I remember Herr Ackerman being a rather stern man with neatly trimmed whiskers, dark eyes that seemed like olives stuck in large bowls. His wife was an unhappy woman who appeared always in his shadow, never said anything she didn’t think he would agree with. They were the parents of my school friend, Greta Ackerman, with whom I stayed that summer in their large house in the countryside. Rosa, Herr Ackerman said to me, where are your parents living? When I told him, he pulled a face, sniffed the air as if he could smell them. I am not sure that you may come and stay again after this summer, Rosa; he said stiffly, times are changing; there are people about now who take a dim view of being too associated with Jews. I nodded and was glad at least that summer I could stay with Greta and be with her in that fine house. She was very sad when I told her what her father had said. We must make the most of our time together, she said, and forget about next summer. I had only arrived that day, so she took me to the upper landing of the house where along a corridor she showed me the bedroom where I was to sleep. It was cosy, far better than my own at home which I shared with my sister Rachel. Where do you sleep? I asked. Come and see, Greta said, and taking me by the hand pulled me along the corridor to a door at the end. Here, she said excitedly, I sleep here. Come in, close the door, she whispered as if someone might hear. I entered; she pushed the door shut behind us. What do you think? She said. It’s beautiful, I said. It was the best room I had seen as far as bedrooms go. She took me by the hand, ran to the window, which looked out on the fields beyond and the hills in the distance. I wanted us to share a room like we do at school, but father said, no, Greta said, but you must visit me at night, she added softly. I said I would and she leaned forward and kissed me. It was not the first time she had kissed me; we had kissed at school, but it had been only on the odd moment when we could ****** time to be alone. Here we could be alone when we liked most of the time. Greta knew this and this made her happy. Doesn’t your father like Jews? I asked as we parted from the kiss. He has his worries with his friends and associates who have their own prejudices, he thinks it might harm the friendship if he is seen to take a different view on Jews from them, Greta said, holding me close, not wanting to let me go. We spent time going around the house and grounds, talking and laughing, running across the fields, into the small woods nearby. At mealtimes Herr Ackerman would sit stern, talk about the news, discuss things with his wife, and occasionally look at me as if there was something he wanted to say, but didn’t quite know how to say it. That night as I lay in the bed in the bedroom, looking out at the night sky thinking of home, my parents and my sister, there was a tap at the door. The handle turned, Greta stood in the gap of light from the passage behind her. Are you asleep? she asked. No, I replied. She came in, closed the door behind her, tiptoed across the room to the bed, and climbed in beside me. Her feet were cold and her hands, which touched my warm body, were cold, too. I waited for you, she whispered. I forgot the way, I replied softly. She laughed and kissed my cheek. Not to worry, she said, I am here with you. Her cold feet touched mine, her arms sought out my warm body, she sighed. What’s the matter? I asked. I am so happy to be here with you, yet I know that tomorrow Father says you must return home. I was shocked.Why? I asked. He said it is best, Greta muttered. How best? I said. He told Mother that he has no choice. If his friends found out you are staying here, it could be awkward for him, Greta said. I felt tears on her cheeks as she held me close to her. How shall I get home? I said. Father will arrange transport for you, Greta said. I felt frightened; I sensed danger. I don’t want you to go, Greta said, I want you always to be here with me. I kissed her. Father said that I am to go to a different school next term, Greta muttered. After tomorrow, I may not see you again. I felt as if someone had stabbed me, someone had opened up my brain and exposed it to a bright light that blocked out all thoughts and feelings other than that Greta and I were to be parted. We were silent. We lay in each other’s arms, feelings each other’s arms, bodies and sensing the moments passing by, the clock on the small bedside table was ticking away the minutes we had left together. Talking seemed senseless, we spoke with our bodies, our hands, and our lips, we explored each other in such depth that I remember each part of her body even all these years later. That was my first night of love, our night of love. Two fourteen-year-old girls; one German, one Jew. A year later, my parents fled Germany with my sister and me; went to America, and stayed with relatives of my father until he found employment and a place for us to live.
Herr Ackerman and his wife prospered for a while, but they were killed in an air raid in Dresden. Greta committed suicide the week before she was to begin her new school. I shall always remember Greta; remember the love we shared and the love we lost.

