Yvonne Kaye's Story

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My immediate family didn't have any money, although some members of the extended family were very wealthy indeed. Because we were the poor relations, and couldn't afford a vacation, the rest of the family would take us to a holiday spot in a place called Blean near Canterbury in Kent. It was a farmhouse/guesthouse, and I loved it there. I loved the people. I remember some of the happiest moments of my life were spent sitting at that huge farmhouse kitchen table With Mrs. Buesden and her family. They were so warm and loving. She was everything good that one would ever think a farmer's wife to be? The place was called Yew Tree Farm, and it was my haven. I must have had some recognition of what normal was at that time, to feel so comfortable there. Not for a moment though, did I believe it could be part of my life on a permanent basis. Hurt children have Wisdom well beyond their years.   The War Begins   We were at Yew Tree Farm in late August and early September of 1939. One morning, September 3rd, I remember waking up to hustle, bustle and chaos. Of course, I didn't pay too much attention to it because that was the norm for my family? There was usually someone screaming at someone else, one of the aunts yelling at one of the others. September 3, 1939 the day war broke out in Europe. Of course, I had no idea what was happening at that stage. I was not quite six years old and I was on holiday with my cousins. This particular morning something strange happened. People were making noise, but they weren't saying anything. Bags were being packed, tears were being shed, and everyone was talking and talking and talking about nothing. I noticed that my bags were not being packed. I was so used to being left and dumped on people that I really didn't pay too much attention. My mother would frequently forget my existence and leave me on a street corner with the groceries. Once she left me in the London Zoo. Funny what we remember! One of my cousins said, "We're leaving.We are leaving?"   I couldn't make head or tail of that. I ran around asking all the grown ups, "Who's leaving? Where are you going? What's going on? What's all the noise?" "Yvonne, everything's going to be all right." Standard answer. That was it. That was the explanation of my parents leaving me there and my cousins and their parents returning to London. I had heard noises on the radio of things like "war" and "Hitler" and "Chamberlain and conference." I just didn't pay much attention. I was not quite six years old. I was into playing and jumping on the pigs in the sties, this being a farm. I had been just generally trying to forget what it was like in London, living with my mother and her husband, instead of getting into the fun of being with my cousins. It wasn't such an ordeal at that point, mainly because children have no concept of time. I had no idea how long they were away until that one day my cousins told me they were leaving, and I wasn't. This seems to be the story of my life: people I love constantly leaving. I have this thing about triangles, which in my recovery I have learned to think of as pyramids. My triangle was living with two dysfunctional people. I was right in the middle of their fights, arguments, despairs, and insanity. At this point, I did not even recognize the molesting from my stepfather. In this environment I learned how to deny very well. When my mother spoke on the telephone or any of her siblings stopped by, there was no indication that anything was amiss. We were the typical secretive, good-looking family. In a way, being in Canterbury was a relief. It was all right when my cousins were there, but my feelings of abandonment really began to take hold when they left. I had severe separation anxiety which caused me to start wetting the bed and be careless with my clothing. At times I felt invisible. So there were no questions for me, because I knew there wouldn't be any answers. Therefore, I internalized my fears and helplessness, and out came unacceptable behavior. Because the lovely woman with whom I lived was so exasperated by this behavior, she used to threaten me that if I came home from school once more in that condition, I would go straight to bed with no supper. That went on for quite a long time. I was so terrified; I was unable to control simple bodily functions. There was absolutely no sensitivity in my life at all. I really loved Mrs. Buesden, but she had no idea of the separation anxiety I was going through at the time; the pain and grief children are not supposed to have. I celebrated my sixth birthday away from my parents at Yew Tree Farm. The world was in chaos and so was I. There was war in Europe. My whole family was disintegrating. People were going off in all different directions, telling me nothing. Because Canterbury was close to a port, it was considered unsafe and I had to go back to London. At that point I didn't realize I was going back. I soon discovered that the plan was to get the children out of London and ship them to Australia, America, or any country that was not involved with the war at that time. In my excitement at going back it certainly didn't occur to me that I would be sent away again, and I wouldn't have understood it anyway. Remember, I was raised in a total conspiracy of silence. I was told nothing, but just did as I was told. Most children of my generation did. It was difficult for me to understand the whole aspect of what was going on because I didn't know how to ask questions. You have to be a person to be able