Six weeks later, any illusion that perhaps the Nazis’ anti-Semitism wasn’t so bad after all was blown to smithereens. During the night of November 9, 1938, the windows of numerous Jewish shops and houses in Germany were smashed in. Owners were hunted down, robbed, abused, and in some cases, murdered. This event, called Kristallnacht after the shards of glass littering the shopping streets the next morning, sparked international outrage, particularly in Germany’s neighboring countries, where there was growing concern about how easily Hitler was getting his way. In the spring of 1939, this concern became even more acute after he annexed Czechoslovakia to the Greater Germanic Reich without a struggle.
That summer, the artists and beachgoers showed up in Scheveningen as usual, and again Waldy went on vacation with his sister to Goeree and then with his father to Lugano. But all of Europe was holding its breath, and by the end of August, even the sunny seaside town had fallen under the shadow of Adolf Hitler. On August 31, a guest wrote in Pension Walda’s guest book:
We will look back on the wonderful sunny weeks we spent here at the beach in 1939 with great pleasure. What a pity that the international tension and decision to mobilize cast a shadow on the end of our holiday. May God turn it all into good.40
The next day, Hitler’s army invaded Poland and left France and England with no choice but to declare war on Germany. Just twenty-one years after the end of the first Great War, a second one had broken out, and this time it was unlikely that the Netherlands could remain neutral. One needn’t have been a military strategist to see that the Dutch coast was of great strategic importance for the power-hungry dictator to the east, and the small country’s old-fashioned army was no match for the German military machine.
Waldemar and Rika were terrified. Jewish people weren’t the only ones considered racially inferior in the Nazi philosophy. If this was how the Nazis were dealing with the Jews, what was their plan for people of color? The black race was even lower in Nazi eyes. In October, Waldemar’s sister Hilda, and her husband, Jo Herdigein, came to stay on the Seafront. They were on furlough from the Indies and had already paid a visit to Koos Nods, who was still living in Ouro Prêto. To Waldy’s delight, they brought him real leather soccer shoes and a hockey stick. For his father, they had a pipiti, a lump of real gold. It was the first time Waldy had ever seen photos of his mysterious grandfather: a gray-haired man with a proud posture and a weather-beaten face. Standing next to him was some kind of fairy princess—that must be his beautiful aunt Lily. One day, Waldy’s mother pulled him aside and whispered a secret into his ear: maybe they, too, would be going to a warm country soon. Aunt Hilda didn’t have any children herself, and she wanted nothing more than for her brother and his family to come live with them in the far-off Indies, far away from the threat of war that was now looming over Europe like a dark cloud.
Rika found herself in a nearly impossible situation. Although she would have loved to have seen her two Waldys safe and happy, and although she would have loved to embark on an adventure to the colonies herself, leaving for the Indies would force her not only to give up her marvelous guesthouse, but also to say goodbye to her four oldest children all over again, most likely forever, and just as they were starting to feel within reach. Earlier that fall, Bertha had invited her to come to Groningen and spend a few days getting to know her future husband. While she was there, something remarkable happened: Wim decided he wanted to take advantage of the occasion to introduce his fiancée to his mother. And so, after ten years, Rika saw her oldest son again. The confused, angry little boy had grown into a tall, disciplined young man. During their visit, he was exceptionally cold toward his mother. But no matter how short and formal their meeting had been, Rika was convinced that this was a new beginning, if only because Wim’s fiancée struck her as a warmhearted woman who wouldn’t dare to keep her future children away from their grandmother.
Naturally, Willem Hagenaar was livid when he heard that his ex-wife had visited his children in Groningen. He was so angry that he even threatened to kick his daughter out of the house once and for all. Bertha wrote:
I still need to write about Mama’s visit to Groningen in September. She stayed at Hofman’s, and the days we spent together were unforgettable. I am happy that Johan was able to get to know her. But what a commotion it created. I almost ended up in Scheveningen. I felt so much motherly love in those few days, and so did Henk. He writes to Mama much more often now. Things are really shaping up between us. And once we have our own house, I hope we get to see for ourselves that life can be different.41
Willem’s outburst, however, was the final fit of rage in a battle that had already been lost, for it now seemed that no amount of threats could stop the relationship between twenty-two-year-old Bertha and her mother. Soon after, Bertha spent her first night at Pension Walda, and the two, mother and daughter, later traveled together to Goeree for the wedding of one of Bertha’s friends. “Everyone found it perfectly normal that Mama and I were together,” Bertha wrote, both surprised and elated.42 In 1939, mother and daughter spent Christmas together for the first time in nine years.
