On My Own

Holland 1936

The man seated next to me was snoring. He was a well-dressed man about Paps’ age. Earlier when I boarded the train and stumbled over him to sit at the window, he said, “You’re travelling alone. I’ll watch for you.”

The train was knifing its way westward, the sun softly setting in the distance.

There were no empty seats. The car was littered with travel bags, cartons wrapped in newspaper, and assorted other luggage. Could these people all be tortured innocents on their way out of Germany?

I felt safe with the snoring man next to me so I crouched down in my seat and began to doze, the motion of the train lulling me to sleep. I’m not sure how long it was before I felt a jerking movement. My eyes popped open.

“This is just a stop,” the man said. “After a few minutes, we’ll be on our way.” Then he asked, “What’s your destination?”

“Amsterdam. I’m going to my uncle’s home,” I said.

“Good,” he smiled, “that city is my destination as well. I have business there.”

The train crept along and then resumed cruising speed. I fell back asleep.

The next thing I remember is waking to the sounds of a harried commotion. Several people were craning their necks to see down the aisle. I began to stand but the man next to me put his hand on my knee. “Don’t get up. Remain seated.”

Then a sudden horror presented itself. Three soldiers entered by the doorway at the front of the rail car. They wore the swastika, just as the police from the schoolyard had years ago. The heels of their boots thumped as they made their way to the first row of seats.

“Show us your papers!” they barked in German.

Everyone fell silent. It was as if time stopped. Then the commotion resumed as everyone readied to present their documents. I reached into my shirt pulling on the lanyard of my pouch to retrieve it. I opened the drawstrings and pulled out my paper and my ticket, holding it in my trembling hand. I repeated the words “I’m Erna Völker, Erna Völker,” in my head.

The man next to me said, “We’re at the border.” Pointing to the soldiers he whispered, “They’ll decide who will pass into Holland.”

Two of the soldiers began examining the passengers’ documents while the third remained at the front door. At first I hadn’t noticed but there was a fourth soldier at the rear door. The man next to me followed my gaze.

“That’s so no one exits into the next car,” he said.

As the soldier checked the people in the row ahead of us, the man leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I’m your grandfather, Karl Langer. We’re going to see our family in Amsterdam. Do you understand?”

Now that the soldier was upon us I could smell the leather of his boots. Herr Langer nonchalantly handed his papers for review. The soldier returned them and then took mine from my quivering hand.

“Are you related?” the soldier asked.

“For your information,” Herr Langer said with a staunch tone of authority, “this is my granddaughter. We’re going to visit our family in Amsterdam.”

I was holding my breath. Father had told me to expect this kind of confrontation.

The soldier returned my document to me. “Very well, Herr Langer. You and your granddaughter are permitted to continue on.”

Just then the soldier a few rows ahead called out. “This family is to be questioned.” A young couple with two children was hurried to the front of the car whereupon they were told to get off the train. “And this one,” he said as he forcibly pulled a man from his seat, “is to be detained indefinitely.”

The soldiers finished their examinations and then proceeded to the next car.

Herr Langer exhaled, “That was unfortunate.” I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the people who had been escorted off the train or to the indignity to which we had all been subjected.

When the train pressed on I was heartbroken to see a dozen people, some of them children, gathered in a knot of fear, the German soldiers leading them into the station house.

“It’s done,” Herr Langer said. “Try to relax now. Soon, we’ll be in Amsterdam.”

The train ride passed quickly. I regret that I didn’t see more of the countryside but the darkness was thick. All I could make out were a few polders protected by massive dunes and dikes.

Before long the train began to decelerate.

“Prepare your things,” Herr Langer said. “We’ll be at the station momentarily.”

I checked my pouch, tightened its drawstrings, adjusted the straps of my rucksack, and then sat quietly. As the train crawled into the station I saw dozens of people, some standing and some sitting on benches, all huddled with their belongings, ready to board. Others were waiting for loved ones. As the sea of faces passed I searched each one, looking for Uncle Heinburg.

The train stopped. Everyone rose at once, rushing to gather belongings. Some passengers were rude, pushing and shoving, handling their luggage without regard, hitting each other in the knee or leg. I heard many obscenities as they exited the car.

“Are you ready now?” Herr Langer wanted to know.

“Yes, I’m ready.”

