The Sisters of Auschwitz

by Roxane van Iperen

  When she has to pick up something in the old Jewish Quarter, Janny walks along the Amstel river and Waterlooplein. The streets are deserted. It feels like walking in an architectural plan of the city, the cobbles clean and untrodden as far as her eyes can see. Nothing reminds her of the roaring, busy life that made this area so beautiful, the life she and her parents, her sister, her brother so fully enjoyed. In this version of the neighbourhood, houses seem empty, curtains are closed and the only people she sees are policemen. All life is drained from the Jewish Quarter; hundreds of years of heritage have been destroyed.

  One day, in the spring of 1944, Janny returns to The High Nest after another day in lifeless Amsterdam. Even before she has walked around the house, she is welcomed by the chatter of women fluttering through the kitchen door. She instantly relaxes. Further down the garden, at the gazebo, the children are playing with their doll’s house and the sounds of a piano well up from deep inside the house. Boys are playing marbles on the terrace. As she approaches, Mother waves at her through the kitchen window. Janny wipes her feet and when she enters the kitchen, she realizes their neighbourhood is not dead. They have brought a little Amsterdam to The High Nest.

  British aircraft pass overhead at night, more and more of them. The next morning, they listen to the radio and tell Mother: see. Things are looking up at the Eastern Front. The Red Army is gaining ground and the Allied Forces will land soon. It won’t be long now.

  In Joseph’s room is a large map, where he marks the progress at the Eastern Front after each news item. When someone at the table says anything about the troop movements that is not right, he corrects this person and drops names of places they had never heard of before the war: Kursk, Vyazma, Bryansk. Joseph closely followed the Battle of Kursk last summer and each victory on Fascist troops he reported, no matter how small or insignificant, was celebrated by the residents as a step towards liberation. Of course, Allied troops on Sicily are marked on the map too, as well as the surrender in May 1943 of German and Italian troops in Tunisia. But those are – literally – pinpricks compared to the bloody battles in the east. So much time has passed since then – and there is still no second front.

  Each week the Brilleslijper family try to come up with something to lift everyone’s spirits, such as a music night or a treasure hunt in the garden. Anything so as not to descend into anxiety, boredom, or, worst-case scenario, panic. With the opera sheet music Eberhard borrows at the Amsterdam library, they still create shows to perform at The High Nest. Eberhard studies the scores, Lien sings and Eberhard covers the bass or tenor parts when necessary. And so they put on their favourite pieces of Mozart, the operas The Marriage of Figaro and The Magic Flute. When they play Fidelio – the only opera by Beethoven, about Leonore who, disguised as prison guard, Fidelio, saves her husband, Florestan, from a political prison – the atmosphere at The High Nest is highly charged. The residents gather in the living room and sit around the dining table, in the comfy chairs or cross-legged on the floor. Outside it is dark; a few candles on the piano light up the room. Lien sings about the battle for justice and Florestan’s fears in prison. The release follows when the prisoners’ chorus sings their ode to freedom: ‘Oh what joy, in the open air. Freely to breathe again! [. . .] Hope whispers softly in my ears! We shall be free, we shall find peace.’

  On 1 May they cook each other a special dinner. Red Puck has made menus with elegant flowers and they have prepared no less than seven courses. The food is no more exciting than usual – mainly potatoes, vegetables, fish and a tiny bit of meat for everyone – but their creativity makes all the difference. They serve salade de prolétariat, viande rouge, pouding à la Révolution, and a tarte des plongeurs for dessert.

  The beautiful front room underneath the rafters looks like a proper restaurant. The large dining table is full of stolen crockery, glasses, candles, menus and toilet paper folded into flowers serving as napkins. After dinner Eberhard plays the piano, the others sing or hum along, and for just one night they forget about the chaos outside the brick walls of the house.

  They aren’t fooling themselves saying it really is almost over; there is good progress at the Eastern Front. Mussolini has surrendered and the Allied forces have moved up to Southern Italy. Since 1941, Stalin has been calling for a second front to relieve pressure on the east. It can’t be long now, they are sure of it.

