In early 1931, Waldemar passed both of his exams, and David Millar found work for him in the bookkeeping department of a Dutch mortgage lender, the Hollandsche Hypotheekbank. His starting salary was only 200 guldens a month, not nearly enough to feed a family, but in those dark times it was a small wonder that he had found any work at all. That year, he and Rika bounced from address to address, staying at each one until they fell so far behind on rent that they were forced to steal away like thieves in the night. And putting another roof over their heads was no easy feat—not only due to their limited budget, but also because no self-respecting landlord wanted the burden of housing an unmarried couple, let alone a poor, black apprentice bookkeeper, his significantly older mistress, and their baby, who was shameless living proof of his parents’ socially unacceptable love affair.
In that sense, it was hardly by chance that Rika and Waldemar finally ended up in Scheveningen, the former fishing village that, ever since the arrival of bathing culture and the opening of the Kurhaus Hotel in 1885, had been transformed into a fashionable seaside resort with international allure. In 1901, the Queen Wilhelmina Promenade pier was opened by Prince Hendrik himself. The town’s main boulevard was lined with renowned establishments like the Grand Hotel, the Savoy, and Hotel Rauch, and on a beautiful day, all of The Hague would head down to the seaside for a stroll. But underneath all the cosmopolitan chicness, Scheveningen still functioned as the underbelly of The Hague, the gutter that picked up everything that didn’t belong in the dignified royal city. It was home to Jewish people who had been chased out of Eastern Europe and Antwerp during the Great War, and former emigrants to the Dutch Indies who, upon return, had struggled to find their bearings in the bourgeois lifestyle of The Hague.
Rika and Waldemar both recovered in the salty air and bright light of the liberal seaside town. Rika was calmed by the sound of the waves, the broad horizon, and the eternal rhythm of the surf, and Waldemar, the swimmer, had the sea in his veins. His grandmother Mietje had loved to tell stories about the cotton plantation on the shores of the great ocean where she grew up, where you could always hear the sound of the sea. In fact, the people who lived on the Dageraad and the Dankbaarheid plantations were so content there that even after the abolishment of slavery, they fought together with their former master for years to save the plantations from collapse. In Scheveningen, Waldemar’s homeland didn’t seem as far away as in the concrete jungle of The Hague, where he had always felt out of place. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was back in Paramaribo, especially on warm summer days, when the waves crashing lazily on the shore seemed to turn into the sloshing of his beloved river, and the fishermen’s trawlers almost sounded like the steamboats churning upstream back home.
In October 1931, Waldemar’s oldest sister came to Holland. Hilda had finally succumbed to the engine driver’s advances, and the couple planned to marry in The Hague before heading to the Dutch East Indies. Like most people from Suriname, she had always imagined Holland as a land of milk and honey and was deeply shocked to find her youngest brother and his family living in such a state of poverty. On top of that, the promised land wasn’t nearly as wonderful as she had expected. That autumn, the first massive protests against rising unemployment were taking place in Holland’s major cities. Crown Princess Juliana had appointed herself head of a crisis committee, and rich citizens were raising money to help the poor. But crisis was inevitable: no one was making a profit anymore, bankruptcies were on the rise, and the sad lines in front of the unemployment benefit offices were getting longer by the day. The storm was raging, and no one was safe from its wrath.
And it was cold! In a portrait taken that November, Hilda looks nearly frozen in her winter coat and wool gloves, with tears in her eyes. A little while later, she married Jo Herdigein, and the next day they stepped onto the boat to Palembang and set sail in search of the sweet colonial life that had become unattainable both in Suriname and in Holland. That winter, Rika and Waldemar moved to a house in the heart of Scheveningen that was large enough for them to realize their dream of starting a guesthouse. Because if one thing was clear, under the current economic circumstances, there would be no future for Waldemar at the mortgage lender.
