You slid on to the smooth oak pew
a little nod, a line-fresh-cotton smile.
You had been doing this for weeks now
each Sunday, seeing us, finding me.
You spoke only German
and the language of knowing.
You turned your
wrist to me one terrible
morning after the night before.
I saw the telling brand of digits
now I knew,
and you had my number: what
was happening to me between our meetings.
You were safe now, I was not.
Hiding Jews was long past being a secret.
Now, so was my pain.