  Reports from the concentration camps have spread across the whole of Europe now and if even they, in their hiding places, have known what is happening for such a long time, surely the world cannot look away for much longer? Janny and Lien first heard about Auschwitz in 1942; that countless numbers of Jews were gassed – there were radio messages about exhaust fumes, later about gas chambers. Tens of thousands of Jews transported from Amsterdam to Westerbork, train after train. Freight trains with over 1,500 prisoners left Westerbork for Auschwitz each week. On Radio London they also heard about camps in Majdanek, Treblinka and other Polish places. Last autumn they already worked out that at least 70,000 Dutch Jews had been deported within a year. It was beyond comprehension. All those abandoned houses, empty schools, shops. All those people in trains; a journey which, according to their calculations, must have taken at least one or two days. In freight wagons! They convinced each other that most of the deported had ended up in weapons factories. They clung to the thought that it was impossible to kill so many people in such a short amount of time.

  Although they never talk about it, the residents of The High Nest know that with each day they are not saved, they are in more danger. Bert Bochove keeps them informed on local hideaways that are discovered. Apparently, the area was less judenrein than initially supposed; shelters are discovered in Naarden, Bussum, Laren, Blaricum, Huizen and Hilversum, and Jews are deported to Westerbork, non-Jews to camps in Vught or Amersfoort.

  And so, in the spring of 1944, The High Nest feels like a pressure cooker with too many people under too much pressure, trying to find ways to let off steam. Jaap has quickly found his way: he is digging a tunnel from underneath the house to the garden. In the spare room on the ground floor, at the back of the house, where the garden meets the forest, he makes a hatch into the heavy wooden floor – its seams are invisible and it can be covered by the carpet. It is the room where Lien, Eberhard and Kathinka live, where they sleep and have their breakfast together, in the privacy of their family unit.

  As soon as they have left their room, Jaap gets to work, day after day. To make better progress, he asks two boys hiding with them to help him. They dig the sand from underneath the house and carry it to the heath in buckets, one by one. There, they have to spread it again, to avoid attracting suspicion. It is hard, strenuous work and progress is slow, but Janny knows Jaap will not stop until he can proudly show her his job done.

  ‘Janny, this can’t go on.’

  She is walking in the dunes with Frits Reuter. A breeze passing over the heath summons a purple surge towards the horizon. They walk a little uphill, warm air and loose sand pulling at their legs. On top of a dune they hold still and she feels him staring at her. He is expecting an answer. She wearily brushes a wisp of hair from her face.

  ‘I know.’

  They walk down, digging their heels in the sand, and Janny knows Frits wants to hear her plan. But there is none. So many people in the house, all those faces, each with their own story, all those hopeful eyes looking at her when she comes home: it is almost over now, right?

  Who could she ask to leave? They all pass her mind’s eye; little Red Puck with her apron, her jokes. Jetty with her cheeky smile, turning all the boys’ heads. Dear old Bram and Loes, always together – she remembers the astonished look on Bram’s face when those soldiers had turned up in their kitchen. She thinks of her friends who have fallen: Gerrit, Mik and all those others whose fate she does not know. As soon as Frits arrived, he told them they had lost Janrik van Gilse too. On 28 March, half a year after his younger brother, Mik, was shot, he was killed by the Sicherheitspolizei.

>   So much has happened in such a short amount of time. Sometimes Janny thinks they will all meet again after the war, drink coffee along the canal and talk about the future. She wishes she could just keep taking everyone in, all the Jews not yet deported, all the resistance people not yet executed, and they would all live together at this place in the forest.

  They walk towards the lake and Frits is getting impatient: ‘How will you go about it?’

  Janny sighs.

  ‘I’m working on it, Frits. We have already placed two people elsewhere. I’m asking around for the others. With Bert and Annie in Huizen, Grietje in Blaricum, my contact in Laren. Amsterdam is no longer an option, but there are vacant houses further down in the forest. Karel Poons’ host might know a place for one, perhaps two people.’

  She looks aside. Frits does not seem impressed.

