Ode to Carry Blitz – van Weezel | Losing everything and still going on living

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Dear Granny,

I have countless memories of you, but one keeps coming to mind lately. Like every Thursday, you had just picked me up from elementary school - I must have been about six years old. Before we went to your house in Buitenveldert, we first got something nice at Gelderlandplein. We went to the brand new bakery, where you ordered two cheese sticks: one for me and one for yourself. You liked everything I liked, or maybe you were just pretending to. We had barely taken our turn when you started telling me about World War II. I put my hands in front of my eyes. Here we go again, I thought. How is it possible that a cheese stalk brings up your period in hiding in the Zaan region? I saw that the baker was uncomfortable, but that didn't seem to bother you. You also immediately confided to him that your brother Hans and your sister Roosje had been murdered in Auschwitz. The baker was silent for a moment. As if searching for the right words. Finally he responded succinctly, “Well, how sad for you ma'am.” As we left, he wished us “a very happy day. As a child I was ashamed of such encounters. Later I took a milder view: there was no other way. The war was everywhere. Even after 1945.

Of course, the fact that war was always present did not mean that we could not have fun. On the contrary. For hours we played store together, we always sang and danced along when the organ man passed by, you read me books while imitating funny voices, you made pudding in the shape of a fish, you let me secretly watch Good Times Bad Times, and when I stayed over (which was often) you held my hand until I fell asleep. I loved you. And you loved me. It was love at first sight between us. Or rather: even before we saw each other for the first time. The day my mother told you she was pregnant, you put your house up for sale. You wanted to be as close as possible to your granddaughter-to-be. You came back to Amsterdam.

Amsterdam, that was the city where you were born in the Pijp in 1924. From the Pijp you moved as a girl to the Rivierenbuurt. There you celebrated Shabbat on Friday evenings with your grandparents. On Sundays you and your father bought pickles and onions from the local pickle man. In summer, you played there with your friends on the banks of the Amstel River. But then the war came. You lost almost everyone you loved. You yourself went into hiding in Krommenie - for two years you were locked up in a room measuring 2 by 2 meters. After the liberation you immediately returned to Amsterdam. Your house in the riverside neighborhood was not returned to you; other people now lived there. You settled for a small apartment in the center, as long as you could stay in Amsterdam. Two years later you met the man who would become my grandfather. You married and gave birth to your oldest son, Max. As a result, you decided not to pursue your dream career as a kindergarten teacher. One day, grandpa had to tell you something: he could get a job as a representative in women's fashion. That job was in South Holland. You protested, but were unsuccessful. First you moved to The Hague, eventually to Voorschoten. You made new friends, helped at your sons' school, became active in the decimated Jewish community and organized dinners for the neighbors. But not a day did you forget Amsterdam. Not for nothing what your favorite song 'Aan de Amsterdamse grachten'. I still know the lyrics by heart, because you sang this song so often.

“There is a house by the canal in old Amsterdam

Where I used to go as an eight-year-old boy with grandmother

Now a strange gentleman sits in the front room

And even that lovely attic became an office

Only the trees, the trees, high above the traffic

And across the water there goes a boat just like old times

On the Amsterdam canals

I have pledged my whole heart forever

Amsterdam fills my thoughts

As the most beautiful city in our country

All those Amsterdam people

All those lights late at night in the square

No one can wish for better

Than to be an Amsterdammer”

Funnily enough, my memories of you grow stronger and stronger with time. For example, all the vacations when you went with us are etched in my memory and I often think back with laughter to the family choir with which we sang terribly bad songs during birthdays, weddings and Bat Mitzvahs. I will also never forget how you stuttered and blushed to tell me that you had a “boyfriend” (you were 74, he 86). And yes, our conversations about the war are also part of those recollections. At 16, I first became interested in that subject. You felt that this meant you finally had someone to talk to about it. You told me everything. And suddenly I understood how strong you were. You had succeeded in continuing to live.

Yet even when you died the war was not far away. Just before you died at 85, I took your hand and whispered, “Now you are finally going back to Hansel and Rose.” You looked at me and replied, “The Nazis should have taken me instead of them. Hans was like father and Roosje played the piano so beautifully. Who the hell am I?” Well Grandma, I can tell you. To me you were and are everything. During my childhood you gave me a safe feeling: when mom and dad had to work I could always come to you. Because you allowed me to do things they didn't, we had a special bond. Besides, I have rarely laughed so hard with (and about) someone, you talked to me when I was having a hard time and you often held mirrors up to me. Do you remember that one time I introduced you to a new boyfriend? Full of expectations, I asked afterwards what you thought of him. You shrugged and said, “I've seen them more likeable and handsome.” Of course I didn't care, but after six months he dumped me and I knew I should have listened to you right away.

You haven't been around for 15 years. A lot has changed in the meantime. Nowadays I live in the Rivierenbuurt myself. And I also have a son named Max. Isn't that beautiful? The other day we walked past the house where you grew up - it's on our regular shopping route. At least I was walking and pushing Max along in his baby carriage. I showed him an old picture of you on my smartphone and started telling him about you, “My grandmother pointed out to me where you can buy the best pickles in town. She taught me that Amsterdammers often have a big mouth, but also a tiny heart. She made me double over at her 'Mokumse gein.' And she showed me how you can always take Amsterdam with you, even if you're not literally here. So because of her, I know what it is to be a real Amsterdammer. I hope I can teach you that now, too.” Max is only a year and a half, so he can't really talk. Yet he is already communicating. While I was talking about you, he stroked your picture. In my digital music library I quickly looked up “Aan de Amsterdamse grachten. Immediately Max began to sway to the music. So we stood there together, in front of your old house in the Biesboschstraat. And for a moment you felt very close again.

Love, Natascha