J. S. Margot - Mazel Tov
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- Book:Mazel Tov
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- Year:2020
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![Contents I t must have been the beginning of the month The new - photo 1](/uploads/posts/book/258779/images/9781782275275_cover_epub.jpg)
![Contents I t must have been the beginning of the month The new - photo 2](/uploads/posts/book/258779/images/half_title_online.jpg)
I t must have been the beginning of the month. The new academic year hadnt yet begun and I was heading for the canteen, feeling relieved, having just resat the Spanish grammar exam. To get there, I had to walk through the hall of the university building, past benches where dozens of students sat chatting and smoking. The route to the canteen was more exciting than most lectures.
Noticeboards lined the walls, full of intriguing announcements: Who wants to swap my landlord for theirs?, Feel like coming to Barcelona with us? Room for one more person. Conditions apply. Call me and Free sleeping bag for anyone wholl join me in it.
A single corner was reserved for the universitys job agency.
If one of the jobs displayed in a lockable, plastic showcase looked interesting, youd note down the number of the vacancy and go to the little social services office a bit farther along. There a lady with a long-suffering expression would tell you the details, which usually boiled down to her giving you the name, address and telephone number of the employer. Then, sighing under the weight of her boring job, shed wish you good luck with your application.
The agency had provided me with a lot of temporary jobs in the previous two years, from chambermaiding to dishing out detergent samples, from headhunters assistant to museum attendant.
When I came across a handwritten job vacancy: Student (M/F) required to tutor four children (aged between eight and sixteen) every day after school and coach them with their homework, I immediately wrote the number on my palm. An hour later the lady from the job agency gave me the contact details of the family in question. I will call them the Schneiders, which is not their real name, though their name also sounded German, or German-ish.
The Schneiders, the lady said, were Jewish, but that shouldnt be a problem, and if it was a problem, I could always come back and shed try to see if we could work something out, but she couldnt guarantee anything, because you never knew with people like thatwhich she apparently did know, just as she knew that the Schneiders would pay me 60 Belgian francs an hour, which wasnt a lot, but could have been worse. When it came to money, she informed me, Jews were a bit like the Dutch.
When I stared at her in surprise, she seemed taken aback by my ignorance. Why do you think so many Dutch people come here to study interpreting? Because its a good course and its cheap. As soon as theyve got their diploma, they whizz off back to their country. So were basically training our biggest competitors. Luckily the university gets a subsidy for foreign students, so its not all bad. What I want to say is: dont let yourself get pushed around. Dont accept an unpaid trial period. Even if you decide to stop after the first week, they have to pay you for the hours youve worked. I did quick sums in my head as she babbled on, calculating that I could earn 600 Belgian francs a week: 2,500 a month. Back then, when the rent of a small flat was about 6,000 francs a month, it all added up.
H ello Mevrouw. Could I please speak to Mr or Mrs Schneider?
Mrs Schneider speaking.
Good afternoon. I believe youre looking for a student who can help your children with their homework?
We have been looking for such a person for un certain time.
I only saw the vacancy this week.
Last year we had six students. They gave up after a few evenings.
Why did they give up?
Tcha, why. Why not, nest-ce pas? They did not do a good job, I can tell you.
You have four children.
Two sons and two daughters.
How old are they?
Between eight and sixteen. It says so in the vacancy. You call me for what reason, if you have not read it? You are how old?
Twenty
That is only four years older than our oldest child. You are studying at which university?
Antwerp University. The Higher Institute of Interpreting and Translation Studies.
That is not a university, it is a higher institute.
In Belgium its technically part of the university.
Belgium is bizarre.
Im studying French and Spanish.
French is good. Your Spanish is of no use to us. At home we speak French with the children. But their yeshiva, school, is Flemish, or I should say Dutch-language, nest-ce pas? My husband is not at home now. You need to speak to my husband.
Id like to come over and introduce myself. When would suit you?
You have experience with children?
I really like children. And I like teaching. Shall I come on Friday?
You never come to us on a Friday. You have experience with teaching?
I sometimes helped my cousins with their homework. And my sister, and my friends.
Then you cannot know whether you like teaching, nest-ce pas.
I think I like it.
Friday our holiday begins already, the preparations for it. That day, the children never have school in the afternoon. But on Wednesday afternoon they do. Shabbat lasts, simply explained, from Friday when the sun goes down to Saturday when the sun goes down. Saturdays you therefore cannot come, as we devote the day to rest. But it is the intention that you also come to us each Sunday forenoon. To help the girls. You think that this you can do?
That shouldnt be a problem.
You think you can respect us?
What do you mean?
We are not like everyone, nest-ce pas. We will explain that to you later. I would first like to know: students have the habit to go out on Saturday evenings. And they would rather not get up on Sundays.
Im an early bird, I lied.
When you can come to introduce yourself?
Would Wednesday afternoon suit you, Mevrouw Schneider?
I just said: the children have lessons on Wednesday afternoons. And it is better you see the children.
In the late afternoon I mean, I corrected myself. At five oclock? I have your address.
What is your name, please?
Y oud think no one could possibly remember what the weather was like, say, thirty years ago, but that Wednesday in September the sun shone and the sky was bright bluethe kind of warm blue that heralds cold autumn weatheras I walked down Belgilei, the wide, busy avenue that cuts the Jewish neighbourhood in two, terminating in the handsome masonry of the railway embankment that runs between Zurenborg and the imposing edifice of Antwerp Central Station.
I never came to this side of the city. The only street I knew here was Pelikaanstraat, crammed with little jewellers shops, where, on Sundays especially, people flocked to shop or just browse.
I was amused to see hordes of immaculately dressed infants on scooters. Girls and boyswith or without side curlsraced recklessly but alertly along the pavement, nearly taking off my toes as they shot past. Outside some buildingsschools and crches?there were clusters of over a dozen scooters and as many childrens bikes. Very few were locked or chained.
Men with big white, grey or black beards strode along, seemingly in a tearing hurry. They had the air of people who knew where they were going; they didnt look at me, but turned their gaze the other way. Their beards and sidelocks, reaching from the tops of their ears to their shoulders, were blown around not by the wind, but by the speed with which they walked. Like funeral directors late for an appointment. Some wore white stockings under black breeches. Their jet-black coats (silk, satin or polyester?) all looked identical. Though they hung below the knee, not a single one was unbuttoned. Mustnt these men be stiflingly hot and sweating under their black top hats?
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