Yesterday, he had eaten two and a half pounds, and by the time he got home that evening, he had been so hungry he could barely stand. But he had no other choice. He could only hope the war in Switzerland would end soon. Then he would no longer have to pay the "Special War Tax"—at least, that was what the notices posted at the street corners said. Life should be a little easier then.
He sighed, then began regretting his earlier decision again—to give up redeeming the land and come to Vienna to make a living. Though that would have left him carrying a crushing debt of eight thousand Florins, the harvest from the fields was guaranteed, unlike the city bakeries, where prices changed every week.
At that thought, his heart clenched.
What if Mr. Hibbert raised the price again? How were they supposed to live?
The sky had only just begun to brighten when a long line had already formed outside Hibbert Bakery.
People had to buy their food for the day before work, then hurry off to their jobs.
"Hey, potato grower, you're