  ‘We’ll work it out,’ Janny says. ‘I know we have to, I’m doing the best I can.’

  Laughter sounds from behind the final hill separating them from the water. Lien, Eberhard and Bob have taken the children to the lake, while they turned off towards the forest to catch up. Cor Snel, Frits’ girlfriend, is with the others too. When they reach the top of the hill they see her waving enthusiastically, the sun reflecting against her blonde hair. ‘Come!’ she mimes, moving her mouth like a fish. Janny laughs and runs down the hill.

  They have almost given up hope, when suddenly it is there – 6 June 1944. D-Day. The second front they have been desperately waiting for. Radio London transmits the first two lines of ‘Autumn Song’, the poem by Paul Verlaine – a cryptic message announcing the invasion is at hand.

  Les sanglots longs

  The long sobs

  Des violons

  Of violins

  De l’automne

  Of autumn

  Blessent mon cœur

  Wound my heart

  D’une langueur

  With a monotone

  Monotone.

  Languor.

  And it happens; the Brits and the Americans land on the Normandy coast. In terrible weather, waves crashing against the steep cliffs, steel landing crafts lower their ramps for thousands of soldiers to break loose in the waves, their backs covered by battleships firing away. Bombs would hit craters in the sand for the front-line soldiers to seek cover, but visibility is poor; thousands of rockets miss their targets and end up in the water. The young men must walk across over 500 yards of sand unprotected. The journey has made them seasick, the landing soaking wet. Loose sand is tugging at their combat boots and their kit weighs heavy on their backs. For over a quarter of a mile, they are live targets for German tanks.

  From a German perspective, the water is black with Allied marine ships. Viewed from the sky, however, the beach is quickly colouring red with blood. Hours later, when the sea advances and waves, little by little, reconquer the beach, the sand turns yellow again. Heavy losses are suffered, but the Allies force the Germans back and march towards Paris.

  People in shelters throughout Europe are thinking exactly the same: it is only a matter of time before our liberation is a fact.

  When news of the invasion reaches The High Nest via the radio, a tight belt around their bellies seems to snap. For the first time in months, the residents breathe freely again. They cheer and hug each other, freeze to the spot or burst into tears. Lien grabs her sister’s arm to dance for joy, but Janny wriggles free after a few steps. She walks to the beautiful wine cupboard in the corner of the front room, grabs a knife from the dining table and prizes open its wooden doors. The cupboard is filled with bottles of expensive red wine with yellowed labels and elegant letters; she takes four of them, puts them on the table and asks Jaap to get glasses from the kitchen. Joseph and Fietje exchange a quick glance, then shrug and begin to pour. They bring a loud toast – ‘Mazzeltov!’ – sniff the bouquet until it makes them dizzy, take small sips, swish the wine around in their mouth. The alcohol goes straight to their heads, colours their cheeks as they stay glued to the radio.

  While the others are drinking and listen intently, Janny walks to the cupboard with a note for the Jansen sisters: after the war they will replace the missing bottles. She will later regret not finishing the entire stock that day.

  9

  The Chinese Vase

  Bob and Janny get up early. The rest of the house is still in peace, muffled noises rising from some of the rooms. They sit in the kitchen in silence, drink a cup of coffee, eat a crust of bread. The cool of the night lingers between the heavy brick walls, but when Janny opens the door to the garden, sultry air presses her skin. Another warm day. They kiss each other goodbye; Bob is leaving for the office and she has a special assignment in Amsterdam.

  Robbie is coming with her, happily skipping along by her side; children offer a certain protection during police checks. They take the train from Naarden-Bussum to Amsterdam, where they first stop by at the register to pick up a few identity cards. Her contacts there request new, real cards in the names of people who have passed away – those deaths will have to be registered after the war. Identity cards are so hard to forge that this is the safest way.

  With the cards in her bra, she continues her journey to Roelof Hartplein in Amsterdam, where she has arranged to meet her friend Trees Lemaire, who still works for the Identity Card Centre. She will take the documents from Janny and further distribute them underground.