Shortly before that, the Nods family had bid Aunt Hilda and Uncle Jo farewell on the Rotterdam quay with a heartfelt “See you soon!” In the end, Rika had decided to put the safety of her husband and son first, and Uncle Jo had promised to do everything he could to find a suitable job for his brother-in-law as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, Rika did what she could to make up for the lost years and showered Bertha with her motherly love and advice. Under no circumstances was her daughter to make the same mistakes she had made:
You aren’t the only victim of your parents’ divorce, my dear. Therefore, Sis, I really want to make sure that you do not take marriage too lightly. Sweetheart, don’t get married to be free. Because that is what you won’t be. If you marry, you will not be free. You’ll just think you are! And that’s precisely when you are bound. But . . . it should be a bond so full of love, trust, and sacrifice that you never feel it. If you really take that to heart, everything will be alright. You are two different people. And you should never demand too much of each other. One’s nature is one’s nature. Adapt to each other—and to each other’s shortcomings as well.
Always share everything with honesty and love. And if you know you want something that the other doesn’t, don’t force it! That which is freely given is so beautiful and so sacred! Honestly, my sweet children, there is no reason to rush into marriage. First focus on the foundation of the marriage. Never deprive yourself of freedom. I beg you, Sis, never do that; I worry about that sometimes. That should never ever happen. You are only young once. Enjoy it. Once you’re married, you’ll be burdened with heavy responsibilities; the rent will have to be paid, the taxes will have to be paid, the gas and electricity bills will have to be paid, you will need furniture, food, bread, meat, etc. You’ll have to be able to pay for the doctor; you’ll need life insurance. Children will be born, and they will need care. You have seen misery. Motherly love alone is not enough. Life is hard, it requires money.43
In her heart of hearts, Rika wasn’t particularly impressed with Bertha’s fiancé, who seemed neither intellectually nor temperamentally fit for her high-strung daughter. When the Dutch army was mobilized in February 1940 and Pension Walda provided quarters to two soldiers, Rika sought every opportunity to bring Bertha into contact with the strapping, intelligent young men staying in the house. No expense or effort was spared to make the defenders of the fatherland feel at home, and when her daughter was visiting, bottles of wine were hauled out of the cellar, and the evening would inevitably turn into a lively party.
For ten-year-old Waldy, it was a wonderful period. Real soldiers were staying in his house! He could hardly imagine anything more exciting than the old helmet they gave him. It was displayed in a place of honor, right next to his leather football shoes. He was growing quickly—“already a real kid,” as his mother wrote to Henk with pride—and he was allowed to stay up increasingly late durin
g the long, convivial evenings at Pension Walda, even though his father grumbled about it sometimes.44 If Waldy ever wanted to be a doctor—something his parents ardently hoped—then he had to make sure he did his homework. For although he had managed to adjust to the strict Catholic regime, his love for school hadn’t exactly grown over the years. There were so many other more interesting adventures for a boy of his age, like roller-skating in the parking lot on the boulevard, catching shrimp and fishing for plaice off the pier, and waging mothball wars between mattresses in one of the big hotels managed by his best friend’s father.
May 5, 1940, was a particularly golden day at Pension Walda. Not only because Bertha was there, but because it was one of the first truly warm days of the year. The soldiers brought home ice cream, which the houseguests enjoyed in the garden behind the house on the Seafront. Happily, they all posed for Waldemar’s camera around the wooden garden bench—the soldiers, the Nods family, and the Polish servant girls who had returned to Scheveningen for the summer rush. Topsy frolicked around in the background, still very much the happy puppy. However, the captions Rika wrote on the back of the photos in the days that followed were notably less sunny: “Frightening times, May 1940.”
