But now, in this shul, I saw my father sitting in a pew somewhere toward the back, among the other men. He was wearing his everyday hat and he stayed in his seat until the end of the service. It was a long service. Special prayers were said for the Jews in the camps. Some of the women cried. The woman in front of me sat huddled over her prayer book and blew her nose repeatedly. She was wearing a reddish-brown wig that had slid back under her hat. My mother had set her prayer book next to her on the bench and was gazing fixedly into space. I put my hand on her arm.

‘It’s very cold in Poland now,’ she whispered.

‘But she was able to take warm clothes with her, wasn’t she?’ I said softly. ‘She had her knapsack all packed and was ready to go.’

My mother nodded. Just then the cantor started another prayer, so we all stood up. Down below a Torah scroll had been taken out of the Holy Ark. The scroll was clad in purple velvet and had a silver crown from which hung little bells that tinkled when the Torah was being carried around the synagogue. The men kissed a corner of the velvet cover as the Torah went by. After a while the congregation broke out in the closing song of the service. It’s a cheerful melody that surprises me every time because it begins so exuberantly. While they sang, the men folded up their prayer shawls and the women donned their coats. I watched as my father carefully put away his prayer shawl in the small tallit bag.

In front of the building people waited for one another, shaking hands and wishing each other a ‘good Shabbos’. My father was already there when my mother and I came out. As a child, I hated having to walk home afterwards with the others, since I was always afraid I’d run into kids from my school.

Most people dispersed quickly across the square. Some went in the direction of Weesperstraat, others toward Waterlooplein. One of my father’s acquaintances asked if we’d walk part of the way down Nieuwe Amstelstraat with him.

‘I’ve sent my wife and children to the countryside,’ he said. ‘At least for now they’re better off there than here.’

‘Why didn’t you go with them?’ asked my mother.

‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘it wouldn’t suit me at all. I’m managing just fine.’

‘So are you living on your own now?’ asked my mother.

‘No,’ he said, ‘with my sister. She hasn’t decided yet what to do either.’

‘What choices are there?’ said my father.

‘Well,’ said his acquaintance, ‘you could shut the door behind you and simply disappear. But what would you live on?’

‘Exactly,’ said my father. ‘You have to live. You have to support yourself somehow.’

We were standing on the corner by the Amstel River, with an icy wind blowing in our faces. My father’s acquaintance shook our hands. ‘My sister’s place is that way,’ he said and crossed the bridge to Amstelstraat. A small, hunched-over figure in a black coat with an upturned collar, clutching his hat. We walked along the Amstel, crossing the bridge at Nieuwe Herengracht and passing under the yellow sign with ‘Judenviertel/Jewish Quarter’ written across it in black letters. A couple of children wearing woollen mufflers were leaning over the railing and throwing pieces of bread to the seagulls, who caught them deftly as they skimmed over the water. A police van drove down the other side of the street and a woman thrust open a window and shouted something to the children, who dropped the rest of the bread and ran inside.