Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

178 Air. Monday and Other Tales of Jewish Amsterdam

A couple of years before the disaster of the German invasion swept over Holland, Sol came to see us. He had come to say farewell. By that time he had sold his shop and had gone into trading things, a dizzying, climbing spiral from one business to another.

Although he was rich, he remained thin and his movements were jerkier than ever. His eyes seemed to estimate everyone and everything, as if he was forever laying in wait and thinking, "What is that man worth? For how much can I buy him?"

He told us he was going to America.

"Why?" Father asked. "You make money enough here."

"I have to go, I have to leave this country.You can call it presentiment. It's just as if something is calling me. I have made financial provisions for my parents and my brothers and sisters. They will not starve, and in case of an emergency I can always send them more money. But for me, I am leaving."

He went to America. Now and then Duplikate came to read a letter to us that she had received from him. He lived in New York, but he did not think he would stay there very long.

After the war, in 1948 the newspaper for which I worked sent me to South America.

I was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Ambassador in Caracas, when a lively fellow asked me in German if he could offer me a drink.

"Jawohl, are you a German?" I asked.

No, he said, he was from Czechoslovakia. Was I German?