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."