by Irene Butter
“Oops,” I said, a bit embarrassed.
“I know you’re bored, but you don’t want to go into the canal. You don’t know how to swim,” he said.
He reached for his gray cap, which had fallen to the bricks in his lunge, and put it back on his head. I glimpsed his short haircut; I knew he didn’t like it. That was the reason for the cap. He touched the small visor with one hand and cupped the back with another to straighten it on his head. He’d always taken pride in his hair, we had that in common, but now he had to go to a Jewish barber, who was ancient and had no style or experience except for old, bald heads.
“You okay?” Greetje asked.
“Yeah, fine,” I said.
“Klutz,” Werner yelled back.
“Don’t call me a klutz,” I said. “Mr. Henki-Express-who-made-us-walk-too-fast.”
We returned home a bit early, early enough to invite Rudi to dinner so he could get home by 8:00 p.m. Greetje wasn’t allowed to come in, so she continued on to her house a few houses away. Mutti’s face told me she wasn’t happy about stretching our food. Not only were there food rations for everyone, but Jews could only shop from 3:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. Many times, by that time of day, there was not much left on the shelves. Greetje sometimes shopped for us, bringing us a few delicacies, but mostly we had lots of potatoes, not much meat, old cheese, and days-old bread. This day, Greetje had been able to shop for us, so we had fresh brussels sprouts and carrots, and fresh milk. I knew she was taking a risk as shopping for Jews was not allowed. Mutti did her best to put together meals with what she could find. I savored my memories of the days when Opa and I gardened together. After a day playing, I was starving, but I knew better than to say that and invite the comment, You don’t know what starving is, young lady.
My birthday, December 1942. In our dining room. The delicate white china dishes with rose print that I usually ate my lemon pudding on were packed away. Some crystal and silver were stored now at our neighbor’s apartment upstairs. Max and Stien Bremekamp were not Jewish, but were willing to keep some of our things in hiding. And there was no lemon pudding: no lemons, anyway, and eggs, butter, and milk were scarce. And there were no friends, as we weren’t allowed to gather together in large groups anymore. I had my dolls, though and that helped.
Mutti stood up and placed her chair close to the large hutch and climbed up as Pappi held onto the back to steady the creaking legs. She opened the upper glass doors, reached into the back, and pulled down a shining, tinseled package from the top shelf.
Pappi took it from her as she climbed down from the chair and sat at the table. He placed it in front of her, nodded, and she took the large bar that had Droste written across top. She began to carefully unwrap each fold. From out of the blue folds emerged a large chocolate bar, wrapped in another layer of gold foil.
Mutti held the bar out to the four of us in her open palms.
“Reni, happy twelfth birthday.”
Werner sucked in his breath and looked at the bar. I licked my lips at the thought of the deep brown chocolate just within its thin wrapping, but knew better than to reach for it. Mutti put it back down on the table, and we watched as she carefully folded the foil package back into itself, following all the creases. This time, Pappi got up on her chair as she handed him the chocolate bar and he nestled it back in the cupboard.
“And we look forward to celebrating your thirteenth,” Pappi said as he closed the glass doors and kept hope alive for another year.
10
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
March 25, 1943
My classroom was emptying. There were now more desks than students. I looked over the other students and noticed the spaces between. Every week someone was deported, hauled off to work. Rudi was still there, and I sat as close to him as I could, which was more noticeable with fewer students.
“Helen and her brother Joseph are gone,” he said and nodded toward the back of the room where they used to sit.
“Yeah,” I said, as I looked back at the empty chairs. “It seems to be happening faster.”
“Yeah.”
I thought about one set of neighbors on our block. One day there. The next day, police pulled out their belongings, everything gone and the apartment closed up, shuttered and dark, an official looking piece of paper nailed to the door, flapping in the breeze.
“Irene,” said Mr. Pinto, using my formal name.
“Yes,” I said, looking up.
His eyes held concern. He touched my arm. I looked at Rudi.
“The principal would like to see you. Bring your book bag. I’ll walk you.”
He told the class to read the next chapter and he would be back soon.
Why would the principal call me? I thought. I had never been called to the principal’s office before. Had I done something wrong? Had I been late to school? Homework not turned in? I hadn’t done anything like that. I gathered my pencil and notebook, my small book bag, and coat, and Rudi mouthed, “You’ll be okay.”
Then, I stood, facing the principal. I couldn’t remember his name; I hardly ever saw him. “Irene, they’re waiting for you outside,” he said. He didn’t look at me, but his hands were on the desk and shaking a little.
What did he mean by they?
“Go on now.”
I stood frozen until Mr. Pinto walked me out of the office.
“What’s happening?” I asked, frightened. “Am I going to a camp?”
“Be courageous, Irene,” he said, and hugged me.
My legs shook so hard I could scarcely stand. One of the lines he had written in my Poesie book came to me then…if sometimes there is a rain shower and everything looks black and gray, be courageous, be a blessing, because things will soon change again…
I walked out into the bright sun where a rickety food delivery truck sat by the curb. A short Dutch policeman pointed into the back of the truck. His uniform was dark blue with shiny gold buttons and tall, dirty boots.
