It was rescheduled for Monday, March 23. On Wednesday, March 25, there would be a pro forma hearing, and I knew that Stijn Franken would ask for Wim’s release, a request that, I thought, had a chance of succeeding. The statements Ros had made about Wim’s involvement in the liquidations were second- or third-hand at best. If our statements were presented by March 23, they would be just in time.
In the meantime, we had informed the press based on the understanding that all parties to the trial would be familiar with our statements. The Telegraaf and NRC newspapers were going to publish our interviews on Tuesday, March 24.
But on Monday, March 23, at 12:08, I got word from Betty that the handing over of the statements was off again. The statements would be issued later.
Postponed again? I called Betty to ask for the reason. She told me it was too early, due to our safety and the measures that had to be taken. I told her that we couldn’t wait, because we had already alerted the media. She asked me to cancel the press; there could be disastrous consequences if the papers published the interviews before the preliminary statements had gone to the court, the lawyers, and the district attorney’s office.
But we had no intention of blowing off the press. We wanted our statements to go public on the agreed-upon date. The publication of the statements would increase our safety. By now an unknown number of people already knew about our role as witnesses, and the chance that Wim would find out had increased.
The DA didn’t want to jeopardize our safety, but we hadn’t been safe for a long time. Not safe from the moment we’d had our first meeting with the Justice Department, and certainly not safe during the two years we, knowing we had testified, had to go on seeing Wim.
We were totally worn out by the stress and didn’t want to spend any more time in uncertainty. We’d just have to see what would happen: on Tuesday, March 24, we would stand up to him, with or without the district attorney’s office.
I told Betty that we knew what we were doing and also knew the consequences. That was our choice, and I said to her, “I discharge you of all responsibility regarding our safety. Don’t worry. It’s our decision, and we’ll do it with or without you.”
That same day, just before five p.m., I got the message that it was a green light and that the statements were available to the court and defense. No later than tomorrow, but it could well be today, Wim would know that we’d stood up to him.
I had been imagining this moment for two years, how it would mean a turning point in my relationship with my brother. The moment he’d hear that his little sister had been trying for years to get him convicted. His little sister, to whom he had entrusted his fear of a life sentence, would now get him condemned for life herself. It still makes me cry, how it must have felt to him, like a knife straight through his heart.
Women Floor Holleeder
ON TUESDAY, MARCH 24, 2015, OUR STORY APPEARED IN THE MEDIA. IT started early in the morning.
“Women Floor Holleeder” was the Telegraaf headline of an interview with Sonja and Sandra. That evening, my own story was published in NRC Handelsblad, and virtually every TV show broadcast it. I had to be in Assen that day for a hearing and hadn’t realized how huge the impact of our story would be.
That day and night—after the sound clips played on the RTL Late Night show—Willem Holleeder was exposed, and his true identity was revealed.
It seemed as if a wave of relief swept over the country: everybody had guessed as much, but nobody could lay a finger on him. Willem Holleeder had done all the things the Justice Department had suspected him of doing all these years.
Luckily, the thing I was afraid of—that people would react with anger and call us traitors—didn’t happen. Far from it; I think that that day alone, we received some three hundred messages of support from familiar but also unfamiliar people. And really, every message made a difference. One in particular. John van den Heuvel, a crime journalist, sent it through to me:
Dear Astrid and Sonja,
I would like to express my admiration for your courage in saying goodbye to Willem Holleeder in this way.
I have deep respect for the three women who, under such enormous pressure, have nevertheless decided to make a statement; in my opinion you belong to the backbone of the Netherlands.
I know from experience what death threats and the ensuing fear can do to people; that one can feel desperate and powerless, always living under pressure and constantly being alert because “the unknown” can strike violently at any moment. But you have made a difference by showing character.
Do think back to the Heineken-Doderer kidnapping for a moment. You may remember the codes that were used to communicate: the eagle (Holleeder c.s.) and the hare (Heineken c.s.).
The roles are reversed now. You have morphed from a fearful hare to a free-flying eagle.
I hope with all my heart that you and your children will be able to enjoy wonderful and safe flights, because you fully deserve them.
With kind regards, Kees Sietsma
Leader of the so-called Heineken team (1983)
That evening Sonja and I sat at her dining room table, opposite each other.
“Do you feel it, too?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“But what?”
“It feels like the day Cor died,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “I feel exactly the same.”
We’d gone back in time twelve years, to the source of our grief, and it was as if only now were we ready to deal with that grief.
Consequences
IT HAS CHANGED ME, THE STEP I TOOK, AND THE KNOWLEDGE THAT I won’t grow old.
I used to spend my life solving other people’s problems; it gave me an identity, personally but also professionally. But when someone starts talking about his problems now, I think, Stop whining and deal with it.
You can still deal with it.
My problem, though, is unsolvable. There will never be a solution, but there will be an end, a bloody end.
