“This is where I lived during the war,” Dad began in a trembling voice. “Look here,” he pointed in a window at the back of the red brick Viersprong building in Driebergen, “The table is still in the same place under the window. That’s where it happened.”
It was in about 2009 that we visited. My parents took me to the Netherlands to show me where Mom was born, and they grew up, met, and dated. This very poignant memory stands out as if it had happened yesterday.
Dad, flanked by my mother and me, stood staring. “I can still see them—the Nazi officers—sitting behind that table, or one that looked just like it. The sisters who were in charge lined us children up along the other wall—the far one.” He hesitated, evidently trying to get his emotions under control.
“Well, we knew that it wouldn’t be good. The Jewish children hadn’t been allowed to go to school for quite some time by then. And the sisters always told them to stay away from the windows. And now the officers were looking right at them!” Dad drew in a deep breath.
I took his hand. “Dad, you don’t have to tell me about this if you’d rather not.”
“No, it’s time. I have to for the sake of my cousins, Meriam, Edith, and Hansje…and Keetje. They deserve to be remembered. You see, the officers told all the Jewish children to stand to the left side of the wall. The other children, my brother and me included, had to stand on the right. When they were done with their sorting, we were sent out, but the Jewish children had to remain. My friend, Keetje van Zanten, escaped them and ran after me, flinging her arms around me, saying, ‘Fritsje, hide me.’ What could I do? I was a child! The sister took her back into the room.”
Dad drew in a trembling breath. “Two weeks later we were told that Hansje had died. I later found out that my pregnant Aunt Esther, Uncle Henri, and their children all ended up at Auschwitz, even if they weren’t transported together. My cousins, who were only 11 and 9 years and 18 months old, were killed immediately upon arrival. My aunt gave birth at the camp, but they killed her baby. She died soon afterwards.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “What about your uncle?”
“Well, my mother always said he was crazy, but who wouldn’t be after that? He survived, eventually remarried, and had another family.”
We sat down together on the curb as I struggled to take in the story. “Dad, why weren’t the sisters, who’d been hiding Jewish children, arrested?”
Dad shrugged, “I’m sure we won’t find out now.”
As we got up to leave that tear-stained place, Dad’s eyes turned red. “I can still hear her voice: ‘Fritsje, hide me.’ I’ll never forget.”
Nobody in Keetje’s family survived, but Dad kept his promise. He never forgot her.
First appeared at https://iammeta.org