Mama liked us to look nice, and so did Papa. We may not have had much, but our Sunday clothes were special. They were often hand me downs, or lovingly made for us by Mama.
“Oh my child, yes, I think it is a very important occasion. Run along quickly, all of you. Get changed into your Sunday clothes. Hurry. Then come back to this room. Papa will wait for you.”
As I changed in the dormitory, my mind was in turmoil. How can this be? The only thing I knew about death was when I found a dead bird when I was about six years old. Mama had gently wrapped the bird in some soft paper and had helped me bury it. She’d explained about death in a simplistic way. And now my Mama was dying? Are they going to put her in the ground too?
Chapter 2
When we arrived at the hospital we were greeted by grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Both Mama and Papa were from large families. Papa was one of seventeen children; Mama one of ten.
Father Hartog, our parish priest from Amsterdam North, greeted us and led us into Mama’s room. Candles were lit and Father Hartog commenced the service. His monotone voice droned on, but I wasn’t listening. I stared at Mama in the bed. She was so thin; her cheekbones stood out in her yellow coloured face, her closed eyes sunk deep into their sockets. I could see the bones in her hands through her paper-like skin, as if she were translucent.
Mama had been slim in her younger years, but during her illness and pregnancies she had put on quite a lot of weight. But now she was skinnier than anything I had ever seen.
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
