You gaze down at your daughter, Camille, and lay your hand upon her body. She is asleep, resting after a long day, exhausted after the day with Boris at the Zoo, then the café in the park. You wish her father had been that affectionate, had taken the time to be with her, been interested enough to want to be with her and you, but he wasn’t, just other women, other things to occupy his life and mind. You stroke her rib cage; how thin she seems; not a bit like her father, not one ounce of him in her that seems apparent. You gaze at her hair, at the features that you can see, she takes after you, it’s in her face and eyes. Even her temperament is yours, you feel, and are glad, rather than her father’s moroseness, and cruelty. If you had taken you mother’s advice you would never have married Paterson, never have let his hands or lips near you, let alone marry the ****. He’ll be no good, for you, Mavis, she had warned on your wedding eve. You never listened; never took note; you knew best you thought. Marry in haste, relent in leisure, you father had said, in that voice that made you want to hit him, but you never did, although he had hit you many a time as a child, even for the most trivial of things. Dead now, preaching to some other crowd now, wherever he is. You smile at Camille’s sleeping face. Picture of innocence. Like you as a child, you guess. But there had been no Boris in your mother’s life; just your father and his preaching and teaching and moaning and sitting at the table with his long hangdog features and the cane by his hand ready for punishments. You remember creeping into your parents one night as a child and hearing the most awful noises in the dark; like your mother were being strangled or beat up upon, you raced from the room, hid under your blankets in case you father should come and get you. Camille came into you room last month as you and Boris were making love, her voice knifed you, so that you and Boris fell apart like some circus act gone wrong. She had wanted a glass of water, her small voice echoing through the dark, Boris and you panting, going all frigid as if death had claimed. Boris lay smiling in the dark, as you went, took Camille by her hand, fetched her water, lay her back to bed and to sleep. Now she sleeps again. Picture of innocence. Angel of your life. Your precious. Your daughter.

She thinks of him
as she lies in bed,
thinks of his last visit,
that time he brought her

cigarettes and chocs
and the tubby nurse said
it's not good for you all
these things , and Nima

had said is *** good for me?
the tubby nurse said
everything in its place,
and Nima had said show

me the place. She ought to
be up and dressed but
she can't be ****** or so
it seems in her mind, so it

seems if she can't have
her fix and can't go out
until the quacks say so.
Benedict has said he will

come like he came that
day for the first time and
she was so unaware that
he'd get there, but he did,

turned up and the nurse said,
you've got a visitor, she
thought her parents had
decided to come after all,

but it was Benedict standing
in the doorway holding
cigarettes and a wide smile.
She looks at a nurse passing by,

thinks of being up and out,
seeing Benedict in London,
but no, the quacks say not
until we've fixed the fix craving

as if...and that time he and
she had had a quickie in that
side room and smiles and lies
with eyes closed dreaming of

that time, supping on it in colour
and all like a small picture show,
and she watches it move on and go.

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.

Shoshana sees him,
watches him, he walks
through the playground
towards the cloakrooms,

his head turned away
from her, his profile,
snaps it with her eyes
like a camera, Naaman,

she thinks his name is,
the stride of him, so
goose-bumpily he makes
her, somersault of her

innards, her brain alive
like a wire shot through.
He stops, holds out a hand,
palm upwards, eyes the

sky, then her, standing by
the fence, Monkey's Wedding,
he says, smiling, then down
it comes rain and the sunshine

almost hand in hand like a
weird bride and groom, then
downwards falling, go run,
she hears him loudly calling.

Having left Benedict
having to to go back
to lessons after
lunchtime recess

Yiska sensed her body
kind of rebel
sitting at the desk
as the teacher Miss N

began outlining
the brainwashing
for the period
something about

some Magna Carta
in 1215
it seemed her body
wanted something else

and as she sat
gazing at the black board
it seemed to leak
as if

she was
melting down
as if part of her
was seeping away

and even as she
picked up her
fountain pen
to begin to scribe

what Miss N
had started to write
on the board
her -what her mother

termed was her
down below-
seemed to feel
as if a flood

was about to begin
a leakage
as if some dam
had revealed

a weakness
in the structure
a thin line of parting
Miss N spoke

of Runnymede
as she scribed
on the board
with chalk

boring talk
and Yiska wanted
Benedict to be there
wanted his kiss again

his lips on hers
warm on warm
wet to wet
his hand along

her spine
his fingers feeling
her bra strap
and she feeling him

against her
yes it felt
like leakage
and even as she

dragged her mind
into Runnymede
and the Magna Carta
in 1215

and all
such history
she had the sensation
of the leakage mystery.

