Just when I got comfortable

using our double-seater outhouse,

Father said it was time to move again.

We piled into his new Model A Ford,

and he began to yank at the crank

to turn over the motor— but it wouldn’t start.

Returning to the front seat of the car,

the psoriatic rash on his face flared

flaming red when he saw my smudged

fingers had lingered on his windshield.

Growling like a rabid mongrel,

he lunged for me—calling me: A DIRTY KIKE!

The name ricocheted off my soul,

driving a spike into my heart.

In between sobs, I confronted him

with words that made no sounds.

As the only Jew in my class,

all I ever heard was : CHRIST-KILLER!

In later years, I realized how much Father

was trying to pass for “White,” working

in a waspy corporation for 36 years.

He identified with the enemy,

like Kapos at Auschwitz and Treblinka.

In The Bridge On The River Kwai,

Father could well have played the part

of Alec Guinness—helping the enemy

build their bridge.