Papa opened the door and let all the others in, but told me to stay outside. “Just a couple of minutes, we’ll call you inside when we’re ready.” The door closed behind him.
As I stood there I felt confused, scared, excited and angry. Angry that Mama would not be there when the door opened. I was confused about my feelings and emotions.
“Today is my eleventh birthday.” I said out loud, trying to cheer myself up. I stood there and waited for the door to open to let me into my new home and new life.
“OK Marijke, you can come in now.”
I tentatively walked through the door into a hallway and then another door which was being held open by Papa, into what was obviously our new lounge-room.
As I walked in the familiar strains of Happy Birthday started up. Everyone sang in full voice and Willie was holding a birthday cake with eleven burning candles.
Aunty Jos was standing at the back of the room holding a parcel, also singing along.
After three cheery “hip, hip hoorays,” Ineke gave me a kiss on each cheek, as was the Dutch tradition; wished me Happy Birthday in her sweet three year old voice and handed me a little bar of chocolate. Next was Lidy with a small packet of colouring pencils, and so on. When it was Willie’s turn, she lowered the cake so that I could blow out the candles. Papa came over with Aunty Jos; they wished me Happy Birthday; gave me the traditional kisses and handed over the wrapped parcel.
I opened it carefully, and saw a polished wooden box. I ran my fingers across the beautiful wood, then opened the lid and found a lift out compartment. Underneath were a couple of reels of cotton, and in the compartments some needles, pins, a thimble and a pair of scissors. My own sewing box, I felt very grown up with such a present and thanked Papa and Aunty Jos. She had a gentle smile on her face “Do you like the sewing box Marijke?”
I didn’t have to lie, something I was well known for when it suited me. I really liked the box, as I loved sewing, knitting and crocheting.
Aunty Jos went to the kitchen, which was at the back of the apartment, and brought back orange cordial for everyone. The cake was a delicious chocolate cake, and Papa carefully cut it into eleven wedges, with one piece bigger than the rest, which was served to me first as the birthday girl.
I relished the cake and the attention I was receiving. Since the day Mama received her last rites I had not felt special, but right then I certainly did.
Sitting around the table Papa said that when we finished our cake he’d show us around the apartment.
I looked up and saw Aunty Jos looking at me.
“Are you enjoying the cake Marijke?” she asked quietly.
“Yes thank you, it’s really nice,” I said as I looked at her a little more closely. She looked older then the last time I’d seen her, which had been at Mama and Papa’s twelve-and-a-half year wedding anniversary. Although she was not beautiful, I thought she was quite pretty, but not as pretty as Mama.
Her short hair was dark and permed; she wore a floral dress, which was quite fashionable. She also wore a full length apron, just like Mama used to wear. I was soon to discover this was her standard dress mode whenever she was doing any housework.
Enjoying the cake, my sisters and brothers were happily chatting about being home, and wanting to explore our new neighbourhood. I joined in, and for a little while I felt happy.
“Now everybody,” Papa interrupted, “as I told you, Aunty Jos will come here at eight o’clock each morning, and go home after we’ve finished dinner. I need you to help her as much as you can. I know you can all do things around the house, because you did it for Mama when she was sick.”
Bang! I felt a sharp pain go through my chest. How can I be sitting here enjoying my birthday? I had forgotten about Mama for at least half an hour. Guilt overwhelmed me. Papa mentioning Mama had brought me back to my reality, and I wanted to cry.
Papa continued, “Aunty Jos and I have made up a roster of your chores, so there’ll be no misunderstanding of what’s expected from each of you. We can talk about that tonight.”
“Come on, let’s go upstairs and look at the bedrooms.”
The thumping of so many feet going up the wooden stairs to the third floor echoed loudly. Lidy took my hand going upstairs. She looked up at me with her deep blue eyes.
“Marijke, this is not our house, but did you see? It was our table and our chairs and all our other things.”
I looked at her, “Yes, but this is our house, Lidy, this is where we live now.”
“Are we going to stay here forever? And will Mama come back then?”
“No, Mama’s dead, Mama will never come back, she’s in heaven.”
There, I had said it out loud for the first time; I almost choked on the words. Would it become easier if I said it more often?
Chapter 5
The apartment had three upstairs bedrooms. Willie’s room was no more than a little alcove off the main bedroom. There was just enough space to hold a single bed and a small wardrobe.
The two boys shared the second bedroom. With two single beds and a small wardrobe. It was also very compact, as were all the rooms in the apartment. But we didn’t have much in clothes or personal belongings anyway, and we didn’t know any better. All our friends and families lived in similar apartments. For Amsterdam it was quite normal.
The largest bedroom fronted the street, with a window overlooking the kindergarten. In the room were two double beds, one with a wooden frame; the other folded up against the wall, a curtain pulled across it when not in use. When that bed was down, there wasn’t much room to move. But when the bed was folded up, there was floor space for us to get dressed and play.
“Now girls, Aunty Jos and I think it will be best if Lidy and Ineke, being the two youngest, sleep with Ann. She can take care of them if they wake during the night. Marijke, Trudy and Margaret, you three will share the other bed.”
“And Marijke, you have to remember that it is very important you do not wet the bed, as it will make too much washing for Aunty Jos.”
Oh Papa, I will try so hard not to wet the bed, I silently vowed to myself. Mama and Papa had taken me to a special doctor a couple of years before, because I still wet the bed. The doctor told them I’d grow out of it. As I had always shared beds with my sisters, it was embarrassing. Even at the orphanage I regularly wet the bed, much to the disgust of the nuns. I was publicly embarrassed by them by having to strip my bed in front of the other girls. Then I’d be lectured about being too lazy to get up to go to the toilet. It became so embarrassing that sometimes I tried to hide it from the nuns by making my bed quickly.
But they seemed to know, and shamed me more for not being honest. I couldn’t win and the humiliation overwhelmed me at times. At least at the orphanage I had a single bed, and didn’t wet anyone else.
As I got older and it didn’t stop, I became paranoid about it. Each night I told myself I’d wake up for sure, and tonight I’d stay dry. Yet, night after night, I dreamt that I did wake up and was sitting on the toilet. Then I’d feel the warmth go up my back and down my legs; I’d wake up and realise that I’d done it again. I’d be so upset, especially as my younger sisters didn’t wet the bed, not even Ineke.
“Marijke, you will be responsible for making your bed every morning and Ann you will be responsible to make your bed.” Papa’s voice brought me back from my thoughts.
“Papa, can Lidy, Ineke and I have that bed please?” Ann asked, pointing to the wooden bed. Ann had always been the motherly type from a very young