by Irene Butter
Young Reni, a girl on the precipice of adolescence, takes us through the darkest days of the Holocaust and her budding understanding of the human spirit. What I found was heart, courage, tenderness, and hope. Not since the Diary of Anne Frank, have I been so touched by a book that grapples with the dark abyss of the human condition during the Holocaust. This book is a revelation about what sustains the human spirit, what is far stronger than hate.
JACQUELINE SHEEHAN
NYTimes bestselling author
In this striking memoir, Irene Butter gives us the sweep of catastrophic history through her child eyes. Taking the reader from “black zigzags” to cattle cars, from Berlin to Amsterdam to Westerbork to Bergen-Belsen to Algeria, and finally to the United States, young Reni shares the ordinary and the unimaginable with stunning detail, with generosity, with hope. Irene Butter’s beliefs that one should never be an enemy and never be a bystander are important lessons for us to understand the past and to act in the world of today.
ELLEN MEEROPOL
Author of Kinship of Clover, named “One of the best books from Indie Publishers in 2017” by PBS
Irene Butter paints a gripping picture of a girl’s sense of self in the Holocaust. German-Jewish through birth and heritage, stateless through persecution, and Dutch and American through refuge, Butter invites us to walk with her on the vulnerable journey of forging her young identity. In a time of resurging racism and xenophobia, the book forces the reader to consider what happens when adult dehumanization shapes the real life of a real child. The book bears witness to pre-war Germany, occupied Amsterdam, and the Bergen-Belsen of Anne Frank, and shares the warning of the Diary of Anne Frank: we lose our humanity when children are forced to normalize hatred.
ANNEMARIE TOEBOSCH
Director of Dutch and Flemish Studies, Lecturer of Anne Frank in Context
University of Michigan
As Holocaust memory moves into an uncertain future, Irene Butter’s memoir will play an important role in keeping memory of the event alive. It also serves as a testament to one person’s ability to build a life of meaning and hope in the wake of this horrible event.
JAMIE L. WRAIGHT, PHD
Director, The Voice/Vision Holocaust Survivor Oral History Archive
University of Michigan-Dearborn
Dr. Irene Butter is a remarkable woman who made a conscious decision to be a survivor, not a victim of the Holocaust. Her story has an inestimable impact on students. They witness her dedication to live a meaningful life of activism based on her belief that we can make the world a better place.
SUZANNE HOPKINS
Saline Middle School, retired educator
Saline, Michigan
For many years Irene Hasenberg Butter did not speak of her own experience of the Holocaust but like her brother, Werner, got on with the headlong rush of making a new life in the United States. After the treachery and horror of the Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, learning to live as Holocaust survivors was work enough. With this book, Irene has given the world a deeply personal account of her own family’s experience that bravely reveals how much all the terrible losses of the Holocaust meant not just in World War II but, sadly, today as well.
JAN JARBOE RUSSELL
Author, The Train To Crystal City
Across these eloquent pages, Irene keeps readers by her side as we follow her childhood journey from Berlin to the shadow of German occupation in Amsterdam and into the darkness of the Holocaust. All will be riveted by the voice of Irene, whose love for her parents and brother, Werner, becomes the steady light for her courage. Unlike her friend Anne Frank, whom she sees for the last time in Bergen-Belsen, Reni survives evil and at age fifteen sails into Baltimore’s harbor aboard a Liberty ship on Christmas Eve, 1945, with a resilience that still guides her important work with students in the 21st century.
LOUISE BORDEN
Author, His Name Was Raoul Wallenberg
Refusing to be an enemy is a choice we must make. Few people understand that stance with as much conviction as Irene Butter, who shares her incredible life story in this powerful and lyrically written memoir. Butter has faced a lifetime of choices, from her childhood during the depths of Holocaust to today. Reading Shores Beyond Shores reminds me yet again of Irene’s indomitable spirit and her gift of seeking light amidst life’s darkest hours.