to do that. On my return to London, everything was in upheaval. It didn't seem to be important whether I was there or not because nobody paid any attention. Everything was discussed just as if I were not there. People didn't seem to realize that I did hear, feel, and understand. It was not easy being a child in a dysfunctional family then, any more than it is today. The pain, grief, and fear over "How long am I going to be able to stay here?" began to take hold. Whether it was denial or whether it was complete unawareness, I had no idea what was going to happen. This was ambivalence and helplessness. After all these years, there are still blocks of time and people of which I have no knowledge whatsoever. It seemed to me that there was a lot of discussion going on. , but nobody talked. Members of the family kept disappearing. Aunts and uncles took their children and went out of the city for safety.   Sent Away   Then one morning when I was ready for school, my mother put my gas mask in a brown box around my shoulders (which was common at that time) and a little suitcase in my hand. She took me to school, but instead of sending me into the building, she put me on a bus. She didn't say goodbye so I didn't pay any attention. I just thought I was going on a bus ride, a school outing. A label was put on my coat, but that wasn't uncommon. If we ever went anywhere, it was important that people knew our names. Then the bus left. It went for a long time, just kept going and going and going for what I now know to have been about four hours. I was so numb at this point I can't recall if anybody asked questions. I know I completely shut down emotionally and made the decision that I would never let anybody love me again, it hurt too much to be separated so often. I don't even remember who was on the bus. I don't remember any of my friends from that time. I don't know if they were crying, laughing or playing. I just don't recall. My earliest recollection was the bus pulling into a quaint market square in Highbridge, a small village in Somerset, in the west of England. As I got off, I can remember some of the teachers on the bus telling us to be quiet and pay attention. I stood at the steps, and a tall man with silver hair pointed to me and said, "I'll take that one." What amazes me now is that I just went with him and didn't even think about it. I had no idea of even considering any other action. I was seven years old. I didn't know where I was. I had no idea why I was there and why I was going away from home. No idea at all. Except that I was doing as I was told again. All this time, I never shed a tear. I was already a little adult. He took me by the hand to go and register. He was a very handsome military man and a grandfather figure to me. I believe I really loved him, instantly. He was a port in a storm for me. However, that changed somewhat when I arrived at the house. It was obvious that I was not wanted. Both he and his wife were seventy-eight years old. It must have been quite a trauma for them, but that is what I think now !   As a child I was a pretty little thing. I looked and behaved a little bit like Shirley temple with my gold curls, singing and dancing. There was an active clown in me which compensated for the pain that I'd been in for all those seven long years of my life. The man took me home to the house, which was a mansion to me, and introduced me to an austere lady, haughty, with her hair pulled tightly back into a bun. She didn't look at me and didn't touch me but just said, "Take her upstairs and let her see her room." I can remember thinking, "My room? why do I have a room here? I have a room at home. Why on earth would I want to have a room?" He took me upstairs and showed me this very pretty room, and I began to get feelings of severe panic because something was wrong. My child's mind could not understand why a perfect stranger would take me to their home and give me a room. I couldn't understand that, and I became very scared. In panic, there's enough strength to question. I started asking him, "Why am I here? Where is my mummy? Where is my dad? Where is my grandma?" He said nothing. Just smiled. It seemed I was not going to get any answers from anybody. It was so terribly confusing that I simply didn't know what was going on in my life at all. Nobody was about to tell me. Then I started to cry. There was no response from him, except I can recall a heavy sigh. Then he went downstairs. I remember sitting on that bed. I didn't cry anymore then, and it seems to me from that time I stopped crying almost completely. I still have great difficulty crying today. I was too terrified to cry. I had no idea what was going to become of me. No one was going to tell me. I sat on the bed staring at my little suitcase sitting beside me. I heard the woman call me to go down for something to eat. I didn't want to eat. I didn't know where I was. I had no idea who these people were. Where was my mother? Why did she leave me like this and not say anything-again? Was she going to come back soon? I ran down the stairs and asked, "Where is my mother? Is she coming here soon?" This began the fear that haunted me most of my life. It made me believe I was sent away because I had done something really bad. Then I was sent away. Put that together in a small child's head. Must have been bad; that's why I'm sent away. It had to be that way. My cousins had gone with their own parents. My mother had chosen to stay in London and send me away by myself. Only bad children are sent away, children who are very naughty and can't live with their mummy because they are so bad she can't have them anywhere near her. The thought began to take root. At that time I began to realize I just had to start pleasing everybody, or I would never survive.   