on his own. He was a proud man who worked extraordinary long hours in an effort to earn sufficient to support us.
As well as working for a boss during the day, he took in private work, often sewing late into the night. I can still see him sitting on his sewing table neatly stitching, his legs crossed beneath him, thimble on his middle finger. Click, click, click. He worked methodically and meticulously. A treadle sewing machine sat next to the large table and a small light hung from the ceiling. He’d sit there for hours, the only break when he ran out of cotton and had to rethread the needle, or when he’d hop off the table to use the sewing machine.
We were used to going into the orphanage. It became our second home during Mama’s illness. We weren’t told what was wrong with her, but we knew she always came home when she was well enough.
When we returned to the orphanage early July 1958, the nuns had kept our name tags on the drab clothes we were provided with from our previous stay. I remember thinking, ‘They must have known we were coming back.’
Each Sunday afternoon Papa collected us to visit Mama in the hospital. We made drawings and little books for her, which she loved. She’d give each one of us a hug and a kiss and invite us to sit on her hospital bed. Mama was an avid story teller, and loved talking to us about her childhood and her family and their experiences through the war. She had a vivid imagination and was able to bring any story to life. I loved to watch her animated face as I listened to her equally animated voice.
Sister Geertruida led me inside to join my brothers and sisters; thirteen-year-old Ansje (Ann)
and twelve-year-old Joop (John), nine-year-old Arnold, seven-year-old Truusje (Trudy), six-year-old Greetje (Margaret), five-year-old Lidy, and Ineke who had turned three the previous week.
Together, we followed the nuns to the front room of the orphanage, which was situated down a long dark corridor.
I wonder what this is about? I thought, as I held hands with Trudy and Lidy. Ann took Margaret and Ineke’s hands. The boys followed close behind. Sister Geertruida opened the dark wooden door and said almost reverently, “In you go children,” then stood aside for us to enter.
The room contained a heavy wooden table surrounded by twelve chairs. The floral upholstery on the chairs was frayed and faded. A pot plant with a large red flower stood in the centre of the table.
A single light globe dangled from the high ceiling above the table. The walls were painted dark green. Besides the table and chairs the only other piece of furniture was a matching sideboard. On the left side it held a statue of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus. A statue of Jesus, his arms outstretched, his red heart embedded with a crown of thorns, stood on the right. A single candle in a bronze holder stood between the two statues, its flame casting a gentle glow around the otherwise drab room.
Willie sat on a chair to the right of Mother Superior, and Papa next to Willie. We walked around and kissed them hello, then Mother Superior motioned for us to sit down. Never having been asked by the nuns to sit at a table with them, I tentatively took a chair.
Willie started playing with a strand of her hair, a sign she was nervous. She twirled the strand around her index and middle fingers. Ann looked straight ahead and had her hands tightly clasped on her lap.
John sat nonchalantly looking around, as though to say, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Tall and gangly, he always came across as being cocky. He’d been in trouble a few weeks earlier, when he took a dare from some of the other boys to sneak into the girls’ dormitory and say hello to one of the girls whilst she was in bed.
He had succeeded, but was caught on his way out. To say he was in deep trouble with the nuns was an understatement. John told me later he decided that whatever the nuns wanted to talk about that day could not be anywhere near as bad as his last meeting with Mother Superior.
I looked around the room. The whole family was here, except for Mama. Papa looked like he’d been crying, which upset me. Papa was a strict man. He didn’t often show his emotional side. I’d never seen him cry before.
Papa wasn’t an affectionate man, but he loved playing with us whenever he had the opportunity. Tickling us was his favourite pastime. He got great delight out of our squeals and giggles. I don’t recall him ever telling me he loved me or was proud of me, but somehow, I always knew. Later in life I would resent this for a period of time, but whilst I was a child growing up it didn’t occur to me that he might not love me. I just knew he and Mama loved us unconditionally.
“Ouch,” I yelped, as I realised I’d bitten my fingernail to the quick. The taste of blood in my mouth made me withdraw my finger quickly. I hate that I bite my nails. I always get into trouble, and I don’t even realise I’m doing it until it hurts, or someone growls at me. Mama and Papa had tried so many ways to get me to stop, from putting mustard on my nails to wrapping my hands up in bandages, all to no avail.
Papa looked up then lifted his glasses to wipe his eyes. I couldn’t stop looking at him, wondering what could be wrong. He nervously started polishing his glasses with his hankie.
Mother Superior gave a little cough, and looked around at us with concerned eyes. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” she said softly. After a pause, she continued. “As you know, your Mama’s been in hospital for quite a long time this time.”
“Is she coming home? Can we go home, Papa?” an excited John asked in an expectant voice.
He hated living at the orphanage, and the severe restrictions placed on him. The nuns hadn’t yet learned to cope with boys. It was a whole new experience for them, and the boys’ shenanigans were not appreciated.
Papa answered, “No John, Mama is very sick and can’t come home. That’s the reason you’ve been called here, so I can explain what is happening.”
I felt my chest tighten as I saw Papa swallow hard. His voice sounded hoarse.
Mother Superior took over.
“The doctors have tried everything to make your mama better, but the good Lord has decided that He would like to take your Mama to heaven very soon. Your Papa’s going to take you all to the hospital now to see her. She’ll receive her Last Rites this afternoon, which is a very special Sacrament, preparing her to go to heaven. Your Papa wants you all there to see her receive this sacrament, and to pray with her and for her.”
I tried to absorb what was being said. Mama receiving her last rites? My Mama going to heaven? But that can’t be true. God cannot take our Mama, we need her, I need her.
I struggled with these thoughts and with the idea of Mama dying. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. My ten-year-old mind tried to take in the enormity of this news. Mama should come home. Mama always gets better and comes home …
A lump settled deep in my throat and I felt tears flow freely down my face. I looked up to see Papa and Willie crying quietly. Then Ann started to sob. Trudy let out a wail and then started to sob loudly. (It was many years later Trudy told me she didn’t understand what was happening. She cried because I was crying.)
“Go and get ready to go to the hospital,” Mother Superior’s voice quivered as she too struggled with tears.
“Should we get dressed in our Sunday clothes? This is a Sacrament, like Baptism and First Holy Communion. So it’s a special