In May 1932, the first guests arrived at Pension Nods, Rika’s elegant name for what was in reality a rather spartan guestroom. Fortunately, the three young Germans on a bicycle holiday were used to little in the way of luxury, as their own country had been hit even harder by the crisis than the rest of the world following its humiliating defeat in the First World War. Their satisfaction was evident in the hostess’s guest book. In the long marbled notebook, they wrote: “We were very happy with the room and food.”16 And they weren’t the only ones. It turned out that Rika had a talent for making guests feel welcome and at home. It was as if she bestowed all the motherly love she couldn’t give to her older children on her guests, who stayed for both short and longer periods of time. One grateful vacationer wrote: “After an exhausting day, I came back to find not a guesthouse, but a warm, cozy home.”17
As for Rika, she fervently hoped that she would soon be able to welcome her four older children in her new home. In her letters to them, she even attempted to make peace with Willem:
Do your best in your studies, Bertha. Always be thankful that Papa is successful in his work. Take good care of Henkie. He certainly loves Jans, now that he knows how nice she is to him. I’m happy about that. Study hard, be a very good girl and make Papa proud. Give your brothers a big hug from me. Waldy sends lots of kisses to all of you and warm greetings to Papa. Write back soon and say hi to Jans for me.18
Signed: “Your loving mother,” with a thick line under “loving.” As the months turned into years, and there was no attempt at reconciliation from Goedereede, Rika’s stubborn cheerfulness took on an increasingly desperate undertone. She yearned for quick replies, contact, and most of all, the chance to see her children: “Ask Papa if you can all come stay with me for a little while over the holidays. I miss you so much.”19
But of all the guests who showed up at Pension Nods, Rika’s children were never among them. Willem Hagenaar had been born and raised on irreconcilability—his parents successfully spent the final years of their marriage without exchanging a single word with one another—and he accepted his responsibility with that same sense of scrupulousness. He revealed himself to be a dutiful and loving father, but also incredibly strict. The fact that their servant Jans was by now functioning as the semiofficial woman of the house in more ways than one was carefully kept secret from the children and the other people in the village. And as for the real Mrs. Hagenaar—she simply no longer existed, and anyone foolish enough to so much as mention her name would be met with Willem’s icy gaze or swept into one of his fits of rage.
The two older boys had little trouble adjusting to their father’s strict household. Wim, by then eighteen, had changed a lot since that dramatic fall of 1929. Before then, he had been a mild-mannered boy who would rather sit outside staring at the clouds than focus on his schoolwork. But since he returned to Goeree, he had applied himself more in school and had taken up a rational, even cynical, manner. He didn’t want anything to do with his traitorous mother, nor could he muster up much respect for his father, who had let it all happen. He studied like a demon possessed, with one goal in mind: to get as far away as he could from his vain, egotistical parents, who had made such a mess of their lives and marriage. For Jan, who turned twelve in 1933, life was simpler: he simply followed his big brother, just like he did on that Sunday in 1929 when the two boys made a run for it. The fact that he had been able to go back to wandering the island to his heart’s content more than made up for his mother’s absence in his life. Following Wim’s lead, he ignored all her attempts toward reconciliation. He didn’t read Rika’s letters and refused to visit her.
The only one who dared to defy their father and maintain contact with their mother was Bertha. She was twelve when she left her mother, old enough
to remember her and old enough to have become attached to her new baby brother. She had even become a bit close with friendly Waldemar. Bertha was always oscillating between loyalty to her father and missing her mother, but what seemed to cause her the most suffering was the fact that the latter was so taboo at home. In her diary, she wrote:
How are they doing in Scheveningen? I often find myself longing for them.
Today is Mama’s birthday. They are probably celebrating it right now. What a pity I can’t be there. I hope that all this doesn’t go on too much longer. I long for Mama. I know that no one is thinking about her in this house. I will try my best. I want to move on, and I want to try to earn some money, so if Mama is ever in trouble, I can help her. I want to be free, wherever I go.20
Bertha faithfully kept her mother abreast of the ups and downs of her and her brothers’ lives. She also made sure that Henk—who was only five when he had been taken away from Rika and could barely remember her—scribbled her a letter from time to time. On December 5, on the eve of Sinterklaas, an uncomfortable silence fell over the house when there was one last big package from The Hague to be opened. It was Bertha who set the box on the table and unwrapped it, fingers trembling. Little Henk was unable to resist the temptation of another present, but Wim and Jan made a show of averting their gaze and left the presents their mother had worked so hard for lying on the table.
