‘My grandpa was one of the forces that shaped my life. A little man, always impeccably dressed, with his shoes polished to a shine and his face and head clean-shaven. Yes, you didn’t see as many shaved, gleaming scalps in those days as you do now.
I only ever knew him without teeth. In a burst of enthusiasm, he and his future bride had once had all their teeth pulled, convinced that they were “investing in the future”. After all, they would be free of toothache and dental expenses for the rest of their lives.
His greatest pride was being part of ‘the trade’, as he called the diamond industry. Hirsch van de Kar was a specialist diamond cleaver. In good times he had four boys polishing for him at four mills.
Grandpa had one child and one grandchild. He called me the apple of his eye, and my father was 'Mannie' to him. He taught me to go for walks and was practically bursting with pride when I managed to walk with him all the way from the Kalkmarkt to Oude Schans and back again. He was just as proud that I knew the names of all the streets that you could see from our kitchen window: Oude Waal, Kromme Waal, Rechtboomsloot and Binnenkant.
Our little family had moved to Amstelveen. Grandpa looked after me when Mummie went to the market or had to be in the old town centre for some other reason. I spent at least two half-days a week with him. Grandma was sick, and she lay in her box bed in the alcove. The only thing I remember about her is that once in a while she insisted that Grandpa should give me a banana. Then she died. Grandpa and I looked closely at her together; she was the first dead person I had ever seen. I don't have any strange or bad memories of that moment, though I do recall Grandpa crying. It was early in the war; I was 12.
When it came time for me to go to primary school, I continued my regular Monday and Friday evening pilgrimages to Amsterdam. On Monday evenings, Grandpa taught me to play cards and checkers. I almost always won. I didn’t realize until much later that he was letting me beat him. But Grandpa’s enthusiasm about my achievements laid the basis for my self-confidence, which may be unfounded but has never deserted me. On Friday evenings we had even more fun. The whole house smelled like chicken soup. Grandpa was tired out from all the errands he had been running. After the chicken soup, we went into the parlour, and the tea cloth was on the table, covered with little dishes of shaved chocolate, shredded coconut and ground peanuts. Grandpa insisted on using his own special words for them: cocernoot and kersausies. And then it was time to nosh with Grandpa Kar.
In 1941 I realized that all these happy childhood memories were set in Amsterdam’s Jewish district. Grandpa had lost his diamond pride; he wore a star. The moment I heard, at a birthday party for my girlfriend, that Grandpa had been ‘picked up’ in a razzia has remained the most terrible moment of my life. A single short letter he wrote remains: “Bye bye, dear children, we're on our way from Westerbork to Theresienstadt.” And another from the Red Cross: “Hirsch van de Kar died in Sobibor.” Both letters are dated. The two dates are six days apart.’
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