The Star of David
by Jack Swenson
The goofy streets in Amsterdam had missing teeth. Our Dutch friends told us that in these gaps had been houses that the Nazis tore down for firewood. After the war, the Dutch left the empty spaces as reminders of the occupation, even though housing was sorely needed.
This was 1960, and you really could live in Europe on five dollars a day. Maarten and Willem showed us where we could get a good meal cheap. They knew all the good bars, too.
Everybody in Amsterdam spoke English, and unlike the French, they didn't pretend that they didn't.
Willem was a big fellow, all arms and legs, who told wonderful stories about what it was like during the war. The Nazis thought everyone was a Jew, he said. Once he was being interrogated by a Nazi officer, and the officious German asked Willem if he were Jewish. "No, I'm Catholic," Willem said. "Ah," the German replied. "A Catholic Jew!"
Maarten was a short, stout, friendly fellow. He was on the outs with his wealthy family, probably because he had absolutely no pretensions and no ambition. They paid him a pittance to stay out of their hair. He spent his days hanging out with his friends and drinking beer. He spoke perfect English.
One night the two American girls whom I was traveling with and I were at his tiny apartment. Willem was there, and I can't remember who else, probably Katrina, a pretty blonde with hairy legs, who for some reason had taken a dislike to me. Maybe she didn't like Americans. Who knows?
Anyway, somebody was telling a story, and I idly picked up a black covered book on the fireplace mantel. When I opened it, something fell out and fluttered to the floor. It was a six-pointed star. I picked it up and replaced it in the book. No one said a word. Finally Maarten said the fabric emblem was something he had to wear during the war. I knew about the Star of David and the occupation. At least I knew about it. I didn't know what it was like, but I'm sure the Dutch people did. They knew it in their teeth and bones.
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Author's Note
A 300 word version of this story was published in Literary Bohemian.
Jack, you do such a great job of dropping readers into the midst of a story. I've noticed that in the various pieces of yours that I have read. The multiple stories here, the ambiguous truth of Willem, the existing friendships, etc. it's fascinating and, as always, I'm left wanting more!
I love stories like this, Jack. And this one's nicely descriptive with interesting details throughout - each could be its own story.
Great last line to a great piece. Really evokes time and place.
Good read, Jack (kicking self for turning down a free trip to Italy years ago...).
Enjoyed this story, Jack. My question is... Why the trim?
Strong piece, Jack. Last line captures all that can be said in just a few words. The gaps between the houses and also that after the Hunger Winter many were affected (the bones and teeth of the children especially). Sad times for so many. Loved this. Def fav
I always feel as if I've experienced your stories, not just read them.
Funny how 1960 used to sound like it was light years from 1945. Now that I'm a little older, I realize it was only a blink or two away.
You caught the place.
Nice job.
So many countries suffered in that hateful time. Sad.
Amsterdam is a favorite city of mine. If only for the amazing paintings hanging there.
Thank you all. Larry says all that needs to be said: so much suffering, a hateful time. Still many reminders left in 1960. I remember especially the vacant lots. And of course the six-pointed star.
Europe on five dollars a day? Thanks for sharing your experience with this well written story.
Another great story. Favorite line: "Everybody in Amsterdam spoke English, and unlike the French, they didn't pretend that they didn't."
Love the opening line and the last line, and how you so amazingly got from that goofy point A to that ending Z. Nicely done.
Mykell, Matthew, Michelle. Thank you so much. Keep those (good report) cards and letters comin'!
I’m trying to figure out how I missed reading this story. Anyway, I’ve read it now, and it’s another great one, Jack. What a great opening line that provides an excellent image, and the last line brings us back to that. The writing and the details in between are first rate.
Jack, this is one of your best. Amazing story. Beautiful writing. Drop dead ending. Love the houses like missing teeth. With no overt emotion, you nailed it, and made me start to cry
BIG *
Very strong story with the spark of truth.
The ending paragraph is superb.
I like how this touches and probes at the edges before going in. Superb stuff, Jack.
The story takes us back as though it's going to be an anecdote about a visit once made, then turns into a story that makes us realise what the time of the occupation was really like. The said, and the unsaid, makes for a profound statement, and the ending line is so charged, tears came to my eyes. Excellent!
I very much enjoyed this story for basically all the same reasons listed above. It feels like a still-frame, a single moment with a dozen different stories. But that's not quite the right metaphor; I feel this story. The visceral language drew me in.
A catholic Jew! The stupidity of those idiots in that awful time.
A good memory
Great story, Jack. It contains a universe, a lifetime, and a history all within a compact & brilliant narrative.
Fave, fave, fave!
This is so dead on. What a last line. Fave.
If/when this gets published I hope it's titled The Catholic Jew. Good stuff.
F, I should have read the comment. Well, if it gets published again somewhere else and/or in a collection, consider the title change, eh?
This is so well-done, Jack. With your casual backdrops of a girl who takes a dislike and the good-natured friendly Dutchmen, the contrast horror jumps out like fireworks.
This is totally unpretentious, which makes the twist that much more effective. Details seem to belong. A very compelling piece!