I am from fountain pens and notebooks

I am from the dark corners of that room and that single beam of light I can’t go near…

I am from the top of that chestnut tree outside the window--the sounds of civilization

I am from homemade Christmas gifts and fur coats (the best that money could buy)

From timid, gangly Peter and the selfish, petty Van Daans

From my perfect sister, Margot, my loving father, Pim, and the mother who never understood

From the grown-ups bickering about my behavior, and all those taped-up situations (courtesy of Mother)

From “the war will be over soon” and “treat your mother right”

From dear “O, Chanukkah!” and those bright yellow stars

I am from small amounts of food and lumpy, self-woven wool sweaters

I am from the Dutch and the Germans, the Japanese and the Americans

I’m from potato pancakes and ration books

From hiding and never leaving, from never being able to move and not being able to be proud of being Jewish

I am from the diary where all my soul is hidden, into which my life goes

I am from fountain pens and notebooks