I am lost without imagery
As Herr Finkham predicted, Andres was granted leave when his baby was born in April 1915. It was a boy as Andres expected. Mother and son were healthy, living in Berlin. Andres left, excited. He returned somber.
“My friend,” said Herr Finkham, slapping Andres on the back. “Or should I call you Vater Keplinger?”
Andres smiled, “Ya. Vater Keplinger. My son is … It is a feeling unlike anything I have ever known. He is only one month old, but he looks like me. He has black hair, tufts of it. A hawk nose, like my father. He is feeding well. His mother is well… They will stay in Berlin with my mother-in-law. They will be well cared for.”
“You seem happy,” responded Herr Finkham, “but there is something…”
“They are rationing food,” Andres almost whispered, “even to babies and new mothers. My mother-in-law says there are half the goods in the stores… barely more than a year into this war. The farmers have no horses, no machines, no fertilizer no labourers. The word everyone says is Ersatz (replacement). No butter? Ersatz, oil. No coffee? Kaffee-ersatz, black water made from roaster barley and oats. No bread? Kriegsbrot, bread from rye, wheat and potato meal. It smells worse than my son’s diaper. The blockade,” Andres shakes his head. “Kaiser’s maximum prices” He shakes his head again. “Kaiser has taken fishing trawlers. The Navy now runs them. It is a disaster.”
“How bad do you think it will become?” asked Herr Finkham.
“Bad. I am not sure we can win this war with no food,” said Andres.
Herr Finkham looked stricken. “Marah says none of this in her letters.”
“Ah. She does not want to worry you. I have something,” said Andres, reaching in his pocket. In his hand is a picture of a pretty young woman with dark hair and a baby with hair as black as night.
Herr Finkham stares at the goodness.