Gershon Willinger

My life started like this: When I was a few months old, I was placed very courageously by my parents into hiding. First, I was given to a couple whom my parents had known before the occupation of the Netherlands and who worked in the Dutch resistance. Their names were Geert and Riek Schonewille. I am still in contact with their children. I was placed with them by my mother, Edith, who was in hiding while working as a maid at a nearby farm. She had fled with me to the north, to the province of Drenthe, on the German border. Geert and Riek (whom I shall refer to as my “war parents”) lived in the town of Coevorden. Many of the town’s people worked for the resistance. They hid not only Jews, but anyone who was hunted by the Nazi regime. I was told that the parents of my war parents hid a German soldier who had deserted from the German army, along with a Jewish man. My birth parents were acquainted with the Schonewilles through business, Geert being a potato farmer. Geert’s youngest brother, Johannes, still lives on the original family farm in Drenthe. He remembers me being brought by a resistance worker to his brother’s home. During the war, my war parents had three children — the oldest was a girl, Alie, and then two sons, Jan and Henk. Henk was an infant as well. I have been told by the family that Riek nursed us both.

I was born Gerd Israel Willinger. The name “Israel” was made mandatory by the regime to identify me as a Jew. When I arrived at my war parents’ home, I was renamed Fritsje Schonewille. Although most people in the area were involved with the resistance, somebody denounced me, and my war father and I were hauled off to the police station. Once there, I was undressed, revealing that I was a Jewish boy. My war father claimed that he did not know that I was Jewish. He spent time in prison but luckily was not executed for his “crime.” I was returned to my war parents’ home, and the maid, a Jewish woman in hiding with my war parents, had to prepare me to be taken to the Westerbork transit camp. This must have been a heartbreaking experience for her. All this information I obtained from Johannes Schonewille while visiting the Netherlands in 2002.

In February 1943, after arriving at Westerbork, I was placed in the children’s home and came under the care of Dr. Fritz Spanier. I remained in the children’s home until September 13, 1944. Small children were usually placed in transports to the death camps within a short time of arrival. A Dutch journalist, Elma Verhey, who did in-depth research for her book Om het joodse kind (About the Jewish child), revealed to me that the authorities were told that my father was a German officer and my mother a Jewish woman — a tale for survival. This did not mean that I could not be deported, but it did buy me some extra time.

On September 13, 1944, along with fifty other children ranging from approximately one to nine years of age, I was sent on the last transport destined for Auschwitz. We were accompanied by four young Jewish women, who were our caretakers during the journey. Later in life, I learned that the youngest of the group, a one-year-old girl, died en route. The railway lines to Auschwitz were bombed as the Allies advanced, and we were sent to Bergen-Belsen instead. I recently met an elderly Holocaust survivor who told me that she remembers our arrival at Bergen-Belsen, where we were immediately quarantined, as typhus was widespread in the camp. She said, “I remember your group’s arrival and us waving to you children through the window.”

This information was very important to me, as I constantly need validation of my personal history, especially being a child without a memory, or more precisely a child without a clear identity. This proves to me that the events of the Holocaust will continue to haunt me. Throughout my life as one of the “unknown children,” I have always questioned my identity. After a short period, we, the unknown children from the Netherlands, were sent to Theresienstadt and remained there until liberation. People always tell me, “It is impossible that a small child like you survived three camps.” In the past, because of my young age, I always felt that I had to justify my own history. Only recently do I not feel that need any longer. My simple answer to their comment is, “Well, I did survive, and indeed it was a miracle for me, as it was for the other forty-nine children who survived with me.” Some adults were meant to live and tell their story, and some very small children lived to tell their story as well.

The following events cannot possibly be in chronological order. I was young and experienced traumas during and after the war. However, I remember going back to live with my war parents. Obviously, I did not know who they were by then. Recently, Alie, their oldest daughter, shared with me some of the circumstances surrounding my return to them. Apparently, they did not know what to do to stop me from screaming, or how to deal with the welts on my back or the terrible scars on the back of my head.

The memories I have of my war parents and their children are good ones. Once a week, the zinc tub would come out into the kitchen and water would be boiled. Alie had the first bath, and the boys went in after. There were homing pigeons in the backyard and a large fruit tree. Henk, their youngest son at that time, was my age and we spent most of the time together. His mother treated us like twins. We used to roam the fields across from the house and dig out turnips, wipe them on our clothes and munch on them. I was introduced to Christianity. I remember sitting at the table and being taught to bow my head, close my eyes, fold my hands and give thanks for the food we had been given. On several occasions we went to church. This was an old church; the walls were thick, the acoustics were beautiful and the chanting of the hymns was mesmerizing. I was happy to be there. Not knowing that I was a Jewish child, attending church was normal to me. In a short time, I had settled in well. I was told later in life that my birth sister, Rita, was brought for a visit. However, I have no recollection of this visit.

