My father loved whatever was new—like the aluminum
pan he brought home one night, dangling it by its ring
from his pinky. "Look how light it is!" he crowed, 
glancing with scorn at the cast iron skillet. He never 
stepped into the kitchen, yet there he was, in a merry mood 
frying up bacon. My sister and I were enchanted, perched 

on red leatherette chairs swinging our legs. Soon the strips 
pale and pink as the skin under a scab were trembling 
in a pool of grease. Then my father swirled the pan so 
the bacon wouldn't stick, spilling fat onto the burner, that's 
how light it was, the pan. Flames shot up to the ceiling. 

It stayed black until the painters came. I don't remember
who cleaned up the mess, only that he didn't lose 
his temper – at me for being a chatterbox, or my sister 
for chewing her braids. And he didn't hit us, either. Even 
he couldn't blame the pan, only the hand that held it. 
                        

1. She of No Name

Maybe she wore sensible shoes, unlike our mother 
of the high heels. Maybe she had a booming voice
and onions did not upset her stomach. I see freckles
and a pug nose, sky-blue eyes and flaxen hair, she
making him laugh with imitations of Peter Lorre 
and Zsa Zsa Gabor. Maybe they met before the war, 
fell madly in love, but forbidden to marry, so maybe 
he merely settled for my mother who looked like 
Gene Tierney, the most beautiful woman on earth
according to Daryl Zannuck. To my mother, looks 
were everything and she worked hard at it, always 
coiffed, always clean. Who knows what drove 
my father to persist, summer after summer, checking 
into the same Swiss sanitarium, he told us, to lose 
weight, despite a wife who gave the best parties 
in Forest Hills, served the best sachertorte off 
the creamiest limoges. Everyone ran circles 
trying to please him. Who made him Lord of the table? 


2. Herta

Then again, it could have been Herta Himmelreich 
who lived in the Alps in a rustic chalet. We met her 
one August, my sister and I, fresh from a month 
at a Swiss boarding school where we were sent 
to learn French, Herta, outdoorsy, cheerful, a wiz 
in the kitchen, my mother and she greeting us 
in dirndl skirts and peasant blouses, my father 
all business, but maybe a touch too formal 
with this woman who might have been his mistress. Surely 
my mother would have noticed, unless her mind were 
elsewhere, Mr. Himmelreich, perhaps, the two of them 
flirting on the deck. There we were, my sister and I, 
sullen, obedient, after a month of sneaking out at night 
with the three daughters of King Farouk, to skinny 
dip, sing dirty songs and blow smoke rings in the dark.

3. Lily

Had it been me, I would have chosen Lily Robinson 
for her cigarette holders and thin Pall Malls, the only 
one in the refugee circle who drew a beauty mark 
next to her mouth, wore slinky black tuxedo pants 
paired with a white satin blouse. She had the same air 
as Marlene Dietrich only Lily’s hair was black and shiny, 
with razor sharp bangs and spit curls. Who wouldn’t 
have adored Lily, so devil-may-care, singing chansons 
while husband Willy ran chords along the baby grand. 
Rumor had it that there was a threesome, Lily, Willy 
and Dodo, all three of them the best of friends. The rest 
of the country loved Ozzie and Harriet, no wonder 
I felt a world apart, where everyone here was because 
of Hitler, everyone escaped while others had perished, 
everyone took pills to bring on sleep, took marital risks, 
drove too fast, favored sweets and could not get enough.