ROBIN AXELROD, LMSW, JD
Director of Education
Holocaust Memorial Center, Zekelman Family Campus
Distances of time, circumstance, age, and background disappeared every time Irene spoke with groups of three hundred students over eighteen years at our middle school. Irene’s thoughtful answers to intimate questions revealed new aspects and insights each year. Eyes of innocence and bravery describing her past then become heartfelt gazes of young people looking deep into themselves and finding compassion, tolerance, and perseverance. Inspiration to always fill the world with love and hope.
JONATHAN BERGER
English Language Arts Teacher
Discovery Middle School
Canton, Michigan
SHORES BEYOND SHORES
SHORES BEYOND SHORES
from Holocaust to Hope
My True Story
Irene Butter
with John D. Bidwell and Kris Holloway
White River Press
Amherst, Massachusetts
Shores Beyond Shores: From Holocaust to Hope, My True Story
© 2018 Irene Butter, John D. Bidwell, and Kris Holloway
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any form, or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher.
First published 2018
White River Press
P.O. Box 3561
Amherst, MA 01004
whiteriverpress.com
Book and cover design: John D. Bidwell
Cover photo finishing: Jim Gipe/Pivot Media
Photo credits: Irene Butter and John D. Bidwell
ISBN: 978-1-935052-70-8 (paperback)
978-1-887043-36-6 (ebook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Butter, Irene H. (Irene Hasenberg), 1930- author. | Bidwell, John, author. | Holloway, Kris, author.
Title: Shores beyond shores : from Holocaust to hope : my true story / Irene Butter, John D. Bidwell, and Kris Holloway.
Description: Amherst, Massachusetts : White River Press, 2018 |
Identifiers: LCCN 2017043082 (print) | LCCN 2017043622 (ebook) | ISBN 9781887043366 () | ISBN 9781935052708 (pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Butter, Irene H. (Irene Hasenberg), 1930- | Jews--Germany--Berlin--Biography. | Holocaust, Jewish (1939-1945)--Germany--Berlin--Personal narratives. | Jewish children in the Holocaust. | Berlin (Germany)--Biography.
Classification: LCC DS134.42 (ebook) | LCC DS134.42 .B88 2018 (print) | DDC 940.53/18092 [B] --dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017043082
In memory of my Pappi, my hero, my idol,
who did everything possible to save his family.
His life was taken when I was a child, only fourteen years old.
With awe I have felt his presence, his protection,
and his loving guidance throughout my life.
Contents
Introduction
The Happy Childhood
Berlin, Germany and Amsterdam, the Netherlands: 1936-1940
The Start of War
Amsterdam, the Netherlands: 1940-1943
Prisoner
Camp Westerbork, the Netherlands and Camp Bergen-Belsen, Germany: 1943-1945
Photos
Freedom and Loss
Switzerland and France: 1945
Rebirth
Camp Jeanne d’Arc, Algeria: 1945
Postscript
Character Biographies
Acknowledgments
Authors
A Call to Action
Introduction
When I got off the ship that brought me to the United States in 1945, the American relatives who took me in urged me to forget everything that had happened to my family—and to me—in the Holocaust. They told me to never think or speak of it again. I was fifteen years old and they were adults, so I listened to them. For forty years I was quiet. I was not truly free until I started to tell what happened to me as a child. Here is my story.
The Happy Childhood
Berlin, Germany and
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
1936-1940
1
Berlin, Germany
Summer 1936
My birth name is Irene Hasenberg, but you can call me Reni (pronounced “Ray-nee”). Everyone did. I was a lucky child. I grew up in a large, light-filled apartment in Berlin, the sparkling capital of Germany, with my parents, John and Gertrude Hasenberg; my brother Werner, two years older than I, and my grandparents Julius and Pauline Mayer. Our parents and grandparents spoiled Werner and me with attention and toys. My favorite was a red tricycle that I got for my fourth birthday. I pedaled it with speed through the park, and flew across sidewalks, being sure to clean its wheels and shiny handlebars when I got home.
