Needles prick my fingers. I distinctly
remember tattooed muscles; numbers
and Semitic features. I remember the
piano teacher. His smile and his wife’s
biscuits, brought once a month for my
sisters. Of course, he always stunk of
varnish. Yes, yes, I remember all
this now. The brown shirts and the
pounding boots like hearses. The
wardrobe, in the house where we spent
our summers. The smell of coats. The
high stone wall around the garden. My
father, no, my father wasn’t there and
my cousins and I picked flowers;
snowdrops, chrysanthemums later.
Maybe even I remember further back;
the stag-beetle-phoenix of Berlin. Yes,
the black, industrial fog. The taste of
stale bread; and the kite my brothers
made from wads of notes. I remember
that first, bright dawn of spring, after
the sting of glass between your
toes. The smiling faces, the
flags, the ordered rows.