Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

170 Air. Monday and Other Tales of Jewish Amsterdam

Although there was no hole in the floor through which we could see into the tenement below us, all of us knew that Levi and Duplikate were short of money. It was not considered proper manners to show curiosity about the material situation of neighbours, but we could not disregard it altogether.

So when in our kitchen the pot of lentil soup stood bubbling on the paraffin heater with smoked wurst simmering in it, and the penetrating odour of fried onions and matzoh balls floated through the whole building, Mother would sometimes say "I wonder when was the last time they ate soup down below?"

She asked the question even though she knew the answer, for if Duplikate ever had anything to cook, we would know it from the smell.

"I think I would be doing them down there a big mitz-vah if I let them have some of our food," Mother would add.

But how could she do this without giving them the impression that we were intruding? It was an impossible situation. Just one floor below us they had a nest full of children so hungry that their rumbling stomachs could have formed a church choir, while we had plenty to eat. Although money did not grow on my father s back, we did not know real poverty or actual hunger, at least not during the years I am telling of now.

"My food has no taste for me," Mother would say when we were sitting at our table. "We are eating here while those poor sheep downstairs are suffering from hunger only because their parents are too proud to accept help from us."

One of those poor sheep downstairs was Sol, a boy of about my age. He and I were friends, and I ran in and out