Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

6 Adr. Monday and Other Tales of Jewish Amsterdam

There was no furniture in the houses then—that had already been taken away by the Nazis.The residents had previously moved, not with furniture vans, but with a simple rucksack on their back and a cap on their head. From Marken Alley they travelled to the East, destination Auschwitz, Mauthausen, Sobibor.

They were born in the slums of Amsterdam, rich people, poor ones, street vendors, shopkeepers, workers. Dark-haired, red-haired, blondes, brunettes. They lived their little lives close to each other in this congested neighbourhood. Each one a small planet in the solar system of his own family, together they formed their universe. But it was written that all should die the same death, somewhere in Eastern Europe. There they crossed the thin line at the end of their journey.

Nobody knows where their bones lie. A few of them are lucky, they have a son—a kaddish—or a next of kin who got off alive. The few who have survived from the Holocaust bear a letter and a number tattooed on their left arm, indelibly.

When the shivering people of Amsterdam in the winter of 1944 pulled down the houses of Marken Alley, the memory of the former inhabitants was already fading. The portraits that had once hung on the walls of their living rooms lay scattered between rubbish. Removed from their frames, because wooden frames are excellent fuel for heaters.

The photographs lay there for some time in the rain and the snow. Then the paper became soggy and torn. A gust of wind blew away the shreds. Now, nobody knows anymore what the people looked like before they left.