by Irene Butter
My parents had constantly fussed over what to keep and not keep. If we hid too much, the police and Nazis might be suspicious. We had to be willing to leave some valuables in our home, to protect the Bremekamps and protect the things we really wanted.
“I thought we gave them everything,” I said.
“Most of it. Your Mutti and I started a new box yesterday. Anything? Quick, quick, I have to run it to them now.”
He already sounded out of breath, just standing there. I felt that I had to give him something, so I pulled the Poesie book from my knapsack and put it on top of our keepsakes. Pappi darted out. I then changed my mind and called after him, but he was gone, our front door clicking behind him. Mutti called him, too, pleading for him not to go. I stood in my room, tasting fear.
A few minutes later there was a knock on our door and a loud voice. I peeked down the hall.
I saw Mutti at the door: “Who, who is it?”
“Me! Trudi, open the door. It locked behind me.”
“Oh John, that was too close,” she gulped as she let him in. “You shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t worth the risk.”
“Shhh, don’t worry. Our things are safe with Max and Stien…they offered to hide us again.”
My parents walked down the hallway, not seeing me.
“I know, I know. It is too late,” Pappi continued in a whisper. “The police are too close. We would all get caught. They are already taking a risk holding our things. We can’t endanger them.”
“Are you sure?” Mutti asked, “Maybe we should hide. This is our last chance.”
“I don’t think we should, Trudi. I thanked them and left. I told them we would be back later for our things.”
Then there was a sharp rap on the door and a sharper voice.
“Politie. Open up!”
We froze.
“Coming,” Pappi said, his eyes locked with Mutti’s.
“Are there Jews here?” the sharp voice demanded.
Pause.
“Yes, we are all Jews,” Pappi said. He opened the door and three Dutch police officers swept in.
Even up close, the Dutch police looked the same as they had in the theater with their blue pants and their blue jackets with golden buttons that ran down the front like a trail of geld. They just differed in height.
The sharp-voiced leader said, “You are to come with us. You have ten minutes before we leave.”
I backed into my bedroom to get my bag, feeling dizzy and my breath small. Boots hit muffled carpet and snappy floorboards. A head and body in the doorway. The youngest policeman in his pointy cap looked at everything in the room except me. I could smell the leather of his high boots and tonic in his hair. There were stomping footsteps in other rooms. Drawers being hastily opened.
The sharp voice said, “I suggest you don’t take valuables.”
It was a command not a suggestion.
I realized I hadn’t made my bed, so I grabbed the sheets and cover and pulled them up and over my pillow. Diagonal wrinkles spread over the blanket like waves.
I joined Mutti in the living room.
Sharp voice tapped his watch hard enough, it seemed, to shatter the face. It was time to go. He directed Pappi to give him the apartment keys.
Werner looked hot, bundled in too many clothes. We walked downstairs, one officer in front of us and one behind, and the last locking our apartment. The steps down the one flight squeaked under our weight. Outside, we joined a few neighbors who were just as overdressed. They wore coats and hats and carried duffle bags, suitcases, and bundles fashioned from wool blankets. I overheard an officer refer to us as a “lot,” as if we were stuff to be sold.
“What are we doing now?” I asked Mutti.
She shushed me.
“Reni, no talking,” Pappi said.
We were lined up and paraded down the street, turning right on the much wider, double boulevard at the end of the block. More people joined us like streams converging toward a river. We became a wide flow, keeping up as best we could with only Pappi marching straight, fast, and orderly, as if he were in a drill from the Great War. I tried to walk in step with him, which I found impossible. People kept shifting their loads hand to hand, and arm to arm. Ropes, strings, and straps bowed shoulders and palms. There was a wooden cart and baby pram. Everybody unbuttoned jackets and shirt collars. Women clutched their purses. I tried to think of Rudi.
