Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

WEEKDAYS AND SABBATH 87

they "make" the Sabbath, and that is why they are called Sabbath makers. They walk up and down the streets and alleys singing their songs. From the windows, coins wrapped in paper, fall down on the pavement. They are gifts from the Jews preparing for the Holy Day.

When the last shabbesmacher had left, the expectant tranquillity of the Friday evening descends on the neighbourhood. The day of rest has begun. The streets are deserted. Behind the closed curtains the lamps are burning. The families are gathered around the table covered with a white cloth. Generation after generation sat like this, for hundreds, nay thousands of years.

And every Friday night again there is that moment of expectation, the second of motionless quiet, before the meal begins.

Through the thin wall one can hear the singing and praying of the neighbours. Age-old melodies. A few hours later, when the tables have been cleared, the light behind the curtains are dimmed. Silence reigns everywhere. It is as if a large glass dome has been put over the old district which cuts off all sounds.

The repose of the night is followed by the quiet of the Sabbath morning. No noises on the streets. No creaking of carts. No children who have to go to school. Only some pious men who shuffle to the shut carrying under their arm the velvet bag with the prayer shawl.

The long and venerable Sabbath continues and goes on and on, until the first star appears in the sky.

And then the week begins anew...