The war was over. My father was dead.
Judith was eight, I was four. Her father,
who survived the Camps, had come here like a ghost.
She and I played in the bushes at the flats.
Our game was hiding-from-the-Germans.
When it got too cold to play, I went
to the panto at Golders Green Hippodrome.
I cannot remember which story it was:
no doubt, Harlequin, aided by Clown,
seduced Columbine from Pierrot to Pantaloon’s