As we entered a square, there were fewer Dutch police and more German guards. I realized I couldn’t remember how we got here, the route we had walked. The streets, normally filled with people, were empty except for the swelling ranks of us Jews, hemmed in by police and guards. A few faces peered from high, murky windows. A couple of men stood in a doorway, talking. They didn’t look our way, as if they didn’t notice us. As if rounding up Jews in Amsterdam was normal. They stood safely on the shore as a river of people flooded by.
Finally, we emptied out into a park and were directed to stop. People put their bundles in the grass and let the elderly have the few park benches. Everyone looked confused. Babies cried. In the distance I heard guards yelling. I moved back a few steps until I bumped into Werner.
“Hey, be careful,” he said. He spit out something. He had been biting his nails.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
A procession of gray trucks pulled alongside the curve of the park. The green canvas flaps were peeled back, and our family and others were ordered to climb up and sit on benches that lined either side. We were packed. I kept squeezing in more and more until I couldn’t move. Belongings were piled in the middle. A few people fanned themselves with hats and folded magazines. One man called to have the side flaps opened so the women and children could breathe. The guards ignored him. The man didn’t repeat himself, and nobody dared open the flaps on their own.
Fortunately, the ride was short, and we were soon at Muiderpoort Rail Station—the same station our family had always gone to when we went to the seashore where I buried my feet in warm sand and my small pockets pulled heavy with the treasure of white, gold, and blue shells. We dropped out from the back of the truck, shuffling to join hundreds of others who were sitting and milling about outside the station.
Then the sun burned off the last of the clouds, steaming the pavement. We made a pile of our stuff. Werner and I shaped seats from the knapsacks and further unbuttoned our jackets. Pappi and Mutti stayed quiet, so we did the same.
I watched a lone boy standing close to the tracks who looked a little like Rudi, only older. His face was serious, as if he were trying to solve a problem, his coat folded over his arms, his shirt and jacket open, his rucksack between his legs. The knapsack straps strained, despite being buckled to their last holes. Just like mine. I thought about pulling out and refolding my belongings as I’d promised myself. Instead, I placed my chin on my hands and looked around some more. Closer to us, a child held a doll. Some young boys laughed; one of the boys put sticks up his mouth to imitate a walrus. Two passing police smiled at the walrus boy who smiled back before hiding his face. I glanced back to the standing boy. He was like a statue. No matter how often I turned my gaze away, each time I looked again, he was the same. An older man passed by in front of him, pushing a low cart of small, empty barrels, their hoops black and tight.
Then a train engine moved slowly in front of us. It was pulling boxcars. Some of the cars had tops that were flat, others were domed. All had big mushroom-shaped bumpers on the ends.
“That’s how they carry cows and horses,” Werner said.
“What?” I said. I wasn’t paying attention.
“Those rail cars can carry lots of things, but mostly they are for animals like cattle.”
I listened for the droning and nickering of farm animals. All I heard were the metal mushrooms knocking into each other and the screeching of wheels on tracks. Either the cars were empty, or the animals had nothing to say.
“Do you see that car with the little tower on one end?” asked Werner. “
I suppose you know what that is for?”
He was in a know-it-all mood because he was nervous. At another time, it might have bugged me, but I didn’t respond. I was thinking of Rudi and all we would talk about.
“The little tower is to look out for girls who don’t know anything about trains,” he said.
“I do so.”
I rolled my eyes to let him know I wasn’t playing along. I looked down at his knapsack, which was the only one not bursting at the seams. I knew, I just knew, that all his clothes were carefully placed inside, just as his folded jacket now sat neatly in his lap.
The cars rolled past until they lurched to a stop with squeals and bumps. German soldiers and Dutch police suddenly seemed purposeful. Some ran up to the cars, sliding open the huge, square doors. Others called everybody to get up, come forward, and line up.
“Pappi?” I asked. “Are we going in those?”
“Let’s go, Hasenbergs,” he replied without answering my question.
“Aren’t they for animals?” I tried.
He nodded, his eyes not meeting mine, and ushered me along with a hand.
