How many Arabs did you kill, Daddy asked.

In reply to her plea for help.

Just a hand up, Daddy!

Just like daughters turn to their fathers.

No! You’re no child of mine.

You’re like them! Duplicitous, treacherous!

But Daddy, you met her here, in America.

You fell in love with her auburn hair, milky white skin, brown eyes and hooked nose.

She never told me, he said.

You lived in their house.

You saw their faces.

How could you not see?

You heard their stories. Their escape.

Surely you knew!

No! They all hid it from me!

You hid it too!

But Daddy, I am yours!

No!

My brown eyes, dark skin, even my nose – my Arabic features, they come from you!

Never! No child of mine could ever be a Jew.