Ode to Nanny Kwakkernaat Brands | Amsterdam's oldest squatter

This text was translated using AI and may contain errors. If you have suggestions or comments, please contact us at info.ode@amsterdammuseum.nl.

Dear Grandma,

From zero to ninety you lived on one and the same street. In the Van der Pekbuurt with its green doors. The market nearby, the kind neighbours. The magnolia on the corner of the street in bloom every spring.

I see before me how Annamaria, only seventeen, with a big belly, steps over the threshold into her first home of her own. A proud look in her eyes - a place of her own, just in the nick of time. How your father ran down the street after you were born. How he then passed on a solid, neat name at the town hall: Annamaria. But mother Annamaria didn't have to think about it, after all, she had come up with a name of her own: Nanny.

The small house continued to fill up with a little brother, a sister and later another sister. In the prettiest homemade dresses, you walked to the end of the street, where the school stood. A few years later came the moment when you realised the world was bigger than just this street. The war came closer, going to school was no longer possible. But you didn't mind, home was warm and cosy. Until the youngest sister developed a fever. It was not good, there was panic. You ran as fast as you could down the slippery, snowy street to get the doctor. But it was already too late. As you ran up the stairs, Yda breathed her last.

Annamaria's cry was a primal cry, one that never left you. For three weeks she sat in silence on a chair in front of the window looking at the snow. She looked at the street and that was it. You brought her countless glasses of water. You knew by now that the world was much bigger than that one street. And yet a longing for any other place remained. Surely here you had everything you wanted? You tried, spreading your wings, but Amsterdam-Zuid felt like another country and Haarlem almost like another continent.

Two children and a divorce later, you were on your own. The desire for solid safe ground under your feet was more fervent than ever. You wanted to return to the street. Where the family, the magnolia and the familiar green doors still were. The golden tip came from Aunt Mina who had seen her opposite neighbours leave the day before. She gave you the key and
the instruction to run as fast as you could to the house. You ran, as fast as you could. You opened the door, stepped inside and dropped onto the stairs. You were so happy, you could only cry you said.

The clerk at the town hall said he had never seen a squatter in his forties before. You were without a doubt the oldest squatter in Amsterdam. With pride and full joy, you enjoyed the tiny house for fifty years. This time of year last year, my phone rang. ‘My life has flown by,’ you said. ‘I can't believe that I am already so old and
That it's almost over. Aren't you forgetting to enjoy it?’

You have been dead exactly one year today. This morning I walked down your street, for me it will always remain so.

Lisa