Butts and Ashes: Lest We Forget

I was thinking back on Amsterdam today and remembering some of the amazing stories we heard while we were there. Here are just a few. I'll do my best to get the details straight. Seriously though, research what I'm sharing with you. It's worth knowing.

One story Amarja had told us years before we ever made it to Holland was about her grandparents. During the 1930s-1940s, they had started a soup company. The factory was located outside of the city in a rural area, I believe. Having traveled to the United States at one time, they decided to name their soup company California. I always thought that was funny but in a really endearing way. Anyway, when the war hit and the Nazis started rounding up Jews in Holland, her grandparents would feed and hide people who came through trying to escape the Germans. Because of having a factory, they were able to feed large numbers of people. Her grandparents were freaking heroes!! I always wanted to meet them and hear these stories first hand but sadly, we waited a few years too many and they were gone when we finally made our trip. I will always regret not having gone sooner. Life lesson. Don't wait.

One of the greatest outings Amarja and Thierry planned during our visit to Amsterdam, was a two-day walking tour of the Jewish quarters during WWII. They hired a local gentleman to guide us and share the history of Amsterdam during that time. I will never forget those two days as long as I live.

This gentleman was amazing. He brought life to his words. As we stood in front of this daycare, he began telling stories of the children that had been housed there, taken from their families, only later to be sent to camps.

At one point, I remember looking through the windows in this picture. There were babies and toddlers, small children being cared for. They were playing with toys, being rocked, read to. An overwhelming sense of grief hit me, as a mother and grandmother. The thought of what had happened there less than 80 years ago was almost too much to take in.

His stories were not sensationalized but instead chillingly factual. He never faltered but delivered documented history as if he himself had lived through it. It was heartbreaking and mesmerizing. I remember thinking about how amazing he was to remember all these facts. Little did I realize.

This is one of the canals in what had been, during WWII, an affluent section of the Jewish Quarters

The bridge over this canal is named after a Rabbi that was instrumental in building accommodations for the elderly and chronically ill. The Diamond Exchange, which was built, owned, and run by Jewish businessmen is also on this road. There are some really interesting albeit heartbreaking stories written about the Diamond Exchange during WWII.

Also in the Jewish Quarters, this is now a work facility if I remember correctly however the Nazis used it to imprison Jews until they were sent to camps. The stories were unbearable at times.

This is also a building in the Jewish Quarters which was originally homes and businesses. It was explained that Jews were literally chased from their homes in one section of the city and forced to relocate to other sections of the city that had been walled off to keep people basically corralled until they were shipped off. Can you imagine the fear and chaos? At one point, our guide told us to look at the two doors on the right. He then told story after story of neighbors turning against neighbors. He explained how people would report others to the Nazis and how the homes left behind would be ransacked. He spoke of not knowing who you could trust, living in fear, hiding away in your home to not draw attention.

Then he said look down. And there, on the street in front of one of the doors were these plaques. The names of the occupants, their year of birth, and the day they were murdered and where. Bob and I looked up and down the street we had been walking on just moments before and realized these plaques were everywhere. How had we not seen them? As we wept, we read several more until we reached one where an entire family, grandparents, parents and children had been forced from their home, sent to Auschwitz and murdered. Murdered for being Jewish!

Across the street was this Jewish hospital for the elderly and disabled.

Heartbreaking.

This holocaust museum was a Jewish theater that was taken over by the Nazis. As Jews were prepared to be shipped to camps, the adults and older children were kept here and the small children were sent across the street to another building where nurses looked after them before deportation. One of the best stories was hearing how the nurses would wait until the trolleys passed by, blocking the view of the Nazi soldiers and they would hand off babies to people on the trolley. Some of those children were saved by being passed off as part of non-Jewish families and others were sent away to other areas to be hidden.

There was an entire wall inside this museum with the names of those murdered. Seeing my older sister's last name on the wall broke me. I couldn't stop crying thinking that could have been my brother-in-law and his family. It could have been my sister and nephews. Time and space saved them. I will never understand this type of hatred.

After walking the streets of Amsterdam, and hearing our wonderful guide's stories, I could imagine this terrifying sight.

This is all a person was allowed to take with them from their home. They were actually given a list beforehand if they were lucky. If not, they left with the clothes on their backs.

Heartbreaking.

The stones on top of this memorial are left as a sign of honor and respect, much like when a person visits a Jewish gravesite.

Our final stop on the second day was the oldest bar in Amsterdam. It was rustic and beautiful and I was relieved to be able to sit and have a drink. The last two days had been emotionally draining so this refreshing last stop was seriously a relief. Or so I thought. As we drank and chatted, our guide began to tell the story of how this very bar where we now sat had been the epicenter for the Resistance. He told us of one young Jewish woman who repeatedly risked her life for the Resistance. He pulled out the binder in the photo above and showed us pictures of her. He showed us pictures of her identification papers showing she was a Jew. Then he showed us her faked documents allowing her to escape deportation and run resistance to help save others. I remember sitting there in stunned silence, looking through the pictures as he told the story. Then he asked this question, "Do you know who she was?"