Twenty years together, every day, and now nothing. Being alone. Again, my brother was dictating my life. The person who—next to my family—was most valuable and dear to me, I had lost now, too.
That same Monday, I informed my colleagues and my secretary, who had become my friend. We cried together, afraid of the inevitable separation, angry at the unfairness of the misery laid upon us.
I couldn’t even face my partner after my decision without my heart exploding from grief. Seeing him at our office, knowing that we wouldn’t sit together anymore, made my stomach turn.
That afternoon I left the office and he walked past me, both of us silent, not able to say anything meaningful, till we turned around and embraced each other. We were both sobbing.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too,” I said, and then we parted and walked on quickly.
The grief was too immense to touch, or to even come close to.
I had to get out of there quickly so as not to succumb. We were never emotional, no matter what kind of drama took place—we both thought it too complicated. The only way we dealt with sorrow was by working even harder so we couldn’t think about the pain. But I was way past that.
Tuesday, I handed over all my cases. Thursday, I did my last hearing. That Friday I was unemployed for the first time in my life. Saturday and Sunday, I emptied my office.
Now I live surrounded by bulletproof windows and doors. I’ve lost not just my job, but a part of my identity.
Wim Hears Us Testify
TODAY IS THE fiRST TIME WE ARE BEING HEARD AS WITNESSES IN WIM’S case, which is named Vandros. We have asked the judge to prevent Wim from having visual contact with us. None of us can bear the thought that he’ll manipulate us with his eyes. We know that he can intimidate us with nonverbal communication that others won’t see or understand. We are afraid to implode, to freeze.
That first hearing, I’m emotional more than anything else. I feel terrible with Wim sitting close to me, and the glass wall between us makes no difference. I’m aware of his presence and feel constrained by it. His close presence feels like him crawling under my skin.
That’s how long he’s owned my spirit.
I don’t dare say everything I want to say. I’m scared, and at the same time I feel terrible about doing this to him. I’m oscillating between fear and pity. It makes me reticent in my answers, and I want it to stop: Set him free, I think, because I don’t want to go on like this. I really can’t bear it, and to end it I almost say, Leave it, judge. I’ll take him with me.
But it’s impossible, and it would be nonsense. My feelings confuse me. How can I be sympathetic to someone so evil? And in the same way I empathize with him. I empathize with Stijn, his lawyer. It must have been a terrible blow to him: me, always the confidante and liaison with Wim. Now I stand diametrically opposed to him. It makes me feel sick.
All these different emotions are killing me. The hearing is scheduled to go on the whole day, but by four o’clock, I’m exhausted—I can’t keep my eyes from falling shut. The judge notices and decides to end the hearing. Many more will follow. How am I going to last? Maybe my therapist is right. Maybe I can’t live with what I have done.
ESP (Extra-Security Prison)
2016
ON MARCH 3, A SPECIAL COMMISSION WILL DECIDE WHETHER WIM WILL have to remain in the ESP.
Leading up to that day, I become more and more convinced that his transfer to a less secure prison will reduce our chances of living. Under a regular regime, prisoners have free contact with one another. Wealthy detainees—always the worst criminals—enjoy special privileges with corrupt personnel: telephones in their cells, computers, and so on. They live in relative luxury, and that’s how they get to have unimpeded contact with the outside world. Under those circumstances and with his natural dominance and charisma, he’ll have no trouble finding someone he can use as a gunman—as our killer. I knew that his incarceration at the ESP wouldn’t last forever, but I had hoped it would last as long as possible.
I’m sitting on the couch next to Sonja when John van den Heuvel, the crime journalist, calls. He says he heard that Wim’s health is failing and that he has to have surgery again.
Sonja immediately replies it’s one of his old tricks and that he’d done exactly the same to get out after his last transfer to the ESP.
What Sonja says is true. He himself had agreed to a medical and psychiatric evaluation, but he always remained in control. The ESP regime was not good for his heart. He stated that he was afraid to die in the ESP and therefore wanted to spend as much time as possible with his family, with us.
Our statements and recordings, in which—without ambiguity—he extorts Sonja and threatens to kill her, show that his story doesn’t make sense. But he’s had a lot of success with it, and he’s using his medical condition again to take control of the situation. If he succeeds in getting out of ESP, the next step will be to organize our deaths.
I feel resistance to a possible change—to my disadvantage—boiling up in me.
It’s too ridiculous for words. He would get more freedom, and I would be robbed of mine: having to avoid public places, stay alert constantly, looking over my shoulder at every step. It would restrict my life even more than it already has, and why? Why should I be in my own version of ESP so he can get out? Why should he receive privileges he will only abuse to get rid of us?
I call Piet, head of our security team, and ask him if Wim really is sick. I also warn him that this is a repetition of past history and that they should get a second medical opinion. Wim knows for a fact that a doctor cannot compromise his or her medical ethics by speaking about his condition, so he can tell the Justice Department whatever he likes.