Alone In A Strange Land   The table was laid with bread and butter and little pink things on a plate. The woman asked me, "Are you hungry?" "No," I said. She said, "You had a long journey. You must eat something." I didn't know what the little pink things were. I started to eat them, and I had never tasted anything like it before and I said, "What are these? "Shrimp." Right in the middle of eating I got up, ran out, and spat them out of my mouth. I was terrified that I was going to be sent to hell, because I was raised in an Orthodox Jewish family and had never eaten anything that wasn't strictly kosher. I thought God would come down and smite me. Even at seven years old I knew what I could and could not eat. I wasn't even told that I wasn't with a family of my own religion. What a transition that would have to be. I believe it was shortly after this time that I began to question my faith and religion, even this young. I couldn't understand why God would send me away like this and make me do things my family had taught me never to do, such as eat things I was not supposed to eat. I was so frightened. I felt I would have to starve to death. My hosts were angry and didn't understand. When they found out I was Jewish, they were totally horrified. The people in this tiny village in Somerset had never really seen a Jew, and I certainly didn't look the conventional "Jewish type." Later that night, when the woman said I would have to take a bath and go to bed, my panic intensified. I realized I was going to be there, live there and where was my mother and how long was this going to go on? If I had to go to bed that night and actually sleep in that room, then the game was up for me. I had never been consulted, never been told anything about this. Everything was settled without my having anything to say again. On Sunday they dressed me in the one dress I had and took me to a place called a chapel. People were singing all kinds of songs that I had never heard before about somebody called Jesus. In adult life I have learned from Jesus and love him dearly according to his teachings. I have no religion, just a simple deep faith that my Higher Power loves me. But, as a little girl, I had no idea who he was and why everybody was singing to Him and about Him. I had to go to Sunday school, and I couldn't understand why the prayers were so very different. It seemed that everything I had ever known, anything that was familiar to me had been completely taken away and changed. Within a week or so the word was around that "this one was different." I can remember walking down the street, and having some of the children come up to me, hold me and rub their fingers through my hair. I had no idea what they were doing. I thought this was maybe a Somerset greeting. What they were actually doing was looking for horns. They had been told that all Jews had horns and a tail. Fortunately, I escaped from the indignity of their trying to discover whether I had a tail. My feelings of aloneness, abandonment, terror and helplessness now began to grow at a rapid rate. I don't think I laughed for two years. Every day something seemed to happen to frighten me even more. I became a complete people-pleaser. I would do anything rather than incur anyone's wrath. If people were ever angry with me, I couldn't deal with it. Half the time I didn't know how to behave because I didn't know these people. I didn't understand their beliefs, I didn't understand the food they ate, and I didn't know what on earth they were doing. Everything was a mystery to me, and no one was there to solve that mystery for me. On very rare occasions my mother or grandmother would telephone from London, and after I had spoken to them I would be silent for hours. I did cry a little then. I would always ask them, "When am I coming home? Let me come home. I want to be home. I want to be with you." The answer was always "you're better off there." I met the other members of the family, including a married daughter I really liked. She was warm and loving and let me go to her house whenever I could. There were six sons in that family ˆ like the brothers I never had, and one special one, the oldest, Willis was in the RAF. He saved my emotional life. He was so kind and when he was sent to London he looked up my family to try to get a connection. He wasn't successful in that, but he was a godsend to a frightened little girl. When I cried sometimes at the news broadcasts on the radio or on the telephone calls, they would say, "Oh my goodness. Here we go again. Well, she just can't have any calls anymore or listen to the radio." In order to try to compensate, my mother sent me a beautiful doll I called Queenie. The people I lived with allowed me to hold Queenie for one half hour every Sunday and that was all. I remember being in the house one day alone and managing to open the door where they locked her. I took her out and held her, and I was severely punished because the woman came home and found me holding her. It's difficult to describe the pain of that particular time, the denial of any kind of love or healthy touching, the complete helplessness and the terror of not being able to share with anybody what I was going through because I didn't know how to put it into words. Even if there had been anybody there, I wouldn't have known how to say it. It was painful beyond words to me. I was well