At the edge of the car door I smelled barn, and just as I put my hands on the mix of straw and dirt I was pushed up and in by unseen hands. I skidded forward, scraping my finger. We were pressed in further and further, so that we constantly had to reshuffle our things, redefine our family space. We were as cramped as cucumbers in a jar, as if they meant to pickle us. People packed in, making it duskier. Soon, the only light I could see was through a couple of barred windows that were high up, near the ceiling. The heat was thick. Pappi clutched my hand; I squeezed back.
“Push in! Make room! No sitting,” came the orders from men I couldn’t see.
The cramming stopped.
“Now, put this in the far corner! In the corner! Back there. And put the other in the other corner. Hurry. We are leaving.”
Men passed along one of the small barrels I had seen in the cart, over their heads.
“Ugh,” Werner said when he was pushed aside as the little barrel wound its way past us.
What is it?” I asked.
“I think that is our toilet.”
“What? That? In the open? For all of us?”
“Don’t worry,” Mutti said. “We’ll hold up a blanket to hide you.”
With the sound of grinding metal, the square door slid shut. People asked others to move a bit, to give more space. Other voices said there wasn’t any space to give. It already smelled of food and bodies. The train jerked forward and back, ahead again, and started rolling. People settled in as best they could, shedding heavier clothes and then lighter ones. Pappi nudged and guided our pile of things next to a wall, sat on top, and motioned for me to sit down. I was happy to join him, despite the heat.
“So Reni, tell me again of your most favorite trips,” he said.
CHA-CHINK. Cha-chink. CHA-CHINK. Cha-chink. The train fell into a rhythm.
14
Train Rails North of Amsterdam,
the Netherlands
June 20, 1943
I talked about going to the beach in the summer and playing on the canals in winter. Werner joined in, explaining all the trips he planned with his Henki Express: to New York, London, China, and even Africa. I kept steering my questions back to Westerbork and what it would be like.
“Reni, why so many questions about the camp?” Pappi finally asked.
“She wants to see Rudi,” Werner answered before I could think of another reason.
“He’s just a friend,” I said.
Mutti seemed to wake up from a thought.
“Oh, Reni,” she said, “We understand. Your Pappi and I are looking forward to seeing people, too, like Aunt Alice and Uncle Paul.”
Alice was Mutti’s sister, and Paul was her husband. They had recently been sent to Westerbork.
“We have bread and sausage if you two get hungry,” added Mutti, checking her bag. “John, make sure the kids don’t sit on this.”
It had been three months since I’d seen Rudi, and I still ached for him. I missed my grandparents terribly, but my insides pulled for Rudi. I couldn’t wait to see his face, hug him, and feel our legs against each other’s. The wait would be over. We had heard through friends that his family was healthy, and of course, I had his postcard. Instead of rereading the few lines over and over, we could play and talk. What had I done with his postcard?
Oh no. I’d left it in the drawer by my bed.
I felt bad, but I decided it was fine. I’d take the real Rudi over a piece of mail any day.
Our talk trailed off. Pappi told me to stand, because he needed to stretch his legs, and give more room for Mutti and Werner to sit. I squinted, trying to imagine myself on an adventure, like Heidi from the book and movie when she was on the train against her will. Except that Heidi had been on a nice train and not in a boxcar meant for cows. Except that I had my family, and Heidi had not. I’d rather be with Pappi, Mutti, and Werner than be on a nice train without them. I laughed, remembering the movie scene when Heidi bent over and was butted by the goat, Old Turk.
“What’s funny?” Werner asked.
“Everybody knows you can’t turn your back on Old Turk,” I quoted Peter the goat boy from the movie.
“Well, Old Turk isn’t much of a gentleman,” Werner replied, quoting Shirley Temple.
Werner smiled and then frowned. “This isn’t funny. This is serious, Reni.”
I was a lot like Heidi. We were about the same age. We were both close to our grandfathers. Her story took place in Germany and the Netherlands. She helped her grandfather and people around her; I was determined to do that. Of course, Heidi also lived in Switzerland. I wanted to visit there some day.
