Going into Hiding
Sometime after my father had gone, Mr. Versteeg arrived on his bicycle during the night. My mother packed up what she was able to transport, and Mr. Versteeg put me on the front of his bicycle and told me to be as quiet as a mouse. My mother rode on her bicycle beside him, and he brought us to his home in Weesperkarspel, where he lived with six of his eight children: Treintje, Maartje, Joop, Piet, Gerrit and Kees.
Mr. Versteeg hid us in a bedstee, a cupboard containing a mattress. We hid there, in an empty space beneath the mattress, all day and were able to come out at night. Only Mr. Versteeg and the children knew about the hiding place, and they would communicate with us by knocking on the cupboard door three times.
While we were in hiding (the Dutch term for going into hiding is onderduiken, literally “to dive under”), the Versteeg family, whose food was rationed, had to share their meager rations with my mother and me. Mr. Versteeg treated me as his own child. The courage of Mr. Versteeg, who wanted to save two Jews who were only friends, made me feel incredibly grateful and loved. And until today, I am in awe of the bravery Mr. Versteeg displayed, knowing that the consequence could be death if he were discovered to be hiding Jews.
I don’t know how long we were in hiding there, but one day, in the spring of 1943, a terrible racket outside scared us all. We were told not to come out of our hiding place, as there were Germans in the area. We could hear the sound of boots outside the house. Then we heard shouting and doors being kicked in and the words, “Juden raus!” — Jews, out!
The Germans stormed into the house and demanded that the Jews who were hidden be handed over. I later learned that a German called Mr. Versteeg into the yard, pointed a gun at him and said, “We will kill you in front of your children if you do not tell us where they are.” I still don’t know who betrayed us.
My mother and I were taken out of our hiding place, forced onto a truck filled with other scared Jews, who were being guarded by German shepherds, and we were driven to the Hollandsche Schouwburg (Dutch Theatre) — an assembly point in Amsterdam where Jews were gathered for deportation.
Entering the Schouwburg was a preview of what was to come. As instructions blared from loudspeakers in a hot, overcrowded and unsanitary theatre, fear permeated the air. I noticed the floodlights, the Nazis yelling at us. There was nowhere for us to sit. Then I was separated from my mother with the promise that we would be reunited with my father when the trains came to transport us to a workplace. I was sent to the Crèche, a former daycare centre across the street, where other children waited to be reunited with their parents on the day of transport. The Crèche was run by Jewish staff that coordinated with the Dutch resistance to rescue hundreds of children. At the Crèche, we played games, and I remember the sad faces of the nurses who had to prepare children for transport. I was young, but I realized that getting on those trains could not be good.
