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deserted Harbord, and through the back alley into the back garden of my house. Most of the garden was taken up with an old, high shed where years ago my father had kept a horse. He had left the factory and for a year or two, while my uncle was beginning to make his fortune, had sold pots and kettles from a wagon. I had been three or four, but I could still remember that old sway-backed horse. Once, my father had let me feed it some carrot tops.
    â€œWhat are you up to?” Corinne said when I pushed the shed door open and led her inside. It was dark but for slits of lamplight leaking in between some of the slats. Mouldering straw still lay on the dirt ground. Some rusted tools leaned in a corner. “I bet there are mice in here. Maybe spiders . . .”
    I grabbed Corinne and kissed her. I didn’t even know how to kiss; our teeth banged together. She started to push me away, her hands flat on my chest, but I pulled her tighter and pressed my pelvis against hers. My body was a fire of pain. “You can’t . . . tell . . . anybody,” she said, pulling off her shirt. She smelled of sweat and lemon soap. We stepped away from each other and, eyes down, took all our clothes off and laid them over the straw.
    â€œDon’t you think I ever did this before,” she said.
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œYou’re only fourteen.”
    â€œYou’re only sixteen.”
    â€œYou don’t have one of those rubber things.”
    â€œI do have one.”
    It hadn’t been easy to get, but I had made the effort because I didn’t think that Corinne would agree without it. Everyone knew there was a Parents’ Information Bureau worker who would supply you as long as you didn’t look like a cop. All I had to do was pay a guy who worked at one of the stalls to tell the woman he wanted it for himself and his wife. Now I pulled the package out of my pocket to show her.
    â€œYou mean you’ve been planning this?”
    â€œI don’t know how to use it exactly,” I admitted.
    â€œWe can figure it out,” she said.
    I could not believe the softness of her skin. But we were both rough with each other, like children wrestling. That first time was more a relief than a pleasure. But there would be the next day and the day after that and the day after that. At other times we would talk just as we did before, as if nothing had changed. But there was something new between us. Something precious that would protect us.

My mother did not have the needs of an adolescent but the hunger of someone who believed that her time was running out. If it hadn’t been the German, then someone else? But it was the German.
    So she put her ear to his door and listened. It was only nine o’clock, but perhaps he was already sleeping. He did keep unusual hours, sometimes going out at ten in the evening, sometimes not leaving the room at all.
    His voice startled her. “Is someone there?”
    She backed away. “It’s only me. Mrs. Kleeman. Bella. I brought you a piece of cake and a cup of tea. But if you don’t want it . . .”
    The door opened. He stood in his undershirt tucked into his trousers. “Yah, please come in. It is most kind of you.”
    Without his glasses, his face looked even rounder, his eyes smaller. He stepped aside to let her in. “Here I am two days with the rent late and you bring me cake. But I have half of it for you.”
    There was no table, so she put the oval tray on the dresser. He had rearranged the room, moving the bed against the wall to make a small space by the window for an artist’s easel. She had never seen one before except in the movies, and it was almost exotic. Small jars of paint rested on a wooden stool spotted with colour.
    â€œI see you have brought two cups. You will join me?”
    â€œYes. You’re an artist?”
    â€œNo, no. Not at all. I just make little pictures and sell them. Down on the boardwalk by