In the spring of 1933, Waldemar and Rika moved yet again, this time to the first floor of an elegant house with a white colonial-style veranda, not far from the boulevard in Scheveningen. In fact, the house was too expensive for them, but Rika figured the investment would pay for itself as it was undeniably a much more attractive address for beachgoing guests. The new place was “at the seaside!!” as she triumphantly wrote in her letters. And indeed, on a clear day, if you stood on the balcony above the ROOMS FOR RENT sign that Waldemar had hammered on, you could just make out a tiny strip of blue at the end of the street. Rika advertised that room as having a “a sea view.”
She decorated the house in a tropical theme, with white wicker furniture, wooden blinds, and lush green plants. She was so proud of the result that she couldn’t resist showing it to her daughter and Henk when they came for their annual visit to The Hague.
Mama had sent a car and the two Waldys were sitting inside. Now I had promised Papa that I wouldn’t go to Scheveningen. I told them so too. I’m not getting in the car. I stood there in front of it. The driver said, “Come on, make your mother happy and just get in.” In the end, I didn’t have a choice. “We’re just going for a little drive through Rotterdam,” Mama said. But once they got me in the car, they went to Scheveningen anyway. I cried all afternoon. I felt so alone again. Anyway, I told Papa everything.21
Willem was furious when Bertha told him that she and Henk had gone to their mother’s house even though he had strictly forbidden them to do so. He sent his wife a stern letter. She had demonstrated, once again, how untrustworthy she was and as a result, next year’s visit would be cancelled. Only then did Rika realize, perhaps for the first time, that Willem would take his grudge against her to the grave and that she had truly lost her children.
The divorce dragged on for years, and the relentless negative propaganda eventually took its toll on Bertha, and her letters became shorter and less frequent. Although Bertha often endured periods of indefinable sadness, “the nostalgic feeling,” as she called it, she began writing more about how she missed having a mother, rather than her mother.22
It’s strange, but I think about Mama much less than I did before. When I used to think about her, I imagined her with her hair in a bun, still so long, and wearing a dark dress or a white pinafore with long sleeves. But I don’t see her that way in my mind anymore. Now when I think of Mama, I see her with short hair and fancy silk dresses, and I always smell eau de cologne.23
Nevertheless, Rika’s long, loving letters arrived at the Rijkswaterstaat residence in Goedereede every week, and she continued to spend every cent she could spare on photos and presents for her four older children. However, she had given up all hope of a quick reunion. Having fully understood that it would take years before she would have the chance to rebuild a normal relationship with her children, she channeled her boundless energy into the one thing she did have control over, her one escape from the misery of losing them: her guesthouse.
“I’m like a dog on the prowl, always on the lookout for beach guests to welcome with open arms,”24 she once wrote, explaining that the reason she didn’t dare leave her post for fear of missing guests passing by was that she didn’t have a telephone connection. Every guest that entered Pension Nods was showered with tremendous warmth, as a young Englishman wrote in the guest book in July 1933:
My university friend and I have spent two weeks at the Academy of International Law and have had a very enjoyable time here. We had such a wonderful stay in Holland. Nothing was spared to make us both comfortable and happy.25
Meanwhile, the number of unemployed people in the Netherlands had risen above three hundred thousand, Prime Minister Colijn’s cabinet was imposing one draconian spending cut after another, and even the expensive hotels along the boulevard were struggling to keep their rooms occupied. But, time and again, Rika managed to keep her little guesthouse full and the creditors at bay, sometimes by the skin of her teeth.