cared for physically, well dressed and well fed, but my loneliness and ignorance of what was happening in London, not knowing after each air raid whether my family was alive or dead and not being told anything, caused a pain that became overwhelming. Shortly before my eighth birthday I made a decision that I really wanted to die. I set about doing just that. I stopped eating, wouldn't sleep, acted out in school, wouldn't talk to anybody and just withdrew entirely into my self. I didn't cry because I knew better. All I would say is, "I want to go home." At about this time I had chicken pox, closely followed by the measles, and was very ill. Because I was so ill my grandmother came down to see me. I begged and pleaded with her to take me back. She would not do that. Even now, as a woman and a mother, I still cannot accept the fact that I was sent away for my own safety. I believe children's safety is with their parents if they love them, if they nourish them and nurture them. That's the way it would always be for me. This is simply my opinion, out of my own circumstances. It is not the same for everybody. I must have eventually gotten through to my grandmother because, as my condition deteriorated, there were a lot of letters and phone calls going back and forth. I was finally told I was being sent back to London. Nobody came to get me for what seemed an eternity. At this time I was eight years old. One day I was labeled again, put on a train in care of the guard, and sent back to London. My mother forgot to pick me up, and I waited for hours in the station until the police constable saw me there. They contacted her because of the labels I had on me.   Home To The Blitz   The welcome home was less than cordial. I was a nuisance and had always been a nuisance since pregnancy. It was made very clear to me that, having got my way, I had better behave myself. So naturally I did everything I could to make sure I would not be sent away again. In the house I took care of my mother. I went to school. I was a good "little woman." And I was desperately unhappy. I was constantly afraid that one false move and I'd be back on the bus. By this time in London the bombing had accelerated. There wasn't a day or night when we didn't have several air raids. By this time a daylight bombing had started, and there was a certain excitement to this because we never knew what was going to happen. As children, we didn't fully comprehend the danger, but we loved the unpredictability of sometimes missing school. My mother refused to go to a bomb shelter. We used to go down into the cellar. I can remember a little dog I had who would begin to cry and whine and run under the table about twenty minutes before the planes came over. The bombs would come down silently and stop, then whistle down and explode. We never knew where they would land. However, the fear I had during these raids was nothing compared to the fear I had of being sent away again. I was eventually sent away to Oxford for another year, and it didn't matter how I begged not to go. I went. In that year, which is almost a complete blank in my memory, I made myself very ill. I was so terribly unhappy and felt so lost that I didn't know how to do anything else. Becoming ill was the only way I got attention. All I knew was that what I wanted didn't count, that the Big People constantly lied when they said they cared for me. The knowledge that I was not important took root. At the time this was going on, people were cold and distant with me. I can remember being in this house in Oxford, feeling deadly ill and being completely ignored, mainly, I assume, because they didn't know what to do with me. The children of war suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder as much as its combat veterans. It's true, as shown in the film Hope and Glory, that some children had a great time and a lot of fun, but that wasn't my war. Possibly this was connected with the fact that I was sent away and brought back, sent away and brought back, so that I never had any continuous security. I never had any real knowledge of where I was going to be. The fear of being sent away again made me such a good girl. I suffered the indignities of a child who insisted on coming back. I heard that from my grandmother, my parents and my aunts and uncles. I was in London in the worst of the blitz, but that was better than being sent away. I remember the feelings of fear every time I heard bombs fall. They were very close. I remember coming out of the house one morning, before my parents could stop me, to see all the houses around me were razed except ours. I saw a dead person. I saw dead animals. The fire, the smoke and the stench were something I would never forget. I still have a hard time when I smell meat burning. Finally, our house was bombed, too. People say that children are too young to feel things ˆ another "grown-up" lie. I tell people now that children do know. They do understand. During the blitz my mother also took in refugees from Germany, Poland and Russia who had escaped from the concentration camps. People would congregate in my mothers home and talk about pain, grief and what was going on in the caps as if I weren't there. The result for me was a fear like that of a child who knows other children are being beaten by their own parents. There is always the fear that one day it might happen to me, too. Approximately ten years ago, I visited Somerset again. Some of the family, including the wonderful Willis arranged a reunion party for me.    