We celebrated Jewish holidays and our birthdays with relatives, always gathering together around the dinner table to eat challah, sing our favorite Hebrew songs, and drink more hot chocolate. Our voices were not very good, but who cared? We were together. We weren’t making a record to be played on a phonograph! My experience as a young girl in Berlin was wonderful, despite the fact that Germany was changing.
But what did I know? I was only five.
My grandparents, Opa and Omi, rented a small garden plot not far from our home. One warm morning, Opa announced it was a perfect day for planting seeds, especially for cucumbers and radishes, my two favorite crunchies. We all went. It took a lot of work to dig the ground and “prepare the soil.” We carefully put the tiny flat white seeds and the little round brown seeds into the dirt and covered them. Done with my row, I stared at the soil. I stared and waited a long, long time until the top layer dried and lightened in the sun. Nothing happened.
“Reni, are you ready to go?” Pappi asked.
“Let’s wait until the crunchies come up.”
“That’ll take all summer!” Werner said.
“Reni, it takes a long time for the seeds to grow into vegetables,” Mutti explained.
“What?”
Tears skidded down my cheeks. Opa knelt next to me, his knees clacking.
“Reni, don’t cry. These are special seeds. They grow very fast, for seeds. You need to be patient. Can you be patient?”
“I’m trying.”
“That’s good practice.”
At home, Mutti and Pappi had a surprise: we were going into the city and to the zoo. I forgot about the seeds. But first, Mutti instructed, we had to clean up.
“I’m already clean,” said Werner. “I washed when we got back.”
It was true. Even his shoes were shiny. I looked at my dress and fingernails. There was dirt everywhere. I brushed off everything with great sweeps of my hands, even remembering to shake my hair.
“I’m all set to go, too!”
“Reni, you are not even close,” Mutti said, taking my hand and marching me to the bathroom.
She scrubbed me hard with soap and water, even digging into and around my ears.
“You’re breaking me,” I protested.
Mutti then wrapped me in a big towel, turned me around, and dried me, like she was fluffing up my whole body. Then it was off to the bedroom to get me dressed in something fancy. Finally, I stepped into the front hall where Pappi and Werner were waiting.
“Oh Reni,” Pappi said with surprise, “you are here. I saw a little girl come in earlier, but I didn’t recognize her for all the dirt.”
“It was me!”
We took the big yellow tram to the zoo, the same tram Pappi rode every day to work. Cars and trucks honked here and there, weaving in and out. You never knew where the cars and trucks would go next, but the yellow tram always followed the same track and wires. And it always came and left at the same times, so I knew when Pappi would go to work and when he would come home. The brightly colored tram was easy to spot, so I could look out the apartment window and see it from far away and get ready for Pappi to return, when I would jump into his arms. He told me the other day that he could hardly lift me anymore. I was getting that big.
I looked out on Berlin. It was busy like ants over a picnic basket.
“Mutti,” I asked, “what is the black zigzag?”
It was everywhere: on flags as big as buildings, on trucks and cars, and on clothes.
She said it was nothing, so I leaned toward my brother and asked him.
“Really, Reni? It’s a swastika,” Werner said.
“What’s a schweiss…schweiss schick…er?”
“Swastika,” he corrected me.
“I’m going to count them all. One, two, three, four, five…”
“Do something else, Reni,” Mutti commanded.
“All the banners and flags are for the Olympics in August,” Werner said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Reni, do you know anything?” said Werner.
“I know there are maybe fifty swas…black zigzags,” I said, and looked toward Mutti to be sure she wasn’t listening. “Maybe more. I’ve really been counting.”
“The Olympics are when sports players from all over the world come here to play,” said Werner. “They will compete for medals. I’ve heard Germany will win a lot, especially in gymnastics and track and field. It’s a big deal.”
