My father

is Isaac Salzberg.

My mother

is Rose Kleinert Salzberg.

Both from Poland,

they moved to Hamburg

to raise their family,

me and my little sister, Ruth.

Mother, my Mutti,

is a hausfrau, a housewife,

in charge of Ruth and me

and the apartment

and our housekeeper, Frau Krug

(with her stained teeth

and stale breath

and veal roast that everyone loves,

except me).

Mother plays the piano every day,

waves of music

washing through our home.

Father is a merchant,

who sells belts, suspenders, and garters—

things to hold other things up,

like trousers, socks, and stockings.

He is my Vati—

that’s what I call him—

and I am his Juttalein.

He used to take me,

just me,

downtown to the Four Seasons Hotel

for my favorite treat:

a napoleon,

with endless layers of pastry

and whipped cream filling,

papery and silky all at once,

too indescribably delicious for words,

even for poetry words.

We sat by the window

looking at the Alster Lake

and the passersby.

I held on to every bite

for as long as I could,

and imagined the lives

of the strangers outside

as Vati drank his coffee

and listened to my stories.

But no longer.

I should have said

Father was a merchant,

who used to have an office downtown,

until he was no longer allowed to.

Then he had his office at home,

until last year, when the German factory

that makes the belts and suspenders and garters

dismissed him,

even though he is an excellent salesman,

because the Nazis don’t want Jews

working as salesmen for German companies

or as bankers, stockbrokers, lawyers,

actors, professors,

or pretty much anything.

My father still works,

but his job is different now.

He is not selling goods.

He is not earning money.

His job now is to find a way

to get us out of Germany.

When I look at Father’s face

at the end of the day,

I see his new job is so much harder

than his old one.

He sags,

and I think how Father could use something

to hold him up—

a belt,

a suspender,

a garter.…

I am glad for Mother’s music,

the waltzes and preludes

on which my father can float

away from the worries and pain

at least for a little while

every day.