by Janet Rosen

Far away there was an ocean crashing dark with waves; and in the blinking flicker of the newsreels, a screaming moustache the shape of a dark razor and big flags with hard angled shapes like four bent legs running fast. Red black white. Then the flags flapped on the building where the men in hats walk to City Hall and Sieg Heil.

Yellow stars must be sewn onto even the good soft tan cashmere coat. There was a silver thimble and scissors whose blades are the beak of a stork. Without the silver thimble, ouch! and a dot of blood like the eggs that must be thrown away but lick the finger when no one is looking. The stitches go up and down like stepping on and off the curb. Then on to the street and oh! up in the air in a plane to Paris before anyone finds out. So then all of the nice clothes and toys had to be left behind. Goodbye, little rabbit!

Mutti says you must never tell a lie. But you also must not tell anyone you are Jewish, just nod and make your hand do a cross like this when they say baby Jesus, shhh. The communion wafer was a little cracker, like if a doll had a Seder.