We were in the fourth grade.
     Richie Ackerman was having
     a birthday party.
There were the two twin sisters
     so exceptionally cute
     blonde hair in dresses.
We played spin the bottle.
First kiss was regular mail
     kneeling or seated.
Second kiss was air mail
     standing in place.
Third kiss was special delivery
     in the hallway.
In the circle of players Richie spun first --
     his birthday after all.
Must have been my tenth time around
     before a regular mail kiss
     with one of the twins.
She smiled a welcome.
I was shaking.
     Right on the lips
     very short
     very soft
     she smelled so good.
The game proceeded
     we experienced more kissing
     yet that first kiss
     lingers on.

Click clack went her heels,
When she tried to hurry inside.
Splish Splash went all the drinks,
When she pushed the waiter aside.

“Did you hear, did you hear?”
She said, her breath catching up with her.
“Oh dear, what happened,”
Said Mrs. Ellsworth, whilst brushing her fur.

“Diana Cowden, queen of the pies,
Was found dead in her yard.
Oh lord oh lord, the worst’s yet to come,
The bake-off is in a week, how could she die?”

“Yes sweetheart, her death is all about you,”
Said Lady Brownlowe in a calming, soothing tone.
“Please tell us how it happened, how did she die.”
“And skip the gory details, I don’t want to get ***** on my ****.”

The crowd screeched to a halt,
As Mrs. Thornberry prepared herself for the story.
There was pin-drop silence in the room,
Except for Mrs. Ackerman, who was hungry, really not her fault.

“A gunshot wound to her head,
Rake marks across her face.
The poor darling, she couldn’t get away from it all,
Her family, such a disgrace.”

“It still isn’t clear how it all happened,
No signs of struggle, no pain at all.
It’s as if she knew what was coming,
Such a brave heart, and such a fall.”

It still isn’t clear who tried to **** the brave soul,
The police is just as dumbfounded.
Her office’s a mess and so is the kitchen,
Her yard was all clean, except the portion where she was found dead.

“Still, who could have committed, such an atrocity?”
Said Lady Brownlowe, tears welling up in her eyes.
“We were such good friends, we had picnic plans in May,”
Said Mrs. Ackerman, her mouth, stuffed with pie.

“Was anything taken from the office?”
Asked Mrs. Ellsworth, finally opening up.
“It’s strange that you ask that, it really is.
Her prized recipe for Butterscotch Custard has now gone with the wind.”

“She cherished the recipe,
And kept it so close to the heart.
I’d hate for something bad to happen to her,
Even more for her recipes.”

“She was known for being the most charismatic baker,
Her book full of secrets.
A fallen comrade, a fallen hero.
Now, a moment of silence, let’s pay our respects.”

As everyone bowed their heads in respect,
Two heads stayed still.
One with a mysterious smirk,
The other one, scared of smirk, gave out a scream so shrill.

“What’s wrong Betty, is everything okay?”
Asked Lady Brownlowe, stroking Mrs. Thornberry’s hair.
Filled with fear she looked around the room,
The murderer she thought who was gone, stood right over there.

She took her index finger and brushed it over her lips,
A silent “Shush” came out, and then she left.
“Nothing, nothing” shouted out Mrs. Thornberry,
“I must’ve seen a spider, a big menacing one.”

“It’s alright, calm down.” Mrs. Ackerman said,
“There’s no need to worry, they waiters have readied their brooms.”
Lady Brownlowe sat back and smiled,
“Well, at least we know who’ll win this time.”

“Susan? Susan where’d you go”
The cries had started to echo.
“Oh wait,” said Mrs. Ackerman, “don’t you remember?”
“Mr. Ellsworth is coming back home from Westchester!