Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

81 Air. Monday and Other Tales of Jewish Amsterdam

"There was no bell to ring, so I turned the knob and went in, straight to the kitchen and I announced, "Here we are again."

Back in our old neighbourhood, in the meantime, everybody died a thousand deaths waiting for the telegram reporting Grandma Gittel's safe arrival in England. Later, when we told her about our great concern, she explained in a tone that was meant to be casual,

"Well, that's because you don't have travel experience. There was no danger at all. They wouldn't dare kidnap me in broad daylight. And if they had kidnapped me by night, they would have brought me back as soon as they saw me in daylight."

Although she pretended that the journey had been very simple, this modesty was just a sham. In reality, she was very proud of having completed the journey all alone, the more so because the trip was made in the face of disapproval by the entire family.

At eighty-nine Grandma developed a severe pneumonia at the same time that my mother was in bed with influenza. The doctor looked very concerned. "I'm afraid the old woman is going to lose this battle," he confided to us. "True, she is as strong as iron, but pneumonia at that age is practically hopeless. In any case, there should be a trained nurse here," he told Mother sternly. "You sick in bed and your Mother perhaps dying—you must have a nurse night and day."

A nurse came, and as you might expect, Grandmother did not like her. The fault was not with the nurse. Grandma Gittel always had trouble with medical people. She was ill, but that doctor did not prescribe any medicine, she complained.