I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene,
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew,
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna,
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you.
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
Aligns her father, through his Teutonic roots,  with the Nazis  and through that metaphor explains her fear of him.
Daddy