The hours seemed to turn into bad smells. One man near us had a worsening odor like rotten onions, and the toilet emitted occasional wafts that settled into a stench. Voices complained it was close to overflowing. That explained why things felt more crowded—everybody was moving away from the offending corner. The real fear, somebody said, was that sloshing could lead to spilling and toppling. I pulled my shirt up to cover my nose. I was covered in sweat and I had to pee, but not bad enough to force my way to the barrel. The push toward evening and into night didn’t even cool things down.
CHA-CHINK…Cha-chink……CHA-CHINK……… Cha-chink………….
The train had slowed off and on throughout the day, but this time it continued. Light flashed through the small barred window. A boy climbed onto a man’s shoulders and looked out.
“What do you see?” asked the man.
“It’s a town with low buildings,” he reported.
“What else?” came a different voice.
“There is a big fence around, with a tower way on the end.”
“That must be a guard tower. We must be at Westerbork,” said the man, sliding the boy to the floor.
Murmuring swelled and we all started shifting like we were hungry for recess. The train came to a full stop, and the doors banged open. Rays of light charged at the ceiling from outside. People turned away. Flashlight beams streaked across the walls and bleached flinching faces. There were groans of pain and discomfort mixed with sighs as the new night air rushed in. My need to pee was terrible. I thought maybe I could find a place outside on the other side of the car, away from the lights and lanterns.
“Uitstappen!”
Men started yelling for us in Dutch to get out. People stretched their necks and backs, and shielded their eyes. An old woman needed help getting to her feet. A little girl cried that her leg was asleep. We tumbled out, dragging our stuff. The handheld lights blinded us, but beyond that was a darkness like I had never seen. I put on my knapsack and realized I was very thirsty. I expected to see guards like the ones who had put us on the train, but these men wore green coveralls with a yellow star on the left front pocket, and they had on black caps. Thin ties were tucked into their shirts between buttons, and thinner belts tightened their slight middl
es. They reminded me of men who filled cars with gas.
“Stap uit! Vlug in de rij!”
“Get out! Get into a line!” they repeated. “Men and boys here; women and girls there!”
Everybody from the train looked a mess. Their nice clothes had become disheveled, and were bunched under their arms. Hair pointed in all directions and all the men seemed to have stubble. People were looking up and down and calling names, coaxing each other to carry and drag bags, suitcases, and blankets. The sick were loaded onto handcarts with large wheels a meter and a half tall.
For the first time I felt scared as we went to separate lines: Werner and Pappi away from Mutti and me. I began to cry. Mutti told me to hush, as I closed my fingers around hers. Women—dressed in the same coveralls as the men in charge—counted us. They marched us until we were stopped in front of a low brick building. Yellow light spilled from a single door. Mutti and I waited in line, inching our way closer as women disappeared inside. When I could finally look in, I saw people dressed in light-colored clothing. Then my sight adjusted. And I saw they were…naked.
I had never seen a naked adult. My family walked around the house in at least their underclothes. Pink skin. That meant I would have to get naked, too. No, I thought, no. Once inside, I leaned against the wall, trying to be ignored. Women were leaning over, pulling down skirts and underwear, pulling sweaters over their heads, and reaching behind, unclasping bras.
I didn’t want to cry. I looked up at Mutti. She looked down at me and gave my hand a squeeze.
“Undress, now,” one of the women in coveralls said to all of us. She was short, with puffy cheeks, a hooked nose, and hair pulled back in a stylish cut. I froze. What would she look like naked?
“Who are they, the ones giving orders?” Mutti asked a woman, when everyone in coveralls had moved on.
The woman shook her head. She didn’t know.
“They are the Jewish Police,” said another woman, who smelled of perfume.
“Jewish Police?” Mutti repeated.
“They are prisoners, too,” the perfumed woman replied.
“They must be better than Nazis,” said a third woman, who wore nothing.