It won’t take long before he has room to get an easy revenge. Did I do right? That question keeps coming up. No, I didn’t do right. But I had no choice. It’s the way it is.
We—Sandra, Sonja, and I—each got a bracelet from Liesbeth, Sam Klepper’s sister, a bracelet with a four-leaf clover. She understands that we could all use a bit of extra luck.
When we’re together, we regularly talk about who’s going first. Actually, we all agree that I’ll go first, because he didn’t see my treason coming, and he’ll hate me forever for that.
He took me seriously, asked for my advice, trusted me, and I betrayed him. He really can’t stand for this. I feel that a bulletproof vest could be useful, but Sandra would rather “go” straight away. We discuss this on the couch at her place. It seems suicidal, but she’s got a point. What if you survive by wearing the vest but end up in a wheelchair?
Better get it right away.
That’s true, but I’ll get a vest anyway.
My eye rests on Sonja’s arm, and I notice she’s no longer wearing the bracelet. “Where’s your four-leaf clover?” I ask.
She’s scared stiff, her face turns red, and she gasps for air. “Oh, God, where is it?” she asks.
I know what she’s thinking; we’re both superstitious, and I understand why she’s so frightened.
“It’s there, on the couch,” I say.
Relieved and happy, she puts it back on.
“You thought you were first, didn’t you?” I ask.
“Yes,” she said. “I thought: This is a sign that I’m going first, that luck has abandoned me.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Less than a week later, I discover that I have lost my four-leaf clover.
Car Wash
ON MAY 30, 2015, THE STORY APPEARED IN NRC HANDELBLAD ABOUT the lurer. To involve my mother in what we were doing as much as possible, which she’d insisted on after we came out with our statements, I went to her house to bring her the newspaper. On
the way there, I stopped off at the car wash.
I parked my car in a stall and got the coins from the machine. Coming back, I saw a car drive toward the stalls, coming in from the wrong direction; two young men were in it. They drove past me and reversed. They looked at me while doing so, as if they wanted to be sure of my identity. They parked two stalls away and stayed in the car.
Meanwhile, I had foamed my car. One guy kept looking at me while the other one bent down and appeared to take something from the floor. Something wasn’t right. I wanted to leave, but first had to spray the foam off my car or I wouldn’t be able to see through the windshield.
That same moment, a second car parked next to the car already there. A slim guy wearing mirrored glasses got out and came my way. I froze inside and hurried to get the foam off.
I had to get out of there.
The man walked up to me and asked, “Are you Astrid?”
At that moment I felt the blood drain from my face. I immediately thought of a line that was used at the Mieremet liquidation. “Are you Johnny?” When he said yes, they opened fire, and the assassination my brother had wanted for so long was accomplished.
I didn’t know what to say.
“Are you Astrid?” he asked again.
I said yes and expected my life to be over then and there. “I am Makali,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing well—how about you?”
Makali, I knew that family name. He could be a client of one of my associates, but I didn’t recognize him. He was being friendly so I assumed he wouldn’t hurt me, but the other two guys were still there in the car, and he walked in their direction. Maybe he just came over to check that I was the right one to kill, and they would soon open fire?
I threw the hose down, got in my car quickly, and drove away as fast as I could, the foam still on my roof. I was shaking all over. This is what he’s always aiming for.
“He’s so scared,” he’d always say about his targets. “They know what I’m like, they know what I’ll do, and if they see someone running at them toting that thing, they know: it’s over. And then they think: I wish I hadn’t done it.”
Yeah, I know that, too, I know what you’re like and what you’re going to do. I will also know, the moment they come running toward me toting that thing: it’s over. But I won’t think, I wish I hadn’t done it. Because I know, brother, that when they set fire to my coffin, you’ll be slowly rotting away in your cell, without the celebrity you’ve known, because I have taken that away from you. Without the privileges you’ve always had, because I have taken those, too, and you may wonder: What is worse? To set me on fire, but count on me coming back to haunt you? And when all your victims and I come to visit you in your cell, without surveillance, you’ll run out of oxygen.
What happened that afternoon gave me a reason to talk to my daughter. I would be seeing her that evening.
“Sweetie, this afternoon I thought for minute that my time had come. You know that could happen any moment, right?”
“Yes, I know, Mom,” she said. She bit her lip, but tears were flowing anyway.
“That’s why it’s important to talk about my funeral and how you’ll go on without me.”
I couldn’t stop myself from crying, either. But I pushed through it, because today had shown yet again that I needed to talk about this with her as soon as possible.
“I don’t want an open casket so people can see my soulless face. I want a closed casket. And I want to be cremated. Nice and warm. I can’t bear thinking about lying in cold earth. Just set me on fire, a full urn, and put that in a cozy room. Nice flowers, a couple of framed pictures, nice and warm. Not a grave you need to visit, which you won’t anyhow. No, I’ll be here at home with you and the kids. That’s what I want.”
