Part Six of ‘The Golden Years”
“Now let’s see how much you guys have brought me”, the man said gruffly after we had heaved the last bundle of old newspapers onto the grimy scales. He put a heavy steel weight on the smaller part of the balance and added some lighter ones. Squinting at the pointers he said gruffly, “Right … just about thirty kilos; I’ll give you one guilder and fifty cents for the lot.”
His hand disappeared in his pocket and came up full of small change and when I saw he was picking out a guilder piece I quickly said, “We’re sharing.” With a grunt he counted out three quarters for each of us and turned away.
“What are we going to do now?” Mickey asked as we wheeled back the old pram.
It nearly had collapsed under the load of old newspapers we had collected from all neighbors we knew and I had a feeling that it’s axles were definitely bent. We quietly put it back in the basement that served as a bicycle shed and hoped nobody would be any the wiser.
I looked around. A cold, north-west wind was blowing, sending ragged clouds scurrying across a feeble winter sun. Not the kind of weather one wanted to be outside for an entire Wednesday afternoon. The schoolyard was deserted and the street was empty.
“Let’s go and ride the tram”, I said.
“Visit Grandma”, I said.
“It will cost us”, Mickey said doubtfully, “at least ten cents.”
“I’ll pay”, I said with a grin, “I’m rich!”
“Huh?” said Mickey as I showed him another fifty cents. “Where did you get that?”
“Helped Adams yesterday.”
Adams was the ‘peel-collector’ who passed through our street each week, his horse-drawn cart leaving a malodorous trail. He collected potato peel and cabbage leaves and any other kind of vegetable waste from households as well as bones and other offal from the butchers.
My stepdad had strictly forbidden me to go near him. But I knew he offered good money and stepdad wasn’t around anyway, so yesterday after school, I had been running up and down the stairs of every house in our street and the next one.
On every landing, there had been a small wicker basket on top of the trash can and I had emptied them into an evil-smelling burlap bag that grew steadily heavier. When it was about three-quarters full I had hurried over to the stinking cart. Adams would hand me an empty bag and I would start another round of running up and down stairs until my legs ached.
Mickey and I were joking while we walked to the nearest stop and while we waited for the tram to come we made faces at people passing on bicycles. Finally a tram materialized and we climbed on board.
The Amsterdam trams in those days were heavy, old-fashioned looking vehicles painted dark blue and consisting of a motor-car and a trailer. The balconies had no doors, you just jumped on and fought yourself inside (if possible). There were no chairs, only hard wooden benches to the side of the cabin. Leather straps dangled down from the ceiling, providing something to hold on to for those who had to stand during rush hour.
Each car had its own conductor and when he had seen that all passengers had gotten off and the new ones were aboard he would signal the motorman by pulling sharply at a lanyard above his head. A bell would sound in the motorcar or a whistle in the trailer to signal they could move off.
The motorman stood on the front balcony, feet wide apart. Behind him in a corner stood a kind of bicycle saddle mounted on a tripod but we never saw it used. For every change of speed the motorman would haul at a horizontal lever that made loud ratcheting noises. And whenever someone or something was likely to get in his way he would stamp on a pedal and a bell would clang sharply, sending the message “Out of my way or face the consequences!”
With the practiced ease of someone doing nothing else each day, the conductor came over to us while the tram was rumbling and swaying like a surf-boat through the curving streets and over the humped bridges of the old town.
We meekly bought our 10 cent tickets, a white piece of paper which he stamped in black ink. It would allow us to ride any tram within a 45 minute timeframe.
It took us less than that to reach the end of the line and after a ten minute walk we reached the notary’s house. It had a garden all around and a lovely canal at its back.
As we walked up the short driveway Mickey asked, “What’s this guy doing?”
“He’s a notary”, I answered.
“What’s a notary?”
I had asked my granddad the same; he had explained that you went to a notary if you had so much money that you were afraid your children would fight over it when you died. The notary then would make something called a ‘will’ and they would have to abide by that.
“Jeez; imagine having so much money that your kids would fight over it”, Mickey said in a kind of awe and I agreed. I could not imagine having a lot of money at all; in my world the cupboard would be bare by Friday…
“How did you come here?” asked my grandma as she gave us both a nice glass of lemonade. The ice cubes in it were the big treat. They came from something called a fridge in which grandma could keep foodstuff nice and cold. It even had a compartment in which she could make those ice-cubes.
“We took the tram”, I answered, “Lots of things to see and it’s easier than walking.”
I showed her my ticket. Grandma was dead-set against joyriding because of the fine if you got caught. We stayed with her for a while, drinking lemonade and eating biscuits until she looked pointedly at the clock on the kitchen wall.
“Time for you to go back; your mom will be mad at you if you’re late”, she said while she handed each of us a chocolate bar. She kissed me and said quietly “Be careful; don’t take that bloody line 4.”
But that was exactly what we had in mind.
Line 4 had the oldest, most rickety trams in existence. My granddad told me he had to say “Sir” to them as they were older than he was. They swayed and squealed in the slightest curve. But the big thing was that, after passing through a very narrow street close to Munt Square, they had to get around a very sharp, almost 180 degrees left-hand turn at the edge of the Amstel River. At least once a year, one of those line 4 trams would jump out of the rails, smash through the iron fence and splash into the dirty water six feet below.
Of course we wanted to experience such an exciting thing. But we prudently stayed on the after-balcony of the trailer. It would be easy to jump out if things went really wrong because the balconies in both cars had no doors.
But to our disappointment we had a careful motorman that day; the tram trundled slowly through the narrow street lined with small bars, creakingly went through the absurdly sharp curve and triumphantly groaned up to the Munt Square stop…
— To Be Continued —