Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

WAGE EARNERS

Une late afternoon I had an appointment with a tailor at his workshop, number so-and-so on the New Achtergracht in Amsterdam. He explained to me how to get there.

"After you have passed through the front door, you have to go through a long corridor and then you climb an iron staircase. Then you go through another corridor and at the end of it is the door to my workshop. You can't miss it."

But I did miss it, because once in the first long corridor I got completely rattled. The smell in that old factory drove away all sense of the present. I heard myself say aloud: "Good Lord, this is father's old factory!"

After so many long years, the sensuous sweet odour of machine oil, driving belts and sweat still hung within its walls. Smells arouse powerful associations.They intoxicate. They invoke visions...

"What does your father do?"

"He works in the docks."

"My father works in the trade..."

Children like to brag about their parents. The "Trade", a word that embraces all the professions of the extensive