Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

YESTERDAY NEVER RETURNS 171

of Duplikate's flat as if I lived there. Sol felt perfectly at home with us too. Mother had tried a couple of time to learn from him what happened on the floor below, but Sol would not let himself be pumped. Then one morning when Mother unexpectedly entered the kitchen she caught Sol in the act of taking a piece of bread out of the bread basket and trying to hide it under his jacket. I think he and I were about ten years old at the time.

Mothers was startled. "Solomon.. .what are you doing?" she shouted. But at once she took the poor boy by the hand, hugged him and constraining herself said quietly, "If you want a piece of bread here, you don't need to take it yourself. I'm here to see that everyone gets his share. Give me that roll, then I'll cut it into slices and smear a lick of butter on it. Wait a minute, I'll put some chocolate spread on it for you as well. And I'll get you a glass of milk. Well, enjoy your food!"

Sol began to cram his food down as if he had been on the very brink of starvation. When he had had enough, Mother sent him down in the street to play.

That evening when we were having supper, she told us what had happened afterwards.

"I went downstairs and I told Duplikate 'Listen, maybe it's none of my business, but are you so poor that your children have to steal bread from the neighbours?'"

Now this Duplikate with a belly like a balloon, because there's one on the way again, told me something that if you had read it in the papers you wouldn't believe it. They are broke, absolutely and completely stone broke. There is nothing left in their house that the pawnbroker will find worth looking at, either. You know what that schlemiel,