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The Winter Shul | The Dreamweaver

Writer's picture: The DreamweaverThe Dreamweaver


I was on the bus heading to Amsterdam and struck up a conversation with a gangly, middle-aged peroxide-blond-haired woman who became more and more flirtatious as the journey progressed. By the time we arrived in Amsterdam, the woman had convinced me to show her and her Filipina companion around town as, seeing how I had an hour to kill before meeting up with my great-aunt, uncle and cousin, I always enjoyed doing.


Once we arrived, we collected our things from the undercarriage of the bus and stored them away in lockers in the central train station.


Outside of the station, the two women giddily took photos of each other, sipped what was obviously some sort of spirits from a thin hip flask the blond woman had retrieved from her clutch, and lit up long thin cigarettes from a gold cigarette case, which made me feel uneasy.


As we walked along the high street, the women noticed a public toilet and excused themselves (odd, I thought, as they said they had used the toilets in the station).


After a few minutes the women emerged from the toilets carrying, to my surprise, a few boxes.


They came over to where I was sitting on a bench and set the boxes down and began opening them.


Apparently they had stolen the boxes off the toilet cleaner's trolley and contained paper towels, tampons, plastic drinking cups and liquid hand soap refills.


Knowing I had to part company with these women in the most expedient and discreet manner possible, I told them I was going to take my turn in the toilet and as I walked towards the facility, lost myself by mingling in with the flow of pedestrians, ridding myself once and for all of the two hags.


I finally met up with my relatives---–great-aunt Shirley, her husband Alex (my grandmother's youngest brother), and their oldest son David---–at the designated meeting place near the Anne Frank House, located alongside the Prinsengracht canal. After our museum tour we headed towards the Jewish Cultural Quarter to visit the Jewish Museum and the old Portuguese Synagogue.


As we were walking towards the Synagogue, I noticed it was almost sunset and the beginning of the Sabbath, so I suggested we bypass the Synagogue and walk into the smaller temple where they would be holding Sabbath services in about ten minutes time.


We walked into the smaller Obbene Shul, known as "the winter synagogue," where Friday night services were held and sat down at the back.


Just as the services were getting started, my aunt Shirley, who was seated in the row in front of me, turned around and said she wanted to make sure I knew that she and her husband were deceased and that I didn't mind them appearing to me, which I told her I did not.


Just then, an old man came and stood next to me, wrapping his right arm tightly around my torso and his left hand around my back. He then began poking his left index finger into my side, which both hurt and tickled at the same time.


While this was going on, my aunt's face began to distort, almost as it was decomposing right before my very eyes, while the man kept poking me harder and harder.


At once, I knew I had died and this was purgatory, the place I would remain for eternity, accompanied by loved ones and at the same time being tormented with pleasure and pain, all in the house of God.


Then I woke up.




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