  Janny is standing on the square connecting Roelof Hartstraat, J.M. Coenenstraat and Van Baerlestraat, holding Robbie’s hand, and waits. She has a good view of all the streets, but Trees is nowhere to be seen. Robbie is getting impatient, starts whining, tugging at her skirt, and Janny is getting nervous. Her friend is never late. None of them is ever late; they simply cannot afford to be.

  Seconds creep by, but nothing happens. There is no one else on the square – she feels unprotected. The sun steadily climbs to the highest point above the city and beneath her hot crown her head starts to pound. The identity cards are burning on her chest. She peers across the street, where an imposing building folds itself around the corner, numerous windows looking out on her, and she starts pacing up and down.

  She thinks back on the day after the house search in The Hague, when someone demanded the keys to the printer and she had agreed to meet him in front of the Willem III statue at Noordeinde. Krauts were waiting behind each pillar.

  Robbie really begins to cry now. His cries fan out across the square, into the three streets. Janny resists the urge to press her hand on his mouth and instead tries to quiet him. ‘We’ll be back on the train again soon, that will be nice.’ She looks over his head, scanning the surroundings. At least ten minutes have passed. This feels all wrong. She pulls Robbie’s hand and starts to walk, fast, away from the square, in the direction of the Concertgebouw.

  She rushes until Robbie stops protesting, focuses on placing his feet next to his mother’s without falling, steadied by her painful clasp. Janny already feels the Sicherheitspolizei breathing down her neck, a hand reaching out to tap her shoulder. She is expecting cars to appear from all side streets, sirens wailing, to close her in, and she walks on without looking back, her chest rising in synchrony with the step of her feet.

  A tram is waiting – they get in. Centraal Station. Through the station hall with Robbie, who is dragging his feet and says nothing. There are mutes everywhere, she knows that. Act normal, calm, or else some Kraut with an unusual sense of morality might arrest her for child abuse. She holds still, kneels down and folds her hands around Robbie’s face, ‘It’s all good, right?’ She gives him a kiss, gets up, looks around and composedly walks to the platform, where the train to Naarden is ready to leave.

  As fields pass them by outside, Robbie steers an imaginary car through the air, his feet dangling high above the floor. Her heart is still racing, the sticky documents on her chest are moving along. She listens to the slow cadence of the train, tries to breathe on the beat. Would Trees have been caught? And if they question her, would she talk? Tell
everything, speak about The High Nest? No, Janny will refuse to believe it. Trees would rather die. But still, there were others who . . . a knot in her stomach blocks her breathing, a clenched fist just below her diaphragm.

  Weesp station, get out, they still have shopping to do.

  Robbie is skipping along, holding her hand; he seems to have forgotten everything. To the farmer for a large bag of wheat. With the coffee grinder they turn it into flour for bread. It is still early in the day, but when she walks back to Weesp station with two heavy bags, Janny feels the soles of her feet burning.

  A few more minutes on the train to Naarden. The carriages are almost deserted and as the train speeds up, her breathing returns to normal. No one has followed them and alternative scenarios replace her previous dark thoughts. Trees simply overslept. Or was given the wrong time. Wrong location, perhaps. It has happened to Janny as well. She will distribute the documents some other way. She rests her head against the seat and sighs.

  When they arrive at Naarden-Bussum station, the tram is just about to leave. Robbie races ahead, Janny is slowed down by the load. They catch the tram – a little bit of luck. Sometimes they walk home across the heath, but not today, not with all these groceries.

  They get off at Ericaweg, then walk for ten more minutes along the unpaved path, narrowed down by nature until it ends at The High Nest, just past the edge of the forest. The bags pull her arms down; they almost drag across the ground. She can only take a few steps without pausing. The sun is high in the sky, heathers draw the last water deep from the ground, but the tips of their shrubs have dried out already and rustle like scorched grass.

  Almost home. Janny feels a sense of relief, lowers her bags and wipes her forehead. Robbie runs ahead, stops, turns around and waits for his mother.

  ‘You go,’ Janny calls, ‘and ask if someone can come help me carry. I’ll wait here.’