The next Friday, May 10, Waldy woke up to the sound of the radio. Downstairs he found his father already completely dressed. The radio announcer’s loud, agitated voice filled the room: that morning, at the break of dawn, five minutes before four, a fleet of hundreds of enemy planes had crossed the eastern border into the country. At that very moment, seaplanes were landing on the New Meuse River in Rotterdam, and thousands of German paratroopers were floating to the ground around the airports. There was a tremendous amount of enemy activity in The Hague, evidently with the objective of taking the government and royal family captive. “Are they going to shoot here, too, Dad?” Waldy asked. “I don’t think so,” his father replied, “but you never know.” The words had barely rolled off his tongue before a black plane thundered right over their house and the roar of rattling machine guns broke out on the boulevard.
A few minutes later, when Waldy and his father carefully climbed upstairs and peeked out the window, they saw three seaplanes in the surf in front of their house. Just then, a large, expensive automobile stopped on the Seafront. A passenger stepped out hastily and hauled two suitcases out of the car. As the car drove away, he scrambled down the stone slope, carrying one of the suitcases, and ran across the parking lot toward the beach. One of the pilots ran up to meet him, hoisted him up on his shoulders, and dragged him through the surf to the plane. Shortly afterward, the aircraft taxied out and took off toward England. Waldy’s father had recognized the refugee: it was Eelco van Kleffens, the new Dutch minister of Foreign Affairs. As the plane disappeared on the horizon, the deafening shooting broke out again. German fighter jets swooped down like black shadows, and the two other seaplanes went up in flames. Huddled behind the window, Waldy and his father could hear the pilots screaming as they burned alive. Standing in front of their house was a single lonely suitcase, left behind by the runaway minister.
May 10, 1940
Friday morning, 9:00
Dear children!
Couldn’t get the package out, we’re at war. May God protect you all, and may you come to your Mother if you can. There is room here, the sea is calming. Two poor pilots were shelled before our very eyes, pray to Mary, stay in good spirits. May God bless and protect all of you. I can’t write anymore, received your letter today. Stay calm, Mother is praying for all of you, lots of love and hugs from your Mother and the Waldys.45
That day, the Polish captain fled the Scheveningen Harbor with his fishing vessels. Waldy spent the day helping his father build a bomb shelter out of sandbags behind their house, while his mother started stocking up on emergency supplies. The next morning, the radio announced that the Dutch army had put up a courageous fight and shot down hundreds of German planes. Everyone in the guesthouse cheered. But that Sunday, Crown Princess Juliana fled with her husband and two daughters to England, and Queen Wilhelmina followed the next day, along with the last remaining members of the Dutch government.
On Tuesday afternoon at 1:25, a fleet of Heinkel bombers appeared over Rotterdam like thick black hornets against the blue sky, and ten minutes later, they flew back to the east, leaving behind seven hundred dead, thousands wounded, and a giant sea of flames where the bustling city center had stood that morning. From their back balcony, Waldy and his mother could see the black clouds above Rotterdam and the Pernis oil towers. The next morning, May 15, they cried together as the radio announcer reported that the commander in chief of the Dutch military, Henri Winkelman, had surrendered after the Germans had threatened to bomb Utrecht as well. But Rika was quick to dry her tears: crying doesn’t get you anywhere, she said, and it was only a matter of time before the British warships would appear on the horizon to set them free.
The next day, the soldiers at Pension Walda were demobilized. Upon leaving, one of them wrote in the guest book:
A half-year of mobilization and four days of war have brought us as close together as many years of friendship. It was during the fearful time around May 10th that our faith in the Netherlands was strengthened by the residents of Pension Walda.46
As abruptly as the war broke out, life slid back to normal. While beachgoers became fewer and farther between and Rika was busy trying to save her summer season, the new regime was setting up its headquarters under the leadership of Reich Commissioner Arthur Seyss-Inquart on the Clingendael estate near Scheveningen. In June, a unit of the Waffen-SS would be stationed in the seaside town to guard the harbors and lighthouses. On the boulevard, a German brass band played happy tunes and high-ranking soldiers in sweltering leather jackets posed for photos beside the donkeys on the beach: See, life under the new order isn’t so bad. Pension Walda housed German soldiers as well. The men were bored to death, and it wasn’t long before family acquaintances were earning a bit of extra money playing cards with them on the Seafront.
