I write these words

on the very first page

of my brand-new book,

my wordless,

untouched,

blank-new book

with sturdy brown covers,

like heels of bread

spread with smooth butter pages inside—

my favorite sandwich.

It’s what we all write

(in German)

at the front of our books

our empty, inviting

poesie books,

before we ask friends

to fill up the pages

with poems and promises,

wishes and warnings,

names and dates.

It is January 1938.

I am Jutta2 Salzberg,

a Jewish girl

in the city of Hamburg,

between the Elbe and Alster rivers,

in the north of Germany.