After I was finally feeling secure, the OPK (Commission for War Foster Children) suddenly took me away from my war parents and my newly acquired sister and brothers. It was especially difficult to be separated from Henk, to whom I was closest. Because of my history, the only defence mechanism I had was the ability to disassociate myself from the situation, and I have continued to display this behaviour throughout my life. The reasons for being removed from their home are still unclear to me, although I believe that simply being a Jewish child may have been the reason. Alie later told me that her parents thought of me as one of their children. It was hard on the family, especially their mother, when I was removed from their home. Alie remembered her parents travelling to Utrecht, where I later lived with my foster parents, and secretly watching me in the playground during recess. At that time, the social service agency advised my foster parents that it was in my best interest to sever all ties with the Schonewilles.

Another stop for me was in a seaside resort on the North Sea coast. From what I later learned, this was a large centre where Jewish war orphans were given the opportunity to spend some time recuperating with healthy sea air and good food. We were all undernourished. I recall mealtimes where the older children always grabbed food from each other’s plates. These children were very loud and fought a lot. We, the youngest children, sat separately and had a caretaker watching over us. I shared a room with a boy my age who limped, which I did not realize at the time was caused by polio. The daily walk to the beach is still vivid in my memory as the most exciting part of the day. I believe I also spent a short period of time in another orphanage before being placed with Tante (Aunt) Marga Weinberg, a cousin of my birth mother, Edith.

Tante Marga lived in Bilthoven, a small town near the city of Utrecht, with her father, who used a wheelchair. He was known to me as Oom (Uncle) Julius. Tante Marga was unmarried, well-educated and an accountant by profession. She was very concerned about my general health and intake of food. Apparently, I was very small for my age. I especially enjoyed being tucked into bed. I attended kindergarten and enjoyed the long solitary walk to school and back. It’s hard today to believe that someone so young and traumatized would be allowed to walk back and forth to school alone. Once again, I settled into everyday life, not knowing that life was to change yet again.

Two strangers, bearing gifts for me, arrived at my Tante Marga’s home. I remember the woman being very pretty with very red lips. Both she and the gentleman with her paid a lot of attention to me. After they left, life continued as usual. After some time, they returned, again with gifts. After this second visit, Tante Marga asked me if I would like to visit them, and of course I said yes, not knowing that this visit would be permanent. The placement was arranged by L’ezrat Hayeled (To the Aid of the Child, the Jewish social service for war orphans). Later I learned that it was deemed inappropriate for a “spinster” to become a guardian of a small child. That Tante Marga was part of my biological family was not important to the authorities then; this situation seems unthinkable in today’s Western society.

Here I was, at the ripe old age of eight and on the move yet again. At this point, I accepted that moving from place to place was normal. The year was 1950, and the lady with the red lips and the gentleman were to be my foster parents — Esther and Manfred Klafter, a childless Jewish couple. I remember calling them Tante and Oom. They desperately tried to make me call them Mama and Papa. In the beginning I constantly forgot to call them Mama and Papa, but wanting to please them, I eventually did. Of course, my previous history did not leave me without problems. I was unable to talk properly due to large tonsils and adenoids. This was taken care of immediately after my arrival; the operation was performed at the Central Military Hospital in Utrecht. I was not toilet-trained and remember being taught by a nephew of Esther how to climb up the stairs. I recently discovered, in documentation from that time, that I had been labelled “retarded.”

I was a constant challenge to the Klafters, always testing them to see if I was going to be sent away again, which I really hoped for, as I felt most comfortable being in a group of children with similar backgrounds. My acting-out manifested in me picking the ivory off their Bechstein concert piano keys and smearing chewing gum on the strings inside, shouting childish quips into the local cathedral on the way to school and being picked up by the police, just to name a few. Knowing that my behaviour needed professional intervention, they wisely sent me to a child psychiatrist, which was very unusual in the 1950s. I remember being observed by Dr. Kamp while playing with sand and toys. He also bombarded me with questions. These weekly visits continued until I was thirteen years old.

I liked school, as it was a constant in my life. I was known as Frits Klafter, but officially my name was Gerd Israel Willinger. Antisemitism was still alive and well in the Netherlands, and a few teachers at school would make “mistakes” when calling me in class, “Gerd Willinger — oh, I mean Frits Klafter,” and then the children would ask questions. I also remember clearly that when it was noisy in the classroom, the expression used by the teacher was, “It is like a Jewish fish market in here.”

In the early days with the Klafters, I was told that I was Jewish and that I had parents who had been killed during the war. This was meaningless to me at that time. Also, shortly after my arrival at the Klafters, a visit was arranged between my sister, Rita, and me. I had been told that I had a sister, but at that time it had no meaning for me. It would still be a long time before I understood the concept of family.

***

Throughout my life, I have always struggled with being the hearsay child, too young to remember, yet old enough to be strongly influenced by my past. I always lacked a sense of belonging but had the flexibility to look out for myself and make sure that my needs were met. I have gathered some information here and there about my mother and father’s background, often wondering if I really was the child who I am told I was.

After the death of Geert Schonewille, I felt the need to give the family some kind of recognition for their bravery and kindness to me and others in need of protection during the occupation of the Netherlands. I was able to have them recognized, although not as Righteous Among the Nations because I was too young to provide adequate information to meet the criteria. Despite this, the family was awarded an olive-wood plaque by Yad Vashem in recognition of their heroism. Johannes accepted this plaque on behalf of his late brother and later passed it on to his niece, Alie, who brought it back with her to Canada.