It’s the day the commission rules on the extension of his ESP detention, and I passionately hope that they will not have the wool pulled over their eyes. We are kept in suspense for hours.
We expect the result at four p.m., but it is not until four thirty that we get the liberating message: he’ll remain in the ESP for the next six months.
What a relief.
Fort Knox
WOUT MORRA, OUR LAWYER, WHO’S BEEN WITH US SINCE THE MOMENT we had to decide whether we would go through with testifying, calls us and tells us that the security team wants to meet us. They want to make an announcement to Sonja, Peter de Vries, and me.
That can’t be good. It can only mean one of two things: they have foiled an attempt to kill us, or they suspect he is planning one.
Piet gets started and tells us he’s thought about this for a long time, how to tell us. Wim has managed to give the order to have us assassinated. He has ordered me to go first, then Peter, and then Sonja. I feel my blood pressure rise, and my head starts throbbing. I predicted this, but now that the time has come, I don’t want to die. I can see the image of my beautiful grandchildren before my eyes, and I can hardly control my tears.
I don’t want to cry in public, especially since I have always been the one to predict this. If I had wanted to avoid all this I shouldn’t have started it in the first place. But it gets to me: my own brother wants to kill me.
Never before has the threat been so near.
“I would also like to point out the positive side to this story,” Piet says.
“Yes, please do,” I say wryly.
“This act means he really should never leave the ESP.”
“I totally agree,” I say. “He’s provided the best reason for keeping him there. And his giving these orders confirms everything we’ve said in our statements about him.”
Sure, that’s a kind of silver lining, I suppose. But it doesn’t cancel out the sadness of this story. Saddest of all is his predictability, that his only way to react is murder. Even now, his behavior is always dictated by revenge, an emotion that controls him and makes him careless.
Of course I am at the top of his list: he hates me most, and blames me for his situation.
Only now do I understand why Son
ja never found him pitiful. I had only heard him issue death threats to her and others, but he’d never threatened me before. Now that he is, my pity for him is gone.
That, too, is positive.
In Fort Knox—my house—I feel safe, and today, the twelfth of March, I decide to stay in and not go outside at all. The risk of going down the stairs and walking the ten yards from my house to the car is too great considering the present concrete threat. I don’t have to, and why should I tempt fate? I have to take care of a couple of things, but I can do that when people come to me.
Sandra arrives first. When I canceled our coffee appointment, she knew that something was going on, and she’s coming right over. I tell her about the conversation Piet and I had and that she wasn’t included because she wasn’t mentioned in Wim’s order. I do think she has the right to know, though, and I’m glad she came. The fact that he can issue orders, even from a maximum-security prison, is very disconcerting, and it’s a reason for her to be alert, too.
“Yes,” she says, as dry and emotionless as always, “I feel really sorry for you, but we knew this was going to happen, right? And I’m not going to believe he’ll never take Mitri and me out. If he succeeds in eliminating one of you, he’ll get greedy and I will be added to the list.”
“I’m convinced of it. After one success, he’ll only want more,” I tell her. “He knows he’ll never get out, so he doesn’t care anyway. One life sentence or two; he’ll just speed things up, even though that will mean the risk of discovery. He mustn’t succeed, so I’ll stay in for the time being.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Sandra says. “Did they say how they know all this?”
“No, they won’t say.”
That evening, the bell rings. It’s Miljuschka. I have asked her to come and go over some papers with me. In case I do end up dying on the street, I want her to know what to do. Tears are standing in her eyes when I open the door.
“Don’t cry,” I say, “nothing’s wrong. I will survive this, but I want you to know where everything is. Pretending there is no problem is nonsense; we have to be practical. So come on, don’t cry.”
Poor kid. I talk tough, but I’m crying on the inside. The thought of her and her two little ones punches a hole in my heart. I love those kiddies, and I’d hate to have them exposed to a death so early in their lives. I’m afraid they’ll be traumatized.
“Can I take a bath?” Miljuschka asks. “Will you join me?”
We’ve been taking baths together ever since she was old enough to sit up. First in a tub, and after we’d outgrown that, I had a twin bathtub built. It’s our quality time together. She asks me as if she were five years old.
“Of course,” I say.
In the bath, the tears come back.
“Who’s getting out first?” It is the question we always ask each other.
“I need to wash my hair,” she says.
“Okay, I’ll get out first.”
Then she asks me, “Mom, can you wash my hair? Like you used to?”
She sounds like it might be the last time.
“Sure. Turn around,” I say, so she can’t see the tears running down my cheeks. I wash her thick brown hair, like I have always done, ever since she was born.
March 13, 2016
Sonja is coming to dinner. I told her to wear her bulletproof vest, but when she arrives she’s not wearing it. I ask her why.
“I don’t think it’s necessary.”
“Why not?”
“I’m going everywhere anyhow.”
“You want to make things easy for him?”
“Yes,” she said decisively, “I’d rather have him kill me than you. At least you can take care of the children. I’m no good at it.”
