My Dad’s butcher shop is one of the best in the neighbourhood. Sunday is the busiest day for us. Our customers come from all over Amsterdam. Some are Jewish, others aren’t. Lately lots of Jewish people from Germany have come to live in our neighbourhood.

We hear Joseph Goebbels, a Nazi, on the radio saying terrible things about Jews.

 

The day after, it’s pandemonium in the streets.

 

But now we have no radio, and no bikes. We have to hand them in because Jews aren’t allowed to own these things anymore. Our telephone has been cut off and Dad’s butcher shop forced to close. Tonight, Dad sat in his chair just staring ahead, saying, ‘How could God allow this madness to happen? Where is he and why does he not show us a sign?’ I’ve never seen him like this.

 

The doorbell rings and three Dutch Policemen in black uniforms come into our apartment. One of them has a list with my parents’ names on it. They ask for their Identity Cards and then say they are under arrest. Dad asks ‘what for?’ and they say they don’t know, and take my parents out the door.

 

Now I am all alone.