After spending five happy years in Hamilton, I once again felt the need to return to Israel. The time was drawing near for my eldest daughter to go to high school, and being in Israel would give her the opportunity to bond with friends with whom she’d eventually join the army.

We arrived in Israel in the summer of 1983, giving the children time to adjust to their new environment. We moved to Arad, where I was offered the position of social worker at an absorption centre for new Ethiopian immigrants. I really loved working with the Ethiopian community. However, after six months we realized that we were unable to sustain ourselves financially, and with much reluctance, we had to return to Canada. We settled in St. Catharines, Ontario. On reflection, this seems a mirror image of my childhood, being constantly on the move. Only this time, it involved the lives of my wife and children, so much so, that during the course of one school year, our children attended four schools in three countries. My wife informed me that the furniture would now be nailed to the floor; in other words, it was time to settle down in one place.

Back in Canada, I accepted employment as a social worker for Children’s Aid, working with children whose lives were in turmoil. Providing them with the opportunity to lead a normal life gave me great satisfaction.

The ensuing years were very busy, raising children through adolescence, hormonal ups and downs, high school and university education. We joined the local synagogue, over the years becoming very active in the B’nai Israel Congregation of St. Catharines, where I served as both vice-president and president of the congregation. In 1988, my father-in-law passed away in England, and my mother-in-law came to live with us in Canada. She lived with us until her death in 1999. All of this did not leave me time to think about my own issues. I found out much later that child survivors’ problems often manifest themselves once there is more time for reflection.

In the early 1990s, pressure was building up within me. My work was stressful. Suddenly I was unable to function under pressure, and I became extremely anxious. I did not understand what was happening to me. I was unable to deal with my children’s needs, and the slightest stress made me look for escape, leaving my wife to deal with all the family issues. At first, I was able to pretend all was okay. But I realized I could not pretend any longer when I started driving to work and then sitting in the parking lot in tears, once again having recollections of my chaotic childhood. Arriving at work at 8:30 a.m., while trying to wipe the tears from my face and blow my nose, became increasingly difficult. When my colleagues asked if I felt well, I would tell them that I had severe allergies. The thoughts about my past would appear at random. It was easier to deal with when going out for a walk and the tears could flow freely. I am still surprised today that I was able to function normally and be productive.

After finally realizing that I needed professional help, I approached my family physician. The doctor questioned me about my background, told me that I was depressed and needed medication, and referred me to a psychiatrist. After the psychiatrist familiarized himself with my history, I was diagnosed with severe depression, and he suggested I take a leave of absence. Until then, caring and dealing with the problems of others had temporarily pushed my problems into the background. But I discovered that I was no longer able to act the role of the happy and responsible social worker.

This is when I began to deal with my past. I was prescribed medication and continued to meet with the psychiatrist until his retirement. For a while, I managed to continue my life without additional professional help, partly because St. Catharines had no suitable professionals available to me. However, realizing that I was still in need of dealing with my past and after some research, I made a connection with the Holocaust survivors’ group in Toronto.

My first meeting was very positive; I felt a kinship with the other people and began to talk about my experiences as a child. However, one Holocaust survivor, who was much older than me, shut me down by telling me, “You did not suffer; you don’t know anything. You were too young.” Once again, I felt that I had no right to speak and doubted myself, doubted if I was worthy of this group. I decided to stop attending the group and soon found out that a therapeutic group for child survivors was being created. I am currently attending this group and we have all become more than just participants; we have become extended family to each other. A professional social worker, a child of Holocaust survivors, facilitates the group. This group has been ongoing for a decade plus.

Although now a senior myself, I continue to be attracted to people who are older than me because in every elderly Holocaust survivor, I see a representation of how my own parents might be. Even at seventy years of age, I still feel the need for a parental figure and sometimes feel that I missed out. Not that I feel sorry for myself. Being married and having my own family, I no longer have to doubt who my family is. In creating my own family, I finally feel a true sense of belonging. Throughout my life I have constantly asked myself, “Am I really that person I have been told I am?” I have spoken to other young child survivors and found out that they feel the same as I do. I read in the newspapers about long-lost relatives finding each other and falling into each other’s arms, and I question how this is possible when you did not grow up together. The best example is Rita and me. We saw each other twice after the war. When she left for the states, I was not bothered by the separation, as we had not grown up together and I did not know her. This was my last contact with her until we were both adults. Once we reunited in later years, Rita explained to me how hard it was for her to say goodbye to her little brother.

I cannot understand when children grieve for their very elderly parents when they pass on. I feel that they are blessed to have had their parents for so long, having had a living family history that includes their parents and grandparents.

Sometimes, in the darkest catacombs of my mind, I question my roots to the point where I doubt my connection to my birth family. I need to see the written documentation for self-validation, as a substitute, in a way, for the parents I was denied. When looking at the only photographs of my parents hanging on my living room wall, it is hard for me to imagine that they were only thirty-four and thirty-five when they were murdered. But although I am looking at strangers, they are still my parents and I feel a sense of pride.