A boy remembers his grandparents:
‘They were simple, kind-hearted people. Although the Jewish religion no longer had much significance for them, they observed the high holy days and some traditions. One of those traditions was having a delicious meal on Friday evenings. The regular guests were my grandmother’s sister and an aunt, my father’s sister. And I often joined them on those evenings; I was their only grandson, and still a schoolboy. The meal always started off with chicken soup, then came the chicken itself, the meat yellow from saffron, with legumes, salsify or peas, accompanied by piccalilli, pickles and pickled cucumber slices. After clearing the table, we shelled kesause mangelen [peanuts] and kasuarie noten [cashews?] over the newspaper and played a game of whist for half a cent a point. If I lost half a stuyver, my grandfather would make it up in the pocket money I used to slip me when I went home.
Sometimes my father would drop in at about nine o’clock. Then the cents and half-cents would be quickly swept off the table and replaced by buttons from a little box that my grandmother had placed close at hand just in case. My father thought playing for money a shameful way to earn money, like gambling on the stock exchange.
After the Germans occupied our country, these Friday evenings gradually came to an end. My grandparents had to wear a demeaning yellow star when they left the house and were no longer permitted to travel by train, tram or bus. They were not allowed to stay out after 8 in the evening. My grandparents were deprived of most of their income; even when chicken was available, there was no money to buy it. The atmosphere had been ruined; the fun of these weekly gatherings gave way to worried discussions about the way the war was heading. Occasionally the subject of my grandfather’s 77th birthday would be raised, on 21 May 1943. Would they celebrate it?
That May my grandparents and my aunt received their summons drafting them into forced labour. It was accompanied by a stamped document giving them permission to take the tram to Amsterdam’s Central Station on the date of their departure, Monday 24 May, and then to take the 3 o’clock train to Westerbork. My mother was to accompany them to help them carry their suitcases. They set off at 2 pm. Although the weather was fine, they had put on their warmest clothes and heavy winter coats. They pulled the front door shut behind them and walked to the tram stop. When the tram arrived, they raised their hands to indicate that they wanted to get on. It all seemed so ordinary. How often had they not made that little journey? The tram followed the usual route, through the familiar streets and past the familiar buildings. The other passengers averted their gaze from the four of them, who were gloomily staring ahead. The conversation petered out.
At the station my grandparents and my aunt said goodbye to my mother and boarded the train that stood waiting, along with many other people. Even then, it was still possible to believe that this was some holiday outing. Only the yellow stars on the winter coats, the Dutch police officers watching coldly in their black uniforms, the Grüne Polizei and the exaggeratedly industrious assistants from the Jewish Council indicated that something else was going here, a forced transport.
In Westerbork transit camp, the old people and their daughter spent a restless night in a noisy dormitory. My aunt hastily scribbled a pencilled note on a postcard to the neighbour that they were all well, and that they would be leaving the next day, Tuesday. In the morning they were hoisted with sixty others into the cattle-cars in which they would spend three days and nights, sitting or lying on the hard floor, travelling to the East.’
Addition of a visitor of the website
In addition, a Jokos file (number 3750) on this family is at the Amsterdam Municipal Archive. Access is subject to authorization from the Stichting Joods Maatschappelijk Werk.