Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

THE BUILDING 64

he joked "You see that brick over there? The third one in the twelfth row from the bottom? That's my brick. It's our building, and that one brick is mine."

The architect had equipped the house with a high doorstep so that the person who entered should get the feeling that he had dissociated himself from the workaday world. When the Union celebrated a festival, a jubilee or the introduction of the eight-hour working day, the members expressed their gratitude by presenting gifts for interior decorations.

I remember that one evening my entire family, dressed in festive clothes, strolled over to French Lane. I must have been about twelve years old then. The murals in the boardroom had just been completed. The building was on view to union members and their families. In the room a ceremonious atmosphere reigned. The mural paintings, a demure grey contrasting with jubilant green. The furniture, simple but graceful. A table, sturdy oak chairs, a yellow carpet. We viewed more mural paintings in the room where the Union Council held its meetings. On one of them—a man and a woman. Together they read a book. Their hands are joined. And underneath the words of the poet:

"He Read in the Golden Book what Tomorrow will Be." The union members stood waiting in a long line until their turn would come to be guided through the boardroom and the council-room. Once inside, they exchanged jokes with the staff and acted jovially with the principals. The women looked first at the paintings and then at the wrought-iron work. Then they turned their full attention to the furniture. They examined the quality of the cloth that lay on the board-table with their fingers. They made