Father taught me the rudiments of chess
when I was four.
He would spot me,
first, his queen, then, later, his knight,
then a mistake or two,
until we played an almost even game.
But Wilhelm was the first adult
I played without paternal help,
although the other players
circled to kibbutz.
Wilhelm was the weakest player in the park,
but Dad said I had to start somewhere,
and besides, though he never said,
Dad knew Wilhelm was Wehrmacht.
So, amidst the jeers and cheers,
I, at eight, played and defeated Wilhelm,
saw the awful shame, the knowing in his eyes
that I had put there.
I learned then,
nothing,
ever,
is only a game.