Tessa stirred, lifted her head from the pink pillow, saw bright daylight coming through the gap in the yellow curtains. What day is it? Saturday. Good. No rush. Can lay here for a while. She laid her head down again. She felt beside her with her hand. No one there. Good. Sometimes she invited a man back if he seemed ok and she liked him enough. Obviously, last night she’d not met anyone worth the coming back with. Just as well. She wasn’t in the mood for waiting on them over a breakfast table; talking about the previous night, what it had been like for him or sometimes for her if she had brought back a girl. No one. Just empty space. Although Teddy was there. His one ear was smooth; his fur was thin and sparse. She brought him to her lips, kissed his small head. Hello, Teddy. His glass eye seemed to gaze back at her; the button eye was darker, unseeing. Poor Teddy. Battered and worn. We’ve been together now for…how long? Twenty years? She laid him beside her; kissed his nose. He lay there looking at the white ceiling. Silence. Not a great conversationalist was Teddy. He’d not said a word in all the years they’d been together. Although as a child, she thought he had, would talk with him, play games with him, told him all her secrets and worries. Moreover, of course, he had witnessed things, seen her play with her dolls, with men, the occasional girl, and seen her with all kinds. She brooded for a moment; let the idea of what he may have seen swim around her mind. She had become so used to him being there in her bedroom that she’d given no thought to what he may have seen over the years. Good God. He’d seen all that, never said a word, or moaned or complained or judged her. Too many did that; judged her. But never Teddy. She turned her head, kissed his furry cheek. He didn’t always lie on her bed, when she had company she put him in the armchair in the corner, or on the dressing table by the window. Once one of the men she’d brought back has tossed Teddy across the room, she had become cross, swore at the man, picked up Teddy, kissed his brow, cuddled him against her cheek, told the man to go, leave her because if he could do that to her Teddy he might do it to her. The man shook his head, left thinking her slightly touched, ******* up one of his eyes as if he thought she had lost the plot. Maybe she had, she didn’t care. Teddy had seen her as a little girl, seen her cousin creep into her room, seen him climbed into her bed and do things to her, seen her squirm, seen his hand over her mouth, heard his threats. She hadn’t thought about that; hadn’t given it any thought until now. Remember that, Teddy? He threatened me with all kinds of things if I told anyone what he did. What a *******; what a creep. He’s married now, Teddy; got kids of his own. Poor things. Makes you think. She sat up in bed, stared at the daylight through the gap in the curtains. She got out of bed, sat on the end looking at the wall. Never said a word. Never told anyone, except Teddy; she’d told him. Everything. How it felt; how she felt; how ***** it had made her feel. Teddy listened; never judged. Always there with that look about him, that wise gaze. She sighed. If she saw her cousin now, she said nothing, just stared at him and he stared at her, a knowing look on his fat face. She looked back at Teddy in bed, saw his gaze on her, saw his uncritical gaze. She loved that about him. Loved that look. Breakfast, Teddy? Like I used to make you? She mused on her efforts to get him to eat his breakfast as a child, but he never did. You were awful at eating your breakfast. Mother told me not to give you any, but I always did; always gave you some of mine. It made Father cross, made his face become all stern and cross looking, and he threatened once to throw you out when we moved from that old house to the new one. But I hid you so he couldn’t. You saw him when he spanked me; heard my cries. Mother never came or said anything, but you were always there; I am sure I heard you say you loved me, would always be there for me. She nodded her head. Sighed. The strong silent type was Teddy. Always there. With his one glass eye, his balding fur, his one ear. Haven’t seen them for years now, the parents. They’re in Oxford; I’m here in New York. An ocean between us. Miles and miles. We’re here, Teddy, you and me. Just the two of us. Just us, this apartment, the paintings on the walls, the jazz on the CD player, our secrets, all our own secrets. Just us. Just you and me. Eh, Teddy? Eh? Silence. Teddy, the strong silent type and me the mouthy *****. What a couple. What a pair. Me here, you there. She laughed, looked at Teddy’s moon shaped smile, the smile was always there, a welcome smile, a smile to warm her, to tell her she was good, she was loved. Yes, loved; wanted for whom she was inside, not for what she said or did or didn’t do. Just you and me, Teddy. Just you and me.

Yehudit didn't
tell her mother
about the kiss.

She'd not understand;
she'd moan some  
about Yehudit being
just fourteen
and who  
kissed you
and whom
did you kiss?
kind of questions.

Best nothing said.

She entered home
after the Christmas
carols singing trip
and said yes,
it went well,
and we raised money
for the church and poor.

Her mother gazed
and said getting late best
be off to bed with you.

So she did.

Good night all, call.

Climbed the stairs to bed.

Humming a carol
or so,
treading the stairs,
but Benedict and the kiss
stuck inside her head.