Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

67 Air. Monday and Other Tales of Jewish Amsterdam

"Do you still have one of the old catalogues?"

"There's not one left."

"And the booklet with the photos of the murals?"

"One copy we've managed to save."

But thank G־d, the mural paintings have remained intact. The Union had them cleaned recently. Along a back-staircase we went upstairs to the boardroom. The same furniture as in the old days. The same cloth over the table. The same yellow carpet on the floor. And on the walls the magnificent paintings.

"The Strong Hours"—a young man girds himself for the great voyage through Life.

"The Soft Hours"—a thoughtful female figure, a book in her hand.

"The Deep Hours"—a man and a woman lie side by side.

Time moves back. Is it the Present or the Past? Outside, the lane is once more filled with crowds of Union workers. A large figure "8", made of flowers, is hanging out in front.

The people sing:

"Eight hours, resounds through all the lands."

A house full of ghosts, a street full of shadows. The memorial tablet in the boardroom is still there too.

"The apprentices and young members had this boardroom fitted as a token of their gratitude and also as a promise for the future, at the occasion of the introduction of the 8 hour working day."

The room is a museum. No, a house of mourning. On that chair, there at the corner of the table, Henri Polak used to sit. Nowadays, when old union members visit the room, they caress the seat of that chair.