“Up,” he commanded.
I couldn’t help it and started to cry. I didn’t feel courageous. He motioned again.
“It’s too high,” I said in a squeaky voice. The back of the high truck bed was like a huge mouth hovering with hunger.
“Reni?” came a voice in the back of the truck.
“Werner?” I cried.
“Do I have to toss you up?” asked the policeman, his hands raised and ready to push.
“Take my hand,” Werner said as his face appeared from between the gray canvas flaps.
Seeing my brother melted the icy feeling, and my legs stopped shaking. I grabbed his hand, hung onto the side, and leapt up the side like a cat. We both fell into the back.
“Stay there,” said the policeman as he flipped up the tailgate, latched it into place, and we listened to his footsteps make their way to the passenger side. The door opened and slammed.
I hugged Werner tight and let the tears flow.
“Are you hurt?” Werner asked and looked at my face.
“No,” I said while wiping my eyes. “But what’s happening?”
The truck started with a lurch. Behind Werner were crates of vegetables, boxes of cans, bloated burlap sacks, and a couple of large metal containers that smelled of cooked food. The air was heavy with the smell of rotten cabbage. There was just enough room on the benches for Werner and me on one side.
“I don’t know,” he yelled above the engine. “But I hope they don’t try to jam in anybody but us. I was picked up at school, too. No warning. Just pulled from class. They didn’t tell me anything.”
I looked up at him, but he looked straight ahead. We both instinctively grabbed the rail as the truck turned.
“Reni. I confess I’m so scared,” he said and shuddered.
“Worse than snakes,” I said.
“At least we’re together,” he said, and put his arm across my shoulders.
I had never been so glad to be with him.
We sat wrapped together for a long time. Then I
felt something soaking through my dress. I stood up to find that I had been sitting on damp, stinky leaves. Not wanting to get my dress even dirtier, I braced myself against the back frame and tailgate, which had the added advantage of reducing the smell since I could hold open a flap. I made sure my book bag was crammed into a drier corner where it would not slide. I peered outside; Werner peered out, too.
“I know these streets,” he said. “I recognize the signs. So far, we are just going through Amsterdam. Heading east.”
I relaxed a little at that. We could get back home on our own if we had to. We stopped at an intersection, and then the truck jumped forward, stalled, restarted, and bound ahead through a roundabout. The city’s streets stretched out behind us. A woman crossed the road. She turned our way, our eyes locked for a second, and then she shrank into the distance.
“Do you think people are wondering why a well-dressed girl and boy are hanging out in the back of a truck?” I asked.
“Maybe, or maybe not,” Werner pondered. “This war has made the very strange seem very normal.”
The truck stopped at each intersection. I could taste the urge to jump and run. But it was too far down and too quick a stop to get sure footing. And what would the police officer do if he saw me?
Soon the truck stopped again. We were in front of the old theater, the Hollandsche Schouwburg. I heard the sound of boots: the person who wore them came around the corner.
“Down from there,” the same Dutch policeman who’d made me get in now commanded as he unlatched the tailgate.
Werner and I both jumped down with our book bags. I looked around at the crowd of people heading inside.
“In there,” the officer said and pointed to the front of the theater.
“Are our parents here?” Werner stuttered but stood straight.
“I…I don’t know,” he said, sounding like a shy child.
“C’mon Reni,” Werner said, reaching back for my hand as he went ahead.
I will not cry, I thought as I again started to feel the fear well up inside. I took a deep breath and smoothed out my dress as I clasped his hand. I hoped Mutti wouldn’t be upset that I’d stained my dress.
The theater loomed, its white facade blazing in the sunlight. The last time I’d been there was to see Snow White with Vera, Greetje, and Werner. I remembered watching the colors dance across the stage, laughing at the cute dwarves, and hiding our eyes behind our knees when the scary Queen burst into the scene. Two years ago, I thought. It seemed like yesterday. Or maybe forever ago.
We walked alone up to the entrance. People were prodded and ushered through the large center doors; Werner chose to enter the unused door farthest to the right where five large guards turned around, looking down on us. All of them had zigzags, all were Nazis.
“Umm,” Werner said, “I think we are supposed to be here, but we don’t know.”
“Well, why are you here?” said the largest one, with a smirk.
“A truck picked us up from school.”
“Are you Jews?”
“Ah, yes,” Werner replied softly.
“Then you are in the right place. But wrong door,” he said, pointing. “Get in line there.”
The flow of people slowly pushed us up the steps to the open doors. More Nazi guards stood on each side, and people filed up to talk to them.
“Should we ask where Mutti and Pappi are?” I asked.
“Shhh. No, we could get in trouble,” said Werner and squeezed my hand hard.
“Ouch, Werner,” I said.
This small injustice was enough to throw tears down my cheeks and drip fear along my back. What if they aren’t here? I asked myself. What if they have already been deported? What if…? I looked at Werner, squeezed his hand back. What if it was just us now? It was too much to think about, and I felt faint.