We left the car. As we made our way along the platform, I stopped after just a few steps. Herr Langer, who I now realized was a great deal taller than I’d thought he was, towered over me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome. I’ll stay until you find your uncle.”

I began to feel a fire of nervousness. The crowd on the platform had thinned. My uncle was nowhere to be found. I felt dizzy and nauseous. What will I do if Uncle Heinburg does not come for me? Where will I go? What will become of me?

“You’re alarmed,” Herr Langer said. “Don’t worry. I’m sure your uncle will be here shortly.” He reached into his vest and took out his pocket watch. “See? The train was nearly twenty minutes early.”

As we walked into the station house I saw Uncle Heinburg running toward us.

“Forgive me,” he shouted, “I didn’t know the train would be early! You must be so upset! But now I’m here!”

He hugged me. “You look wonderful. So big now! How long has it been since we . . .” He stopped when he saw the tall man standing next to me.

“Good sir, you’ll kindly step away from my niece,” he barked.

“No, uncle,” I pleaded. “This is Herr Langer. We travelled together all the way from Berlin. He’s been so kind—a wonderful travel companion.”

“I see,” Heinburg said. “I apologize, Herr Langer. Thank you for all you’ve done for my loved one.”

Herr Langer reached down and gently lifted my chin, tilting my head up. “It’s been my pleasure, Fraülein. I’m sure you’re safe now so I’ll say goodbye.”

We exchanged a short embrace. Then, Herr Langer left.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Uncle Heinburg said. “Let’s go now. Ida and Ullie are waiting for you at the house. They’re so excited!”

It was late when we arrived at Uncle Heinburg’s home. Aunt Ida and Ullie already were asleep. I was ushered to a small room off the kitchen that served as a storage area. Canned goods and other household items were in boxes off to one side to make room for a cot. Uncle Heinburg kissed me goodnight and then retired. I placed my rucksack under the cot, pulled down the linens, took off my shoes, and collapsed on the mattress. I was exhausted.

The next morning after a wonderful reunion with Aunt Ida and my cousin Ullie, we sat down for breakfast, gabbing the entire time, my curiosity about them only slightly overtaking their curiosity about Paps, Mutsch, the rest of our relatives, and me. We talked for hours, each of us contributing news and memories.

Outside the city was alive with colour. It was tulip time in Amsterdam. The flowers’ petals and sepals glowed like stained glass all along the avenues.

On my third day in Amsterdam I went for a walk on my own. I returned with a bouquet of tulips a gardener in a park had given me. “Everyone’s so nice here,” I said to my aunt, “and nobody’s called me a dirty Jew.”

Ida was horrified. “Why would they call you such a name and what makes you say such a thing?”

“That’s what some children in Berlin called me, even those I played with for years. Paps says it’s one of the reasons we left Berlin. But I guess things are different here.”

“Yes,” she assured me, “of course they are.”

Aunt Ida had no idea what was on its way. None of us did. Four years later, when my parents and I were in Japan, news reached us that Dutch Jews were running for their lives from the Nazi advance. It took only a few days for the country to fall. Uncle Heinburg wrote that thousands of Jews were arrested, some sent to concentration camps, and others were forced into slave labour. Many were shot dead where they were standing.

Looking back I still can’t come to terms with the striking contrast between the delicate tulips of Amsterdam and the iron waves of tanks—the relentless legions of soldiers crushing that beautiful country underfoot, destroying its warm and friendly people.

Ten long days had passed since I’d left my parents weeping on the platform of the station as my train pulled away. I didn’t know if Paps had made it to London without incident and if Mutsch had arrived safely in Italy. Was her operation successful? Had she found relief from her discomfort?

I tried to remain positive. I chose to believe my parents would persevere because they’d always been good people—virtuous and kind. During prayer times at the synagogue in Dahlem, I kept telling myself only the wicked are punished.

Ullie and I were outside, skipping along one of the canals, when I saw Paps.

I raced to him and leaped into his outstretched arms. He was smiling, his eyes filled with tears. We embraced for what seemed like hours.

At the supper table that night Uncle Heinburg recited words of thankfulness to which he added a benediction for Mutsch’s safety and speedy recovery.

Paps and I readied for the journey to Italy. My uncle, my aunt, and Ullie wished us well asking us to remember them to our relatives. They came to see us off at the rail station with tears of joy and sadness.

I lament all the times I’ve had to say goodbye.