With the same pragmatic business spirit that led the Dutch into the slave trade in the seventeenth century, they adapted to life under the Nazi regime. It seemed as if there was little else to be done; Hitler’s war machine was plowing across the Continent like a tank, seizing one country after another. On May 28, Belgium surrendered, followed by Norway on June 9. And on June 22, Hitler won his sweetest victory of all: France, the country that had so humiliatingly brought Germany to its knees in 1918. By the end of the summer, most of the Continent was under German rule. Only England, protected by the same waters that the Nods family could see from their house, was still resisting, but it seemed only a matter of time before the British Isles would be annexed to the Greater Germanic Reich as well, for, as Hitler declared in a radio address: “I am a man who has only known one thing: to conquer, conquer, and conquer again.”
At Pension Walda, the occupiers and guests were living peacefully together for the time being. Rika had a big heart and had encountered too many kind and polite Germans in the years leading up to the war to assume that there was a devout Nazi hiding under every steel helmet. Leaving for the Indies was no longer an option—all sea connections between the colonies had been cut off in May 1940—and expressions of gratitude continued to fill the pages of Rika’s guest book. One guest wrote:
What better way for an officer’s wife whose husband has been taken captive to spend her vacation with two little toddlers than at Pension Walda, where a cheerful atmosphere prevails, and the food is outstanding—even under rationing.47
Bertha had followed her mother’s advice and come to The Hague. She worked for the fire inspector and visited the Seafront on an almost daily basis. Rika now addressed her weekly letters to her son Henk, who was sixteen by then and still living with his father in Groningen. He wrote back to her regularly—but not without plenty of encouragement on her part.
My dear Henk,
Now that you’ve done your best to write a nice long letter, I truly know you a
re my great, brave son. Because, my dear boy, believe it or not, every breath I take is for my sweet children. My spirit is always with you, my heart is always with my darling children. And if all I get are a few sober, hastily written scribbles, I grit my teeth and think, oh how a mother can feel so poor.
Consider it your duty now, you hear? I won’t be the least bit angry if you don’t have time for a long letter. But I need to hear something from you every week. And you know, Henk, it makes me so happy.48
In her letters to Henk, Rika often wrote about memories from a time when they were all together (“I still remember how you all decorated my chair”) or went on and on about the daily adventures of his little brother Waldy (“He is crazy about his father. They’re sitting here like two little boys making plans for the vacation”) or replied to Henk’s news (“I think it’s wonderful that you are learning to dance so well. Your mother has always been number one in that department”).49 At the same time, she tried to tell her son what she hadn’t been able to for all those years: her side of the story.
What happened between your Mother and your Father is something you can’t possibly understand, my dear. Later, when you’re a grown man, your eyes will be opened. And, my dear boy, you will be happy that you always stayed true to your dear sister and mother.
God only knows that the one thing driving me was the thought of your futures, for which I was willing to hand over my greatest treasures on earth to their father. Unfortunately . . . this choice has been scandalously abused to present my dear children with a very different story of what happened. But God will hold us all accountable, and He alone knows how much I have done for my children and that my heart was weaker than my reason. For I never should have done it. God never forsakes those who trust in Him.50
Although Henk had no idea what he was supposed to do with these kinds of emotional outpourings from a woman he had seen all of ten times since he was a toddler, he was kindhearted and friendly by nature and crazy about his sister. And now that she lived in The Hague and was one of the family at his mother’s house, going to the Seafront no longer seemed like such a big step, especially now that his father seemed to have more or less given up the fight against it. In 1940, he visited his mother at her house for the first time. Giddy with happiness, Rika ushered him into the attic room with a sea view, which had been outfitted with every convenience. “This is your room now,” she said, even though Henk knew full well that there would be beach guests staying there in the summer. She also told him his fortune. “One day, you will be an architect, and you’ll come pick your mother up in a car,” she predicted.
The Boy Between Worlds: A Biography Page 9