Together in Another Place

Author’s
Note:

A
visit to the Hollandsche Schouwburg, Amsterdam, this year and the cover image
on the simple guide offered to visitors, inspired me to write this story. Dedications
to those who suffered in The Holocaust (Shoah) seem to be wholly inadequate
given the magnitude of all that happened to my parent’s countrymen. My father
was a member of the Dutch Underground movement; his role was never made clear
to me during his lifetime. However, the legacy in his mind of all that happened,
and that he and his first wife (not my mother) took part in to save
‘onderduikers’, has affected my life too. I was born in Venezuela and have
never lived in The Netherlands. I became a British citizen in the early 1960’s
but retain strong links to my late parent’s homeland.

In
my chosen way I dedicate this story to:

Franciscus
Henri Van Dijk - alias Frans Hagenaer - my father.

Jan Vivian

Oxhill,
England – August 2012

●

Entree

The Story

Back Cover

Jan Vivian

TOGETHER IN ANOTHER PLACE

Jan
couldn’t quite stem the tears.

In
spite of his best efforts to control the swell of emotion that the photo had
aroused within him, his sight became blurred; the image of a young man capering
in front of the camera became unrecognisable in the mist. So too did the
snaking line of people, old and youthful, men and women, who had been portrayed.
It was as if the photographer had been looking through a keyhole at a group
posing for him in a sunny courtyard. The narrow field of view made the observer
look closely at the faces; in Jan it had aroused mixed emotions that had
momentarily overwhelmed him.

In
that simple, almost innocent, image he had seen pathos and heart-breaking
naivety, or, perhaps, a sublime acceptance that a different world and changed
circumstances, somewhere, awaited a carefully chosen multitude who espoused a
faith that the authorities had deemed inappropriate and declared worthy of
recording…for a last time.

The
looks upon the faces held emotional contrasts; wariness and hope, curiosity and
a mis-placed sense of optimism that they would survive the tumult that
prevailed all around them. Could they really be living out a nightmare in their
home city of Amsterdam? Friends and colleagues, associates, loved ones and
members of their extended families…they were all being gathered in, a diverse
human harvest that would be gauged and winnowed before they were transported.

The
invader had not been alone in that task.

On
the one hand he had been assisted by collaborators; on the other by those where
emotions prevailed upon them to offer equivocal help to fellow citizens. They
could not bear to observe displacement and heartbreak, the loosening of
historical and familial ties to places of birth and the rendering asunder of a
community that had always sustained those less fortunate amongst them. Stark
choices had to be made. They had to find the means to save themselves, one and
all, as far as that was ever within their gift.

Every living soul
in the image might have clung to the hope that a love of life and their faith
would prevail over changed circumstances. The reality was to be outrageously
and unimaginably different. A sense of self and a generosity of spirit could
not withstand the duplicitous, and ruinous, might deployed by an occupier and
of some fellow countrymen engaged in their service.

‘Ayee!’
Harriette was startled
as a shrill whistle shattered a moment’s fragile peace.

‘More
travellers,’ Simon said choosing to make light of a meaningful event.

Another
train had announced its arrival at the Westerbork transit camp. They stopped on
the path and watched from afar as the train slowed to a stop. There was no
platform, no shelter, or calls of welcome to those that looked out of the
carriage windows. Orderlies, with Stars of David stitched to their work suits,
waited on them under the indifferent gaze of läger officers. The new arrivals
would be administered by their fellow inmates and countrymen. They were to be
encouraged in the belief that everything, although new, was quite normal.

‘One
comes in…and soon, another will leave. Who will be selected to go on the next
one?’

‘Be
still,’ Simon consoled. For her he would be the optimist; the regime in the
camp had changed after overall control had passed to the SS.

‘That
will be difficult…there’s so much uncertainty and rumour.’

‘Believe
in what can be proved…’

‘How
can I do that?’ she said in dismay. ‘It’s not possible for any of us. Even the
orderlies…supposedly our fellows, don’t know everything or dare to tell of it
if they do. It’s more than their life’s worth to disobey. Do that and they too
are transported. The true evil is that it is beyond our imagining.’

Simon
allowed her to finish. He already knew that many around them closed their minds
to the reality of what might await them when they too stepped onto a train and
left the camp. Everything was being done to discourage such thoughts – work,
concerts, even a shop to buy some goods that hadn’t been seen for some time near
their homes in Amsterdam.

‘You
can trust me…’

Harriette’s
admonishing tone, moderated by fear, was punishment enough for him.

‘I
know…’

She
brushed wispy strands of hair from her slender high cheeked face. How could her
family have been swept up by the authorities and brought here? The family’s tenuous
Jewish bloodline had made them guilty, by association. Your ancestry was even
counted in fractions;
’one and a half’
set the line.

They
watched in silence as the orderlies gathered along the new trackside, waiting
to muster the family groups that began to alight from the carriages of a train
allowed entry to the ring-fenced encampment. From afar, everything looked perfectly
normal.

Close
to, the men met fearful enquiring stares of the many newcomers. Where would
they be taken to? Would they remain together and be of comfort to each other in
the over-crowded barrack blocks? The countryside they had passed through had
been so peaceful and unremarkable.

They
were met by looks that lacked any fulsome reassurance.

‘I…I
must find my parents…and, be with my sister, Betty,’ Harriette whispered as the
sight of the displaced provoked the fear of kin being lost to her. People would
be assembled and leave, for the east; that was the weekly solution the
authorities were soon called upon to make, the orders handed down from the
Reich’s Marshall himself. The names of the ‘chosen’ were called out by their countrymen.

‘It’s…it’s
too ghastly to contemplate.’ Harriette spoke out an intrusive thought.

‘When
can I be with you, again?’ Simon asked it, unwilling to concede to the girl’s
melancholy.

‘You
will see me at the concert, tomorrow.’ Harriette chose to reassure him.

Tuesday’s
were special…for entertainment of the highest quality, performed by renowned
artists who were captives just like their humbler brethren. Membership of a talented
élite bought time, deferred the moment when they too were transported to another
place and an uncertain future. She had merely offered to take part in a chorus
line or to paint stage props, anything to occupy her mind and pursue an
interest that she loved. She had made some progress; she had been asked to
rehearse a song chosen for her and felt that to be a singular honour.