One morning my father came down the stairs with his coat on and my coat draped over his arm.

‘Hurry, put it on,’ he said. My mother came down behind him. I immediately flung aside the beads while my father switched off the light. We sat down in the semi-darkness by the barred window on the street side of the house, where only the feet of passers-by were visible. At first, no one went past. But after a few minutes we saw big black boots that made a loud, clicking noise. They emerged from the house on our right and crossed over to the kerb, where a car was waiting. We also saw ordinary shoes walking beside the boots: brown men’s shoes, a pair of pumps with worn-down heels, and gym shoes. Two pairs of boots walked slowly toward the car, as if they were carrying something heavy.

‘Lots of people live in the house next door,’ whispered my father. ‘It’s a rest home and quite a few of the residents are ill.’

A pair of beige children’s boots stopped in front of our window. The toes faced slightly in, and the laces of one boot were darker than those of the other.

‘That’s Liesje,’ my mother said softly. ‘She’s growing so fast. Those boots are already much too small for her.’

The child lifted her foot and, as if she were hopping, that one small boot jumped back and forth in front of our window.

Until it was joined by a pair of black boots. We heard the door of the house on our right slam shut. The boots stayed put. They were well-polished, had unworn heels, and had planted themselves firmly in front of our window. We gazed at the scene as if it were a shop window with a special display. My mother craned her head a bit so she could see around the bar that was blocking her view, while my father looked straight ahead.

The boots started to move and we watched as first the left one took a step forward, then the right one, then the left, the right, moving away from the window, toward the left.

The doorbell rang in the house on our left. We stayed where we were until we no longer saw any boots. Then we went upstairs and hung our coats on the coat rack.

Sabbath

By looking over the edge of my mother’s prayer book – where she was tracing the letters with her fingers so I could follow along – and peering down through the latticed screen, I could see my father in his prayer shawl, his tallit. I couldn’t help thinking of the shul in Breda, which was much smaller and not nearly as beautiful. But there my father had a roomy pew all to himself, which looked just like a coach without wheels. To get out of it, he had to open a little round door and go down a few steps. The door creaked and, when I heard it, I’d look down and watch my father proceed to the middle of the sanctuary. I followed his shiny top hat and his ample tallit, which would flutter a little behind him as he walked. He climbed the steps of the almemor – the raised platform where the Torah was read and where he was called upon to distribute mitzvoth, blessings. Then I would suddenly hear our names called between the half-chanted Hebrew texts. Our names sounded very beautiful in Hebrew and they were longer because my father’s name was always added to them. Then my mother would also look down through the screen and smile at my father. The women in the gallery would nod at my mother as a sign they’d heard the names and would wait to see if their husbands would give them a mitzvah so that my mother could nod at them in return. It was a custom in the Breda Jewish community.