and Black Piet were not real. I was devastated. Papa told me, “You’re too old to believe in them now. But I warn you, you must never discuss it, so as not to disillusion your younger siblings.”
I questioned the adults’ integrity when I’d been lied to all this time! How could Papa constantly punish me for telling lies, when he had been telling me these whoppers all these years? But at the same time, I felt proud he thought me mature enough to be told the truth.
After celebrating Saint Nicholas, we celebrated Ann’s fourteenth birthday on the ninth of December, and Papa’s fortieth birthday on the seventeenth of December.
Christmas was next, and as always Papa dragged home a pine Christmas tree, and some loose branches. The tree was lovingly decorated with all of us assisting. My favourite part was the angel hair, which was made of finely spun glass fibre. This was draped gently over the branches, making it look like a sparkling spider web once the candles were lit.
The branches of pine tree were hung on the walls, also decorated, including candles and angel hair. It transformed our lounge-room into a Christmas wonderland. Of course, Christmas was a religious feast day in our household, having received gifts on the day of Saint Nicholas.
Each night, after evening prayers, we gathered around the tree and the nativity set, which also had candles placed in front of it. Papa lit all the candles, and we sang Christmas carols. Oh, how I loved Christmas time in our family.
This year, although Mama was not there, Papa said a special prayer for her before our singing, which gave me the comfort that she was there with us.
On Christmas Eve we stayed up late and attended midnight Mass. We walked to church arm in arm, all sat together in church, enjoyed the formal Mass and sang along with the choir. The scent of incense and Mir again gave me a sense that Mama was there with me. She had not forsaken me, she was there with me.
After Mass, parishioners wished each other a Holy Christmas. We walked home together again in the cold. It had snowed whilst we were at Mass, and the joy of a white Christmas had become a reality.
Once home, the first thing Papa did was lay the baby Jesus in the little crib of our nativity set. After that we enjoyed a cup of hot chocolate, and Dutch rusks sprinkled with little sugar balls, coloured white and pink. This was our Midnight Christmas Mass breakfast.
We slept in the next morning, and when we got up, Papa and Aunty Jos, who’d arrived before we woke, had prepared a formal breakfast table. A bowl full of highly polished red apples, built into a pyramid, had been placed on the table. Each apple had a lit candle on it, creating a beautiful centre piece. As Mama had always done, strips of red and green crepe paper were laid from side to side across the white table cloth, which was actually a sheet.
When we were dressed, we had a full Christmas breakfast. This consisted of fresh bread rolls, boiled eggs, thinly cut ham, cheese, and tea. I loved Christmas, the smells, the sounds, everything about Christmas. Thank God, Christmas this year still had that same feeling, emotion, and most of all faith and love in our family. Mama was with me in spirit, because her Christmas traditions had not changed.
Winter that year was very cold, with the canals frozen over, giving us the opportunity to take shortcuts across the ice when going to school or church.
New Year’s Eve was also a celebration; the decorations were still up. We sang Christmas carols, and enjoyed the special Dutch treats which Papa cooked in oil, then sprinkled with icing sugar, called Olie Bollen (Oily Balls). These were similar to doughnuts, but with fruit in them, and sprinkled with icing sugar. We only ever had these on New Year’s eve. Aunty Jos had made the traditional salmon, potato and red beet salad, with lots of mayonnaise. I always looked forward to these once a year treats. Aunty Jos’ version of the salad was the same as Mama’s, delicately decorated with sliced egg, gherkins and thin strips of red beet.
The Christmas season for us ended with the feast of the Three Kings, which was celebrated on the sixth of January each year.
Mama used to make a special fruit cake for the feast of the Three Kings. She placed a bean into the cake, and whoever got the bean in their piece of cake was King or Queen for the day.
No chores, giving commands within reason, to the rest of the clan, and choosing the evening’s menu. I’m sure Mama knew exactly where the bean was, because as I got older I realised we all seemed to be King or Queen in turn.
On the seventh of January, we pulled down our Christmas tree and decorations. We helped Papa drag the tree and branches to a square in the local area. All others in the neighbourhood did the same. After dark, everybody gathered around this huge pile of pine trees. It was ceremoniously lit, and created a huge bonfire, with branches exploding and sending pine needles, glowing from the fire, high into the air. We’d stand around ooohing and aaahing, and the warmth from this huge bonfire was lovely on a cold winter’s night.
When we arrived back home, Mama used to have a large pot of hot chocolate already on top of the stove, and we wrapped our gloved hands around the steaming mugs, warming us inside and out.
Aunty Jos and Papa continued with these family and neighbourhood traditions, creating as few changes to our lives as possible.
The cold winter of 1958 continued into 1959, and things settled down. Aunty Jos took sick in early March and then she contracted pneumonia. She ended up in hospital for about a week. One of Papa’s sisters and her husband came to help out until Aunty Jos was better again.
It was while she was in hospital that Papa called us in for a family meeting after dinner.
“I have some good news to share with you,” Papa said. “Aunty Jos and I have decided to get married. When she gets home from hospital, you can start calling her Mama.”
No, no, no. Papa, this cannot happen. No. I have a Mama; I don’t want a new Mama. No, this can’t be true!
I looked at Papa with tears welling up in my eyes. He had a big grin on his face, beaming from one ear to the other. A couple of the little ones were laughing and clapping, but I saw the pain and confusion in some of my brothers and sisters’ eyes. If Papa noticed, he did not let on.
“We’ll be married on the thirtieth of April, the Queen’s birthday holiday. You can all attend the wedding, and Aunty Jos will then come to live with us as your new Mama”
I got up from the table before Papa could see my hurt and my anger. I ran upstairs and threw myself on the bed. How could he think of marrying another woman? He loved Mama; she had only been dead six months. How could he now want to marry Aunty Jos? Papa, I can’t call Aunty Jos Mama. Aunty Jos is NOT my Mama. I can’t do it, I WON’T!
Tears streamed down my face, my sobs stifled by the pillow. I thumped the now wet pillow with my fists. Mama, how could Papa have forgotten about you so soon? I don’t want a new Mama. Why did you die and leave me?
Chapter 8
After some time, my sobbing subsided. The pillow was drenched, and my eyes swollen. I lay there for a while longer, not knowing what to do. Should I go down and tell Papa he can’t get married to Aunty Jos, and more importantly, that I won’t be able to call Aunty Jos Mama?
I knew I’d like to do that, but also that I wouldn’t. Papa didn’t take kindly to having his decisions questioned, and it had sounded like a fait-accompli. I was sure that this was not a debatable topic, and nothing I said or did would change Papa’s mind.