When was 15, I attended Mary Datchelor High School for Girls in Camberwell as a scholarship girl among the very wealthy. Surprisingly I was very popular, always class prefect until this term when we had biology dealing with sex education. In the dining room, a prefect was in charge of the lunch table and at mine there was a lot of giggling with notes being passed. I had no idea what it was all about. A teacher swooped down and snatched the notes. I was summoned to the Head Mistress' office - a Dame Dorothy Brock - who challenged me about the drawings. I told her I knew nothing, but she did not believe me. At this time there were elections for school prefect, a very coveted position for a scholarship girl, but the staff met and decided I was unfit. The school went on strike, but they were adamant. Dame Dorothy informed me that I was a born leader, but was leading girls in the wrong direction. I never became a school prefect and like other writers have had an outsize sense of justice ever since. I am sorry Dame Dorothy did not live long enough to hear me address the United Nations . sincerely, Yvonne Kaye     This article was published in "New Visions" magazine.   LIKE COMING HOME AGAIN ! by Yvonne Kaye. There are many people who feel they never quite belong, either in social circles or family. Just off kilter - not totally remote - just a little off ! This can be due to being the non-favourite of the family, not good at sports in school, liking music instead of football, having an opinion, being raised in dysfunction or, as I prefer it, bizarre environments ! The list goes on endlessly, and the fact remains that some people feel different. Different is good is one's self esteem, composure, confidence and balance are in place. Being different and the butt of jokes, being excluded from events makes life challenging to say the least. Experiences can make people feel different and even though some of my colleagues frown upon my philosophy, if one has not experienced an event, one cannot know how it feels. Example. I work closely with bereaved parents. As long as I have been doing so, as much as I know of the emotions involved, I do not know how they feel. I am grateful for that. I know how someone feels when there is long term illness in the family, when one is an exile, when one is discriminated against. Frankly, I don't want to know how anyone else feels - enough is enough ! Having been a child of war, I have given up explaining what it was like to be sent away from home without a work, being bombed on, shot at, vindictively screamed at because of my religion, being ostracized. I was raised in a conspiracy of silence, so I talk a lot. I could be a charter member of the Twelve Step programme..on-and-on-and-on! So when I heard of The Evacuees Reunion Association in England, I was ecstatic. I went to the reunion in London September 1999 and thought I would find solace in such surroundings with people who had experienced the same kind of pain and grief as I had. Not so. I did learn that some of us had not changed, had not dealt with anything rather than the resentment of that terrible time, one of the mistakes the government made in a laudable effort to keep children safe. Sadly, most of us did not appreciate their efforts - still don't. When I returned I kept in touch with the organization but when I left the radio, my e-mails and letters were ignored . C'est la vie! I was disappointed but resigned myself to the fact that people simply were people ! My American friends were very fascinated about that era during the second world war. I would tell them of the various events, some of which were hilarious. My mother's husband was a London taxi driver and at that time, GIs were stationed in London and wanted to go where the action was. So he would drive them to where the Blitz was at its worst but was stopped by the police and fire fighters, much to his chagrin. Once, a GI produced a large hand bell and the authorities thinking it was an ambulance, let him through. When I lived in England we used to say "Only an American"................ Funny, now that I am here, it is "Only in England !"   A few months ago, I received an e-mail from an organization calling itself The British WWII Evacuees Chat Group Address is Brit_WWII_Evacuees@egroups.com. I touched base with them, and the correspondence has flowed ever since. I could not believe how validated I felt writing to this group, receiving responses. We remember all sorts of things that happened during those times sand have even had students write who are studying the effect of evacuation on children of war. It has been astounding, and I now understand how the mind can play such tricks, making us wonder.......did this really happen? Was it my imagination? We even compare the kind of apples we could buy at that time that we cannot get in other countries. These evacuees are from Canada, Australia, New Zealand and the United States. We have formed a conclave and hope to meet in England one of these years. It is quite an education for those who have an interest in such times, but the miracle is that we have so much in common even though we do not know one another at all. Or do we ? During any kind of trauma, a camaraderie strikes up. Veterans have it. No one who has not been in combat could possibly comprehend the feelings of those who have. How did Twelve Step programmes begin ? Two drunks talking to a third drunk.....they knew what no one else knew regarding what was needed. Another aspect of this that does not affect all evacuees is that I have met with people of other nationalities who were but children at the same time, were being bombed also and went through much of the anguish the Brits endured. German children and other European countries who suffered the onslaught of war. Our very own Ute Arnold - what a wonderful conversation we have had on this subject. Suffering is suffering when one is a powerless child at the mercy of greedy, grasping, cruel adults who want what others have and will go to any lengths to get it. Look at the world today. It is not different. Politicians and maniacs are still causing mayhem at the expense of the innocent. We were but one era in the 1940s. We all respond to the brutality we see today with the fiends who believe in ethnic cleansing. Will it ever stop ?   