“This is where I lived during the war,” Dad began in a trembling voice. “Look here,” he pointed in a window at the back of the red brick Viersprong building in Driebergen, “The table is still in the same place under the window. That’s where it happened.”
It was about 15 years ago. My parents took me to the Netherlands to show me where Mom was born, and they grew up, met, and dated. This very poignant memory stands out as if it had happened yesterday.
Dad, flanked by my mother and me, stood staring. “I can still see them—the Nazi officers—sitting behind that table, or one that looked just like it. The sisters who were in charge lined us children up along the other wall—the far one.” He hesitated, evidently trying to get his emotions under control.
“Well, we knew that it wouldn’t be good. The Jewish children hadn’t been allowed to go to school for quite some time by then. And the sisters always told them to stay away from the windows. And now the officers were looking right at them!” Dad drew in a deep breath.
I took his hand. “Dad, you don’t have to tell me about this if you’d rather not.”
“No, it’s time. I have to for the sake of my cousins, Meriam, Edith, and Hansje…and Keetje. They deserve to be remembered. You see, the officers told all the Jewish children to stand to the left side of the wall. The other children, my brother and me included, had to stand on the right. When they were done with their sorting, we were sent out, but the Jewish children had to remain. My friend, Keetje van Zanten, escaped them and ran after me, flinging her arms around me, saying, ‘Fritsje, hide me.’ What could I do? I was a child! The sister took her back into the room.”
Dad drew in a trembling breath. “Two weeks later we were told that Hansje had died. I later found out that my pregnant Aunt Esther, Uncle Henri, and their children all ended up at Auschwitz, even if they weren’t transported together. My cousins, who were only 11 and 9 years and 18 months old, were killed immediately upon arrival. My aunt gave birth at the camp, but they killed her baby. She died soon afterwards.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “What about your uncle?”
“Well, my mother always said he was crazy, but who wouldn’t be after that? He survived, eventually remarried, and had another family.”
We sat down together on the curb as I struggled to take in the story. “Dad, why weren’t the sisters, who’d been hiding Jewish children, arrested?”
Dad shrugged, “I’m sure we won’t find out now.”
As we got up to leave that tear-stained place, Dad’s eyes turned red. “I can still hear her voice: ‘Fritsje, hide me.’ I’ll never forget.”
Nobody in Keetje’s family survived, but Dad kept his promise. He never forgot her.
Also posted at the Joods Monument page.
Story also appears at the D Day page.
The Internet record of the Wallig family, starting with Vaudeville artist Henri Hartog Wallig and ending with the tragic deaths of my father’s aunt and cousins.
Frits Evenblij
Meriam and Edith Wallig and their father, Henri Wallig
Hansje Wallig
The monument to the children who died after being taken from Driebergen.
My Dad was stationed in Driebergen /Zeist where he met my Mam in 1945. My Mam lived in Zeist and her neighbors hid Jewish families that were never caught. After the war they still had contact with the Jewish families. My Mam and my Grandparents never talked about the capture of the Jewish children. After I got married we lived in Driebergen but never saw the monument. My Dad , a Canadian liberator,never really wanted to talk about the war and what he had seen. Neither did my Mam and Grandparents. We moved back to Canada in 1980. I can understand the emotion surrounding the capture of the Jewish children, my heart goes out to all of you that lost precious children and Family’s.
Thanks for your comment, Nicolette. I wish my father had told me more, but he found it very difficult to talk about. I know he was not the only one.
My grandfather was chief of police in Driebergen during the war. My dad was in the resistance while my 18 year old mom hid a Jewish young man. They never talked about those days.
That’s amazing! I sure wish that these people were around to ask–so many unanswered questions. But the important thing is that the people who lost their lives are remembered. And that it never happens again!
My family where mostly Jewish and they would go in pairs to find food and would walk and hide from the Nazi, and would take shoe clothes from the farmers at night and whatever they could Carry without being noticed, the farmers had plenty for their families, but in war time they had no choice, the nazis would come to houses and pick the men up and would interrogate to find the Jewish families were hiding and they would take cigarettes and would burn them to get answers from them, my parents were only 10 and 11 years old at the time and when my parents met 20 and 21 years old and got married we lived with my grandparents because after the war there was no housing, so my parents came to the USA in 1954 to start a new live. My family that came from Holland couldn’t watch war movies because it brought to much pain and would think of what our family had to go though in those years, I feel that kids need to know their Heritage and at Ellis island uses to put the people from different countries names on the wall, my family came the right way in this wonderful country. I love where I came from but feel it is a privilege to be a American Citizen
I agree Martina. The book about my mother’s childhood (Brave Face) details some of the Nazi raids. Mom has shared a lot about her childhood, but Dad said very little. They were a little younger during the war, but had a similar experience after they got married. No room. They immigrated to Canada in 1957 and then moved to the USA ten years later.
We immigrated to the United States in September 1954 as well. My parents did not discuss the war that much.