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surely?’
    â€˜Done?’
    â€˜Circumcised.’
    The conversation was taking an unpleasant turn: once again I was attributed some special status I didn’t know anything about! As if being Jewish wasn’t enough!
    â€˜Your willy hasn’t got skin all the way to the end, has it?’
    â€˜Of course not.’
    â€˜Well, Christians have skin hanging over the end. You can’t see the rounded bit.’
    â€˜Like dogs?’
    â€˜Yup. Exactly like dogs.’
    â€˜So it’s true then, that we’re a completely different race!’
    This information devastated me: my hopes of becoming a Christian were evaporating. Because of some scrap of skin no one could see, I was condemned to staying Jewish.
    â€˜No, you idiot,’ Rudy retorted, ‘there’s nothing natural about it, it’s a surgical procedure: it was done to you a few days after you were born. The rabbi cut your skin off.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜So you could be like your father.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Because it’s been like that for thousands of years.’
    â€˜Why?’
    I was staggered by this discovery. That same evening I snuck off and examined my pink soft-skinned appendage for minutes on end, but learned absolutely nothing. I couldn’t imagine how it could possibly be any different. Over the next few days, to check that Rudy wasn’t lying to me, I parked myself by the toilets in the playground, spending all of break time washing and re-washing my hands at the basins. Out of the corner of my eye I peered into the neighbouring urinal to try and see my classmates’ penises as they took them in or out of their trousers. It wasn’t long before I could confirm that Rudy had been telling the truth.
    â€˜It’s ridiculous, Rudy. Christians do have a bit of skin at the end, all drawn together and wrinkly, it looks like the end bit of a balloon, where you make a knot. And that’s not all; they take longer than us to pee, they shake their willies afterwards. Almost as if they’re annoyed with them. Are they punishing themselves?’
    â€˜No, they’re shaking off the drips before putting it back in. It’s harder for them to stay clean than it is for us. If they’re not careful they can get loads of germs which smell and make it sore.’
    â€˜And we’re the ones who are being hunted down? Does that make any sense to you?’
    On the other hand, I now understood Father Pons’s concern. I then noticed the invisible scheme in place for our weekly shower: Father Pons drew up lists which he checked himself as he called out the names, sending ten pupils of mixed ages at a time to get undressed and go from the changing rooms to the showers, with him alone keeping an eye on them. Each group turned out to be made up of one ‘type’. A non-Jew never had an opportunity to see a Jew naked, and vice versa, as nudity was forbidden on pain of punishment anywhere else in the school. Now I could easily work out who was hiding at the Villa Jaune. From then on I was aware of the possible consequences for myself, so I got into the habit of avoiding urinals, and emptied my bladder in a locked cubicle. I even tried to redress the operation that had maimed me: I devoted time alone to manipulating the skin so that it went back to its original state and covered my glans. In vain! However roughly I pulled it, at the end of the session it would ride back up, and there was no noticeable improvement with the passing days.
    â€˜What can we do if the Gestapo get you all to undress, Joseph?’
    Why did Father Pons confide in the youngest boarder? Did he think I was braver than the others? Did he need to break his silence? Was it difficult for him bearing these terrible responsibilities alone?
    â€˜I mean if the Gestapo make you all drop your trousers.’
    The answer nearly did for us all in August 1943. The school, which was officially closed, turned into a