So many of us led lives of quiet desperation during those frightful times. Being able to share those times with people who really understand is a blessing and a relief. I am not alone any more. There are people at the end of an e-mail who respond to my thoughts, feelings, opinions. They are my friends.............they know.   If any of the readers have endured deprivation of any sort, seek out a group of people who are conversant with your situation. As you have the situation, you can be sure others do too. It is remarkable how unrelated facts that haunted us for years, now are in a perspective that creates harmony and fearlessness. I remember how ridiculous I thought the entire Y2K calamity was and now realize it was because I was a child of war. Things don't get much worse than that. It did not scare me at all . Been there - done that. I kept telling people that Y2K was named after me, and it would amount to nothing because I already had the initials !!! A lot of people did not think it was funny Guess who did.....the evacuees ! This is my special miracle of 2000. Log on and see what I mean. Angels are around bringing comfort and joy. I knew it all the time !    I had nits three times and scabies twice. In those days we were sent to local government baths for the scabies and had to sit in - I think - sulphur baths, have our clothes baked in an oven to kill every infection and be swabbed with some bright yellow stuff. It was so humiliating.  I could give Angela's Ashes a run for his money as we had ghastly fleas infesting our house and can remember waking up covered with the damn things. I got as far as reading that in Frank's book and could not read any more, just could not get beyond that. Humiliation seemed to accompany most of those experiences. When I came out in sores, my uncle, who happened to be a doctor was in the house and said it came from dirt! It was horrendous. I was lucky enough not to have my head shaved - some did.  Everything in our house, including the house, was rented, even the kettle! My mother did nothing about the fleas, and I am not sure whether it was a lack of money, which is  probable, or denial.  Maybe it was denial. She took in students and one night one of them was covered with these things. She did something then, but I can't remember what. I think I'll take a shower - even my fingers are itching!   Yvonne  My ex-husband (now known as my WASBAND) decided we would come to the States. I didn't want to leave England but I used to be obedient. (goodness - I don't even know that woman any more). So off he went to 'get things ready for us' and I sold the house, packed up stuff, got four children ready to leave (10,7,4 and 13 months) and had an horrendous journey to.....here! The little we discussed, I wanted to go to Canada. My friend Jill had migrated there. I have been friends with her since I was three and I knew she would make it easy for me. We talked about New Zealand or Australia but at that time we had too many children to be approved - don't know what it is like now. So we ended up in Philadelphia which, after 34 years is still a mystery to me and I avoid it at all costs. Missed some very lucrative work, but no thanks. Funny being reared as a city girl in London I much prefer the countryside. My first two years in this country will be part of the book I am writing. I used to be afraid what my wasband would do when he read it but duh! who the hell cares!!! I am still English in my heart and soul but am very grateful to the US for a number of reasons. I would never have got as far as I have professionally had I remained in the UK. Keeping my accent strong was the most sensible thing I have done!!!! I would never have met John, even though he is a Brit from the Manchester area. My children would not have the spouses they have and I am truly blessed with my children in law. That means I would not have the grandchildren I have. So there is a purpose behind everything I suppose. I have tender thoughts on Canada. It is one of the few countries where I love the cities. My friend has now left Ontario and lives in British Columbia. Better climate she says. The first two years here - ghastly. I lived in Northeast Philadelphia which is a kind of wannabee Philly and where I was judged on what I had which was precious little. When we moved to Bucks County things improved enormously and for a time I was content. However, that was then. Honestly? I would still love to live in Ireland at least three months of the year, three months here, three months in the UK and three months here again. Can't be done. Won't leave my family mainly because of Nicolas and I have to work. Can't imagine starting over at my chronological age (the inner Y is rather younger!!!) I know I am at a stage in my life when something new is about to happen professionally. I just hope it isn't political!!!! Good to read your stuff. Love Yvonne the Dame

Updated 8/6/04