She says this in a bone-dry tone, as if she’s already said goodbye to life. I can tell that she’s absolutely serious, and it gives me the shivers.
“But I can’t get along without you,” I say. “Who’s going to clean my house and get toilet paper? Without you, I’ll drown in my own mess.” I’m being totally honest, but what I mean to say is, I love you, sis. I can’t live without your love.
And that’s true. We have been through so much together, shared and withstood so much; she’s the only one in the world I trust, and I wouldn’t know what to do without her.
“Box, we will not let him win. Next time, you’re wearing your vest, okay?”
March 14, 2016
Since I’m at home, I make the best of it and call Francis to pick up my mother plus steaks, sandwich filling, and bread and fruit, to have lunch at my house, all of us together. Sonja and Richie are here, too; on Sonja’s advice, I’m not having Miljuschka come over anymore, because they might mistake her for me.
Except for the way we act or move, we don’t resemble each other, but that is exactly the reason they might confuse me with her. So I won’t see my child or my grandchildren.
We haven’t told my mother anything about the threat; she’s eighty and couldn’t bear the thought. What you don’t know won’t hurt you: innocently, she enjoys being with her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchild. We eat and drink together, and we’re having fun. Seeing her enjoy herself makes me happy.
When they’re getting ready to leave, she comes to me and says, “Francis is not herself. She’s acting strangely. Do you know what’s wrong with her?”
My darling mother. She knows Francis through and through. They have a special bond, and my mother notices at once when something’s wrong with her.
“No,” I lie, “just a bit of mother-daughter stuff with Sonja, but it will pass. Don’t worry, Mom.”
I see everybody out, and Fran embraces me at the door. She’s crying softly.
“Why don’t you start walking down, Mom, because it’ll take you an hour.” I send her on ahead so she can’t see Fran crying.
“Don’t cry, sweetie, it will be all right,” I say, trying to comfort her. The poor girl, she, too, has been living her whole conscious life with the impending death of her loved ones. What a heavy burden for a child. “You don’t believe I’m going to get myself killed by him? I don’t think so!” I try again.
“He succeeded with Daddy, and I don’t want to lose you as well,” she cries.
“That’s not going to happen. Have a little faith. Come on, go to Granny or she’ll figure out something is going on.”
“I love you,” she sobs.
“I love you too, sweetie,” I say with a lump in my throat, and I push her out just before the tears start welling again. I want to be strong for her sake.
So much misery.
March 15
Ever since I’ve known that Wim has ordered me to go first, I’ve stayed home, but I can’t go on like this for the rest of my life. I need to find a way to go out safely, and the only thing I can think of is that, since he has declared war on me, I must walk the streets in battle gear. I already wear a bulletproof vest to protect the most vital parts of my body, but I start searching the Internet for head and neck protection. Before long, I find the stuff I want. I pick out a helmet and a throat protector.
Richie and Sonja are with me that day, and Richie asks me what I’m doing. “I’m buying a bulletproof helmet so I can head back the bullets,” I joke, to keep the conversation light. “And I’m getting a throat protector: two for one.”
It’s an insane subject to discuss with a young adult, but the kids know it could happen. It wouldn’t be wise to order the helmet under my own name, because I might jeopardize the investigation. You never can tell who knows who, and if the information gets out on the street—that Astrid Holleeder is dressing against an attempt—it could tip off the gunman. I get someone else to pick up the helmet and collar, a very decent young man who won’t make people suspicious. At five that afternoon, he rings my bell.
“Did it go okay?”
“Yes,” he says, “I got them both, the helmet and the collar.” He gives me a big blue bag.
“Perfect!” I say, and I take
the helmet and collar straight out of the bag. “Let’s hope it fits,” I say, because the helmet only came in size L.
I jam it onto my head, hard, and a lump immediately forms.
It takes getting used to. After some practice and adjustments, I manage to strap the helmet on correctly.
The collar is easier to handle. It fits, but I look ridiculous. I stand out like an elephant in a bed of strawberries. I can’t walk around like this, but, given the circumstances, I’ll have to.
I pick out a big scarf and drape it around the helmet and the collar, as some sort of headscarf, to camouflage them.
“There,” I tell myself, “that’s better.”
March 17
I get a phone call that my street camera is on the blink, and the reason the security people give is that the wire must have been cut. That frightens me. Because if that’s really the case, there is a chance I’m being watched by someone who doesn’t want to be seen on camera.
I send a message to Piet, including the remark from the technical security people, and that I want him to know this, because I’m heading home now. Should something happen, they have to include that in their investigation.
I’m already wearing my vest. On my way home, my car starts sputtering. That’s all I need! They didn’t tamper with it, did they? First the camera, now the car. The fear feels like a knot in my stomach. I can’t very well stop now, though.
I put on my collar and lay out my helmet. Let’s hope my car keeps going. I take a route via a police station, so that if the car breaks down, help will be near. I intend to leave the car and run.
I’m being followed by a car now. Sweat is running down my head in streams. My heart is pounding in my throat. I check my mirrors constantly.
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