“Yes it is,” Pappi added, “and Werner, you and I are going to watch the action.”
For once, Werner didn’t know what to say, finally eking out “really?””
Pappi nodded.
“What about me?” I asked. “I want to go.”
“You and I will go shopping,” Mutti said.
Well, I didn’t want to go to the Olympics that badly.
We walked up to the gate for the zoo, and I forgot about the black zigzags.
Inside, Pappi let go of my hand and I ran ahead with Werner, but not too far. Everything was so green: the puffy trees and the bristly grass. Beds of yellow and red flowers hugged tiny fences. The red was as bright as the big flags that floated over the buildings. I wanted to run into all that color, but I had learned to stay on the gray paths. We saw the elephants swing their tails and trunks, and I pointed at the big-mouthed hippos. We fed the goats that circled us and nibbled at our hands. My favorite was the monkey house with the playful, swinging families.
I rested my head against Pappi and his dark suit on the ride home. Then I remembered the magic seeds. What did they look like as they tossed and turned in their little dirt beds? I wondered out loud. Werner said I was hopeless, and Mutti pinched his arm. As we walked home from the tram, Mutti suggested we walk past the garden. I saw dots of green and red on the ground: shiny cucumbers and radishes. I ran across the dirt, though I knew I wasn’t supposed to, took a cucumber, and bit into it to make sure it was real. It was the juiciest and most delicious cucumber I had ever eaten. Oh, they were special seeds! Opa was right.
“Wait. You need to wash those first, Reni,” Mutti called.
I piled as many as I could into my skirt pockets. Mutti and Werner took the rest.
“Opa, Omi, look!” I cried as I entered our kitchen and emptied my pockets on the wooden kitchen table.
“You must have done a very good job planting them, my dear. I have never seen them come up this fast,” Opa said.
“Yes, and I’ve never seen vegetables grow without plants,” Werner said. “Like they came straight from t
he vegetable stand.”
“All the more special,” I added.
I took another bite of my cucumber. Sure, the seeds were special, but we were also very, very good gardeners.
That night, cozy in my bed, I thought of our cousin Bert’s upcoming birthday party, excited that I would be able to wear one of my nice dresses. Maybe my blue-and-white plaid one with yellow buttons, or, if I was really lucky, Mutti would let me wear my white dress with tiny red and blue hearts and the smock, if I promised not to get it dirty and change as soon as I got home. I liked the puffy short sleeves on both, and….
I heard Werner’s bed creak. Even without the golden light from my monkey night-light, I knew Werner had gotten out of bed and was standing next to me. I turned my face to the wall.
“Reni,” he said, “are you sleeping?”
“Yes, I am sleeping.”
“Reni, I want to ask something. Do you think that I’ll have a bad dream?”
There was a wobble in his voice. I didn’t answer. Lately, Werner had bad dreams more and more—it was a pain. It was like he looked for bad things to dream about. I didn’t want to talk with him. I wanted to think about dressing for Bert’s birthday. Bert would be six…just like I would be in December.
When I didn’t respond he continued.
“It’s all the swastikas. They’re everywhere now, like the Nazis. And I heard the Nazis are doing bad things. Bad things to Jews. Jews like us.”
“Stop it,” I interrupted, “You’re okay, Werner. No bad dreams tonight.”
“Oh…okay,” he said. “Thanks. Good night.”
With that, he went back to the dark of his bed and crawled under the blankets.
2
Berlin, Germany
Winter 1937
Adolf Hitler had now been the Führer, or leader, of our country for four years. He liked people he said who were true Germans. He said they were better than all other people, and if they stayed pure—didn’t mix with other peoples—they would take over the world some day. According to Hitler, people who were not pure German were less perfect, and he didn’t like them. He said they made a mess of things, like a big smudge on his white tablecloth. This meant lots of people, including Jews like us.
