Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

YESTERDAY NEVER RETURNS 179

"No, I am Dutch," I replied. He had thought that and we talked for a while. Before I left, I had promised him that I would pay him a visit the next day.

In the garden of his house was the fragrant smell of the exotic flowers ofVenezuela. But inside the house it was Berlin in the year 1928. Lots of small portraits on the wall, plates with Lebkuchen and Kasekuche on the table. In a corner of the room a couple of guests were sitting at a table playing Skat.

We talked about the olden days when the gay life moved around Kurfuestendamm, and the German Jews still believed in the pipe-dream that they had become Jewish Germans.

Then one of them said, "Aber hier in Caracas wohnt doch..." and he mentioned a rather Spanish sounding name. "Das ist doch ein Hollander. That Hollander vill like to meet you, I think."

And he phoned, half in Spanish, half in German. "Der Herr kommt... The gentleman is coming."

When the visitor entered I recognised him immediately.

Sol!

Thin as a wire, still. Restless as ever. Jerky and moving in spurts. Looking around, estimating everything.

We embraced and then shook hands. It had been so many years since we had last met. That evening we talked about old friends and acquaintances. About his father and mother and brothers and sisters. All gone. Gas chambers, all of them.

He invited me to his place next day. He would send a car to the Ambassador. Sol's estate was about an hour's drive from town.