Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

MARKEN ALLEY 7

A handful of Amsterdam Jews have survived judgement day. When they are together, one of them says musing "I don't know why we deserve to still he here."

The other says "We don't deserve it."

Nobody laughs. They never say "That one and that one has died."

They always say "That one and that one is still here."

Sometimes they talk about the days when the family was united on this side of the thin wall. It is always in their minds.

With words they try to replace the portraits which have been scattered in the wind. A photograph is really a funny thing, a picture that pretends to be more than it has a right to. It tries to cling onto a second that has disappeared irrevocably into eternity.

Recently, the city-councillors of Amsterdam have decided to pull down the remains of the former Jewish district. Next year the walls of the houses will be torn down. When the debris has been cleared away, they will build a highway right across it.

Those who knew the old district tell me "Write down your memories before it is too late."

I believe I should. Our memory is like a sand beach, the footsteps of the people who lived here are printed in the sand, but soon high tide will wipe them out. What will be left of the old neighbourhood in ten or twenty years time? Already grass is growing in the streets between the cobblestones. Soon the old generation will have carried its sadness into the grave.

Superstitious folks say that a house has a soul. I know this to be true. The house is built as a cold, lifeless object