And now, thank God, some good news: my room with the sea view has been rented from July 3rd to August 15th. Now I’ve got three left. If those fill up, I’ll just sleep up on the roof. Thank God it was just a warning about the gas bill. As long as there’s life, there’s hope. Our Dear Lord hasn’t forgotten me!!! I do not feel anxious about anything and live day by day. (The dentist will kill me if I don’t pay this month.)26
Rika worked and worked—determined to one day be able to offer her older children a prosperous, loving home, and determined to provide for her two Waldys, both the little one, who knew nothing of the complicated situation he had been born into, and the older one, who could have left her, but stayed.
4
Pension Walda
Crisis or no crisis, there was still something carefree about Scheveningen in the mid-1930s. Flags flapped in the wind over the beach clubs, the sky was clear, and the ocean breeze seemed to sweep all the gloominess and somber news stories out to sea. If there was one place where the exuberant twenties were still roaring on, it was in Scheveningen, still the most beautiful seaside resort town in the country. The art deco party hall at the end of the pier was one of the country’s most popular stages for light entertainment, and night after night, it was jam-packed. The pier played host to major stars such as Willy Derby, Louis Davids, Duke Ellington, and the Andrews Sisters. And when the weather was nice, the boulevard was still buzzing with people. For no matter how dramatically people had to cut back, they still clung to a few sunny weeks of summer vacation by the sea—they simply had to spend them a bit more modestly than they used to.
Rika’s business was booming. Her guesthouse may have been simple, but it was spotless, and her cooking could rival the expensive hotel cuisine. If at first guests were taken aback by the unorthodox constitution of the Nods family—which officially wasn’t a family at all, since Rika’s last name was still technically Hagenaar and her son’s was Van der Lans—their hearts were quickly melted by the household’s warmth and charm. As a woman who clearly hadn’t had it easy in life herself, Rika was someone people could trust with their troubles. She knew how to lift anyone’s spirits, often taking out her tarot cards and astrology book and reading them with all the flair and conviction of a fortune-teller.
The host was an intriguing, exotic character, and his charming yet invariably proper company cheered up many a lonely lady. Perhaps this stemmed from the fact that he was at ease with the age difference between himself and the woman in his life. His son, little Waldy, was an exceptionally delightful boy with black curls and big blue eyes that observed the world around him with wonder. The guests watched tenderly as h
e “helped” his mother and her right-hand maid, Agnes, and brought the dinner plates to the table with an earnest look on his face. Page after page, the guest book was filled with thankful, sometimes almost lyrical messages about the “exceptional care” and “the tremendous warmth and hospitality” at Pension Nods.27 “We almost don’t want to leave,” sighed one of the guests. Another left behind a poem of thanks:
The sea is high, a storm’s a churning,
But by the beach the heat is burning.
And when the temperature starts falling,
Our charming hostess’s house is calling.
A house so homey, a house so gay,
“Anjàs” will bring your dinner tray.
At Pension Nods you’ll dine with delight
Oh, you’ll surely find your appetite.
And if you’re feeling up for a little chat,
You’ll always have a place to hang your hat.
For a cup of tea and something sweet
Even little Waldy doesn’t mind a treat.
Thank you, friends, for your hospitality
With this pen I shout out with glee
Long live the Nods family!
Yippee!
In April 1934, Rika rented two flats in a housing block that had just opened up on the Gevers Deynootweg, and the family moved again. The apartments were sunny and equipped with all the modern conveniences. They had parquet floors, leadlight windows, central heating, comfortable bathrooms, and even a refrigerator. They were a stone’s throw away from the Kurhaus Hotel and only about twenty yards from the boulevard. Rika dubbed the new business Pension Walda, after the two men in her life, and herself. The smart-looking brochures she had printed emphasized the pension’s “excellent Dutch cuisine” and—an essential selling point in those days—its “reasonable prices.” As soon as she was sure that the guests wouldn’t fail her that year either, the family moved into a third flat in the same housing block. From the top balcony she had a wide view of the backs of the luxury hotels and the fancy Sociëteit De Witte, and in between was a real glimpse of the North Sea.
The Boy Between Worlds: A Biography Page 6
