She drifted in and out of consciousness during the service. Every now and then her lips moved along with the prayers being said.
After the service was finished, we were taken into a large corridor outside Mama’s room. Relatives wandered around as if in a daze. Most were quiet or holding whispered conversations.
Each of us was invited back into Mama’s room individually to say goodbye to Mama. How can a ten year old say goodbye to her Mama?
I walked in and began to cry as I looked at her. I wanted to climb on the bed and cuddle up to her. Mama’s eyes were closed. It was all too much to bear. I tried to pray, but prayer failed me.
Both Mama and Papa were devout Catholics, and their faith had carried them through so many tribulations; the war; her illness. Now here she was, aged thirty seven, Mama to nine children, and she was dying. How could God want to take her? God is supposed to be good and kind, and this is not good, it is mean!
I stood there with tears rolling down my face. Mama opened her eyes and gently took hold of my hand. Her fingers felt cold and clammy. She looked at me, and then gently pulled me forward. “Don’t cry for me, Marijke, I’m going to heaven to be with my Lord.” I felt a slight pressure on my hand, and then she closed her eyes again.
I was ushered out for the next person to go in for their farewell. I don’t know if she spoke to anyone else when they said their goodbyes. But it is one of the most profound memories I have of my Mama. She was dying, but she gathered enough strength to speak to me; to try to make me feel more at peace with her passing.
Outside the room Ann was sobbing loudly and some aunties were trying to console her. I heard one say, “Poor Ann, she’s so close to her Mama, she’ll miss her more than any of the other children.”
I wanted to scream out, “I love Mama just as much as Ann, and I will miss her too.” But I didn’t. I withdrew into myself and kept quiet, crying silently.
8 September 1958
The next morning I was taken out of class and once again taken to the front office. All my brothers and sisters were already there. Papa arrived and told us in a broken voice, “Mama died this morning.”
I have been told by my siblings that I sobbed, but for some reason, I cannot remember much of the rest of that day, except that the nuns decided we should all go back to class. They said that it was better if we kept busy.
During our lunch-break some of my friends asked why I had been called out. When I told them my Mama had died, they hugged me, and asked me to join in their game.
In bed that night I couldn’t stop crying. I tried to imagine never seeing Mama again. I hid my head under the blankets so as not to wake the other girls in the dormitory. I don’t know what time it was when a hand gently touched my hair. I looked up to see one of the nuns looking at me. She bent over and whispered, “I’m pleased you’re crying and grieving, that’s a good thing - God bless you child.” She again stroked my hair and left.
This was very confusing to me. Why is she pleased that I am crying? Crying isn’t good; it means I am sad. How can that be a good thing? Can’t she understand that my Mama has died? Shouldn’t she be sad that I am hurting so much that I need to cry? Shouldn’t she have tried to console me?
I so desperately needed someone to give me a cuddle or a hug. I didn’t know how my sisters and brothers were coping, but I felt terribly alone in my pain. Even though I didn’t understand the full implications of Mama’s death, I knew my life would never be the same again.
10 September 1958
As was tradition, Mama’s body was laid out in a coffin in Mama and Papa’s bedroom in our apartment in Amsterdam North. The day before Mama’s funeral, one of the nuns escorted us to have a viewing of Mama.
The sight of Mama in the white satin lined coffin embedded itself in my mind. It was an emotional experience, yet it gave me some comfort. Mama looked at peace. Her eyes were closed, and I thought she had a gentle smile on her face. There were flowers and candles around the coffin. She wore a long white gown. I thought she looked like an angel. I couldn’t stop looking at her.
Papa took a couple of photos of Mama laid out so peacefully. Yet to this day I am unable to look at these, which seems strange considering that my recall is that of her looking so at peace.
The nuns took us back to Amsterdam North for Mama’s funeral the next day. To this day I don’t have any memory of the funeral. It was obviously too painful.
Chapter 3
We were taken back to the orphanage after Mama’s funeral. That night in bed I tried to pray, but my emotions were in too much turmoil. “God, why did you take my Mama? Why can’t you let her come back to us? Mama always said you can perform miracles. You can let her come back. Why couldn’t you have made her better?”
Life went on. I ate. I slept. I went to school and played with my friends. But inside I was confused and grieving. Each morning when I woke up I had a gnawing feeling inside of me, like something was going to happen, but I didn’t know what.
At the orphanage all the other children had lost parents; most of them both parents. But we didn’t discuss our personal backgrounds, and were never encouraged to do so.
One Saturday, a couple of weeks after Mama’s funeral, my best friend, Fietje, from Amsterdam North, came to visit me at the orphanage. Fietje had been my best friend at school since kindergarten. She was as short as I was tall.
“Hello, it is so nice to see you!” I said excitedly.
“I’ve missed you so much, Marijke. I miss your family and your Mama too. When will you come back to Amsterdam North?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, as I had no idea. I hadn’t thought about going home since Mama died. Other children at the orphanage never went home, so I assumed we would just stay there. Now that Mama was gone, who would look after us?
I cried when Fietje left. She was the first person who had said she missed Mama. The nuns had prayed for Mama and the Sunday after she died Mass in the chapel had been dedicated to her. But nobody talked about her.
“You’re not as much fun like you used to be,” Ursula said one day. “Don’t you want to be our friend anymore?”
I shrugged my shoulders and looked from her to Hennie.
“I’m just sad. My Mama died.”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re so sad about. You should be happy that you still have your Papa and all your sisters and brothers. Hennie and I don’t have any family.” With that, the two of them walked away from me.
I thought about that and felt a bit guilty, but I still didn’t feel any better. Nobody understands how I feel, not even my friends.
On the twenty-first of October, Trudy celebrated her eighth birthday. Papa picked us up and took us for an outing to the zoo for a special treat. But it just wasn’t a birthday celebration as I knew it. Mama had always made our birthdays special. Even in the toughest times, she ensured we received a present, and she’d bake a birthday cake. The whole family lined up at breakfast time, oldest to youngest. The first person in line would hold the candle-lit cake. As the birthday person entered the room, we all sang Happy Birthday together.
Each family member had a little gift behind their back. We took turns to kiss the birthday person and wish them a Happy Birthday. Then we’d proudly produce the gift from behind our back. It might only be a small lolly, or a yo-yo, but it was given with love and pride.
My birthday was