The day the Wall fell we played the identity game –
had to run to a corner of the room depending
whether we felt British, Jewish, like British Jews
or Jewish Brits. On camp that winter we acted out

the journeys our grandparents made from Russia,
Poland, Lithuania, fleeing pogroms. The Holocaust
should have been next but perhaps they thought
we were too young. Instead, we became refugees

negotiating Checkpoint Charlie, winning points
for our team if we smuggled ourselves safely across.
Back at school in January, studying The Tudors,
I'd switch off, daydream, remembering how we built

the Berlin Wall with our bodies, one on top of the other,
rejoicing, limbs flying, when we came tumbling down.