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Frangie’s head is ation, in denial, in a pree She doesn’t hat’s co to focus on the Robert Johnson song Willie is now playing

Woke this mornin’ feelin’ round for my shoes,

But you know by that, I got these old walkin’ blues

But Harder has never been one to read subtle cues His voice is relentless, cold, deterht hold of Mother She was newly ht hold of her as she was fetching groceries”

“What do you” But she can’t say reat bass dru a funereal time Because all at once, she knows

“She was raped, Frangie Many times, by many white men”

“Jesus, no”

“She was close to death for weeks”

“No, no, Jesus no, Jesus no,” Frangie pleads, i Harde

r through a screen of tears

Harder takes her hand but his expression is remote “Did you think Father kicked h he has a fool’s unthinking rejection of the party No, Knee-high, every time he looks at me he knows My face is a constant reminder that I am not his son”

29

RAINY SCHULTERMAN—GESTAPO HEADQUARTERS, NAPLES, ITALY

The slap is backhanded The ring cuts her cheek, a new cut to join the dozens already there, so blood

Her ankles are tied to the feet of the chair Her hands are tied behind the chair back Her left eye is swollen closed Blood clogs both nostrils so she can only breathe through her mouth