“We will find them,” Werner said. He looked straight into my eyes. “We will.”
We gave our names, the guards wrote them down, and we entered with eyes down, hearts pounding. My eyes took awhile to adjust to the feeble yellow lights and dark interior. Soon I could see it was no longer a theater. The walls had been stripped of their decorative paper; all that was left were hairy, uncombed shreds. Some of the curled moldings that lined the wall were cracked, which made it look as if they could collapse at any moment. And all the seats were gone. It was a shell, an “exoskeleton” like I was learning in school, with all the guts scooped out. By then I realized that’s what the Nazis were good at. Scooping out insides. People were packed inside, standing and walking and talking, and it smelled bad, like there was a toilet backed up somewhere. How could such a fancy place, one that once had carpet that felt like clouds and chandeliers that twinkled like the night sky, become so barren? Was all this ugliness always hiding beneath?
I could make out small groups huddled on the floor. We walked across the rough concrete stubble where the carpeted floor had been, over toward the families, whispering pockets of people. We moved slowly and carefully. We peered into the dark huddles. We would search everywhere, cover every inch until we found them. Every nook and corner. I wanted to be seven feet tall with a big adult voice that boomed above the crowds, “Where are you, Mutti and Pappi? Werner and Reni are here and looking for you!”
We continued. Werner pulled me into the crowds toward where the stage used to be. Scanning through the dim light as if in a dream, my heart beat as fast as a bird’s, I was sure.
Then a woman turned around: Mutti! I broke from Werner, running to her as she got down on her knees and began to cry.
“Oh Reni, Werner.” The words fell from her lips in a cry. Her eyes were red.
“Mutti!” I cried. And then Werner was there, too. And we were all in a tight circle. Home.
“I was so worried,” she said at last.
“Where’s Pappi?” I asked.
“He went to talk to some people. He’ll be back.” She looked me up and down. “Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?”
“No, we’re fine,” Werner said. “But we had no idea what was going on….” He explained how we were picked up at school and how we traveled through the streets in a food truck. The story sounded crazy even though it had just happened. I saw my pink blanket in a pile along with another one of my coats and a pillow and even my favorite doll, Liesje.
“You brought my things!” I said and ran over to them.
“Yes, we didn’t have much time. Just a few minutes to grab it all,” she said, coming toward me. “I hope I got the right doll for you.”
“Yes, you did. Liesje’s my favorite,” I said clutching my doll. I sat down with Mutti on the floor and snuggled onto her lap. I curled into the warmth and fell fast asleep.
Sometime later, I awoke to a gentle shaking. I was on my side, my head resting on my pillow.
“Wake up, Reni,” my father’s voice called. “It’s supper.”
“Pappi,” I said and gave him a hug before I fell back into semi-sleep until the sound of so many people talking made me realize I wasn’t at home. I sat up straight and saw the wrecked theater with Pappi sitting cross-legged across from me. I crawled over onto his open lap, dragging my pink blanket with me. He held a bowl for me, heaped full of soup. I hadn’t eaten all day. I looked into the perfect circle of water and soggy vegetables. I thought of all the food in the back of the truck—here it was. It tasted horrible but my body didn’t care. My mother and Werner were gone, their empty soup bowls on the threadbare carpet in front of me.
“They went to see what neighbors are here,” he said.
“Why are we here?” I asked.
“This is a gathering spot,” he said. “It’s a place where they round us up and then send us to a work camp.”
“There are so many people here,” I said. “How did they get the work done before?”
“That, Reni,” he said, “is an excellent question. And one to which I don’t have an excellent answer.”
I examined his face, wanting to wipe away the worry lines th
at grooved his high forehead. They scared me. Pappi always knew what came next.
Then I heard laughter. I looked groggily over at the people next to me: a mom, dad, and four little boys. They seemed to be playing some kind of a game, tossing stones and laying pencils on the floor. Oh, how I wanted to play. No bicycles, no friends over to play, no birthday parties, no skating or movies, no…I felt tears come up my throat and into my eyes as I remembered Pappi’s words in my Poesie book.
You sweet little one,
you belong to me,
you belong to me,
you are the most lovable.
We all slept that night, huddled together on the floor with our few blankets and pillows around us. The theater was stuffy, dark, and crowded but I was thankful. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d all slept together.
11
Hollandsche Schouwburg Theater
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
March 26–27, 1943
That morning I awoke to groups of people being shuttled out by guards. There was crying and scrambling and everyone was in a rush. Pappi told us to wait, not to go to the toilet yet, and just to be still. So we did. Finally, the space emptied a bit. A few new people arrived with shock on their faces.
“Nice hair, Reni,” Werner said.
“Oh, be quiet,” I said. There was no mirror, but I was sure my hair was horrible. I looked at his off-centered mop. “You don’t look like any movie star.”
“Oh?”
With fingers as quick as a cat claws he finessed his hair to perfection.
“Now?”
“Hmph. Now you just look like a jerk.”
“This is what you’re going to fight about? Hair?” Mutti asked. “Here?”
Pappi rubbed her shoulders.