“Me too, Mom,” she cried.
“Okay, sweetie. And you need to go on without me. You have to stay who you are. You have had enough experience to know you’ll always return to yourself. That’s you, so I’m not worried about that. And the little ones soon won’t know any better. Point out a star and tell them I live there and that I am with them every day.”
We both cried.
“But I will miss you so much, Mom,” she whispered through her tears. “Your voice, your scent.” She stood up and started collecting pieces of clothing. “I need to keep your scent. I need to have as many items as possible with your scent still in them. At least I can smell them when you’re not here anymore.”
My heart broke. What a life. Death almost feels like a reward to me, but I have to leave behind such sorrow.
Still, I have to discuss this with her, because I don’t know how much time I have left. And, of course, it’s not the first time we’ve talked about it: before Sonja and I decided to use our testimony, we discussed the consequences with all the kids. But we also told them we’d run the same risk if we didn’t testify. They knew that risk.
I explained to them that I was going to die either way, and I’d rather my death mean something. If he was still out there, having fun, despite all the victims he’s harmed, my death would be pointless. Now when I die, at least I will have had the satisfaction of bringing out the truth about him and knowing he will pay for the suffering he’s brought on Cor and many others.
“You just go to bed now. Tomorrow things will look different,” I said to Miljuschka. “I’ll be here for the time being.”
Together Forever
I’M IN THE CAR WITH SONJA WHEN BETTY WIND TELLS US IT’S OFFICIAL: Wim will be prosecuted for Cor’s murder. Now, two years later, the thing we had hoped would happen has become reality.
Sonja looks at me, tears running down her cheeks, and I feel my own tears coming.
“Together forever,” she cries.
“Together forever,” I reply.
It’s the text we had engraved on Cor’s tombstone and which is symbolic of our mission: justice for Cor, for Richie, and for Francis.
“You’ll finally have your peace, sweetie,” she says to Cor.
Shooting Lessons
“GIVE ME A GUN LICENSE SO I CAN DO SOMETHING WHEN THEY COME FOR me,” I tell our witness protection officer in July. But it’s against the law, so she won’t agree to it. In other words, I should let myself be butchered like a lame lamb.
I tell Sandra, “Then we’ll have to go get a gun license ourselves.”
“You think they’ll admit us to the shooting club?”
“If not, we’ll make trouble. We’re no different than other people. I don’t feel like just being shot. I have reached the point where I will accept what is coming to me without fear or grief, but it’s ridiculous that I have to surrender without a fight. I can’t live with that passivity; it will just give him as much power over me as he ever had, because he doesn’t have to abide by the law and I do. I’m always the loser. So no matter what, I want to be able to do something to take out at least one of them when I see the gunmen. I will not just be butchered.”
“Me neither,” says Sonja.
“Then we’ll do something about it.”
Sandra has researched a way for us to be able to defend ourselves: we’d take SPEAR defense training and shooting lessons. On July 24, we are going to have our first lesson at the shooting club.
Sandra has not listed our surnames, but we’ll have to show our identity cards, so it won’t be long before this will become public. When we walk to the club I say, “They will be scared shitless when they see my surname.”
It always remains to be seen how that will pan out. That’s why I try to postpone giving my last name as long as possible, preferably until I have spoken to the person and they can see for themselves that I’m not scary. That is my plan for today.
We are already in and were chatting with two nice, naïve ladies. We have been connecting well before I need to show my identity card. I think it highly unlikely that they will refuse us after all this, but you never can tell.
The instructor comes over with a serious look on his
face. “You’re here for the introduction class?”
“Yes,” we say, as bland as possible.
“Well, let’s get started.”
A few days later, Sandra sends me a message saying that she’ll be at my house at eight fifteen a.m. and asking whether we should take her car or mine. I’d forgotten about it for a minute, but we had a meeting with our SPEAR trainer at nine that morning.
I first want to know what we’re looking at. If I have a bad feeling about the trainer, I’ll say goodbye without telling him who we are and why we want this. If the impression is good, I want to know beforehand if he’d be willing to keep this a secret. Somebody walking around using our names and our situation for their own benefit does not help us: we really need to keep our preparations secret.
We arrange to meet at the Hilton in Amsterdam. Sandra shows him the table where I’m already sitting; he comes up and introduces himself.
My first impression is good. Posture, voice, energy, I like him right away. His short introduction is also good. Not a guy who thinks too much of himself, overestimates himself. I feel no irritation at all. So I decide to open up and tell him who we are and what our goal is. “The reason we are interested in your training is because we are women testifying against Willem Holleeder. We expect to be executed in the short or long term and don’t want to resign ourselves to it.”
The poor guy needs to catch his breath; he was not prepared for this. He’s being treated to an announcement, on a Sunday morning, that he could never have imagined.
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