The baker’s shop was, like everything else, in ruins. No one was there. At first, she saw nothing but the mass of crumpled earthen walls. But then she remembered that the oven was just inside the door. The door frame still stood erect, supporting one end of the roof. She stood in this frame, and, running her hand in underneath the fallen roof, she felt the wooden cover of the iron kettle. Under this, there might be steamed bread. She worked her arm in delicately and carefully. It took quite a long time, and clouds of lime and dust almost choked her. Nevertheless, she was right. She squeezed her hand in under the cover and felt the firm, smooth skin of the big steamed rolls. She drew out four; one by one.
“It’s hard to kill an old thing like me,” she remarked cheerfully to no one. She began to eat one of the rolls as she walked back. If she only had a bit of garlic and a bowl of tea—but one couldn’t have everything in these times.