Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

YESTERDAY NEVER RETURNS 181

After the meal, he and his wife showed me Junior's wing of the house. The four-year-old terror had his own apartment, his own servants who ran after him constantly In one room, the floor was covered by a huge electric toy railway. Trains with lights, signals that jumped to "Safe" automatically when the tiny carriages had passed. Level crossings that moved mysteriously.

Junior muttered something half in Spanish, half in English. I couldn't understand what he was saying but the child had such an unpleasant, insistent tone in his voice that I thought a spanking would do him good.

"No," Sol said to him, as if he were refusing something. The child kept on whining.

"What does he want?" I asked curiously

"Oh..., nothing special," said Sol with an awkward glance at me.

His wife explained. "He s saying 'Play Dutchman'. Come on, do it Sol."

"No," said Sol. He was obviously irritated, and he looked about wildly as if he felt driven into a tight corner."

"Play Dutchman," whined the child.

"Let him have his way," I said. The whining irritated me.

"I don't understand why you refuse," said Sol's wife. "Other times you are willing enough.

"Oh, all right then," Sol said grudgingly. Reluctantly he took a silver serving platter from a table, balanced it in his right hand, stood astride the rails of the toy train.

And suddenly, a high-pitched boyish voice rang in the room. Sol shouted, "Nice rolls, nice rolls with salt brisket, wurst, roast beef or cheese.. .Nice rolls to take on your trip!"