Dining with Hitler

Will Wells

In meals at Emma's, only children 

 and grandchildren rated given names. 

 In-laws owned a separate nomenclature（命名法，术语）. 

 Abuse was served in equal portions 

 with beef brisket and bloodied purple beets. 

 Aunt Ellen was "the Greek." 

 Aunt Rosalie was "the Blonde." 

 German Uncle Dick was "that Dutchman."

 And my gentle father was "Hitler." 

 If Rosalie asked for dinner rolls, 

 Emma would say, "Hitler took them, 

 to the Blonde he should pass." 

 It was more accusation 

 than table manners. Prisoners 

 of the failed detente called family, 

 we stared at shame reflected in the borscht 

 and ate fast. At least the food was good. 

Sometimes Cousin Joyce would flip 

 her long dark hair over her face to block out 

 her mother's stricken wine-dark stare. 

 And I'd sneak glances at my dad 

 to catch, how in profile, he actually looked 

 the part. When I substituted my thumb 

 for a moustache, it was uncanny. 

 And fury rose in his eyes like film-clips 

 of Nuremberg speeches on The Twentieth Century 

 narrated by "the Cronkite." After ice cream 

 warmer than the atmosphere, he'd snatch me 

 for a long drive through the rubber stench 

 of eastern Akron till he was calm 

 enough to chafe out the rest of the visit. 

 Veteran of World War Two, comparison 

 with what he'd battled to destroy 

 doubled the insult. He'd shake his head, 

 "You know if Hitler had caught her before 

 she escaped, he would have shot himself sooner."