Choices

By Yvonne Koenders

I have always been fascinated by stories from artists, musicians, and actors. Exotic people from faraway places captured my mind. Their struggles, triumphs, and courage I would recall when life was hard. Only years later would I realize I had my own inspiring story to tell. I never dreamed that one day America would be my home. My earlier years were not easy; I was homesick and made foolish choices. Life's twists and turns brought me back to Holland, where memories came flooding back. The clouds in my head could only be chased away by reliving the past. I had to find the courage to write in a foreign language and expose secrets that still haunted me, Secrets that changed me and were the real reasons I had to leave the country I love. I had to describe how I fled to unknown places without money, friends, or even a plan. But no longer did I think of myself as helpless. I could make my own choices. Maybe I was tossed in the sea of life, but it was up to me to swim and to confront my fears. I found my safe harbor and to my surprise, my husband, who is there for me no matter what. I no longer let circumstances dictate my life. Instead of despair, I now wake up in the morning glad for another day with my husband, our dog, and our home. The girl no one loved is gone; the mother who left her does not matter anymore-nor does the life she once lived. Looking back, I realize that mistakes made were lessons learned. I do not count wealth by money, but by love and friends. I have found that I am very rich indeed. It is my hope that my story will inspire and give hope and courage to others. Every life truly matters!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463400972

Yvonne Koenders

I used to think of myself as a helpless person who was tossed into the sea of life, clinging to any piece of driftwood I could grasp onto. The wild seas and currents took me wherever they wished. I had a little rest in calm waters and blue oceans, only to be picked up again by a storm that spit me out in America. But then something happened. I met other people who told me how they had longed to come to America—foreigners like me who had planned and saved for years. They worked several jobs a day until they fell, exhausted, into bed each night, but with a dream that was so strong it kept them going. They did all they could for the privilege to live in America. When I heard the stories about the hardships some of them went through to make that dream come true, it started me thinking, and I realized that I had never dreamed of coming to America. I had been happy where I was, yet once again, I had let circumstances dictate my future and force me out of the country I had come to love, rather than me planning for it. This time, I wanted to take my life into my own hands, so I began building a boat I could steer. There were still unexpected turns, and I made mistakes, some because I was a foreigner in a country I did not understand, others because of thinking wishfully instead of looking at the reality of the situation. But finally, I learned my lessons and found a safe harbor—my husband Bill, who is there for me no matter what. He never tells me what to do and always lets me be the person I want to be. Besides painting (which never fails to make me happy), I lost the remaining dark clouds in my head by telling my story. Now I wake up in the morning in our modest home, glad for another day and content with my existence, my husband, and my dog. We will never be wealthy (if you count wealth by money alone), but we are rich in other ways. In my free time, there are more paintings to be created and more glorious empty pages waiting to be written on. How wonderful is that? Right now, I can say that for all I went through, I would not change a thing. After all, it made me the woman I am now.

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© 2010, 2011 Yvonne Koenders. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First edition published by AuthorHouse 6/14/2010

This version published by AuthorHouse 7/8/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0097-2 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0098-9 (sc)

Printed in the United States of America

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover photos © Alison Landis Stone, StoneCreativeImages.com

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

CHAPTER ONE

My Earliest Recollection

CHAPTER TWO

New Beginnings

CHAPTER THREE

Lessons Learned

CHAPTER FOUR

The Family Falls Apart

CHAPTER FIVE

On My Own

CHAPTER SIX

Everything Changes

CHAPTER SEVEN

Milestones

CHAPTER EIGHT

Betrayal

CHAPTER NINE

Spain

CHAPTER TEN

A Slippery Slope

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Amsterdam

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Test

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Wedding

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A Glimpse

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Paris and Milan

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Close Up with a Gun

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Murder

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

So Close …

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Greece

CHAPTER TWENTY

Another Try

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Final Escape

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

England

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

What Do You Want?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Bermuda

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Leo

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Coming to America

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

New Jersey

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Robby

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Despair/Spiritual Awakening

CHAPTER THIRTY

Life Goes On

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

New Obsessions

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Like a River

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Déjà Vu

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Alone Again

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

New Friends, New Future

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Bill

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The Letter

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Papa Revealed

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Full Circle

CHAPTER FORTY

Buddy

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The Funeral

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The Last Chapter

For

GEERTRUDE

who

NEVER STOPPED LOOKING FOR ME

and

MAR

who

NEVER STOPPED LOVING ME

Acknowledgments

I will be forever grateful to my husband, who, sorely neglected, was patient and encouraged me, made our meals, and did more than his share of the housework so I could pursue my need to write this book. I am also grateful to my friends, who helped me to write in correct English and tried to teach me proper sentence structure, which I found so hard to grasp, but who were nevertheless understanding and answered my million questions. They read and reread, letting me write and rewrite, without changing the way I talk, so it would still be my story. I am sure they are happy that it is finally done. I should express my gratitude as well to the nameless others who gave me back my belief in myself, my Guardian Angels who surely surrounded me and got me out of horrendous situations. A simple thank you is not enough, but it is all I can give in return. I am very fortunate indeed to have you all in my life. I know now that you can do anything if you have hope. I also hope that I will have friends left after this, but I will live with the consequences of my choices.

A very special thank you to Alison Landis Stone, my friend and editor. Without her assistance and continuing motivation and support, this book would not have been possible.

"Man did not weave the web of life,

He is merely a strand in it.

Whatever he does to the web,

He does to himself."

—Chief Seattle

Introduction

Do we live with lies in order to survive in society?

Or … do we live honestly, no matter what the consequences?

I decided to do the latter.

So often we say, we could, or we should …

There comes a time in your life when you have to say, I will.

My whole life happened because of choices.

True … in the early years, all the choices were made for me.

But later, they were my choices,

For better and for worse.

Choices got me in bad situations;

Others got me out of them.

The best choice I made was deciding

I deserved a better life.

The next: Face fear, and fight my way out …

Then finally … the choice to write a book about it

In the hope that you choose to pick it up

And read the results of my choices.

And just maybe …

It might help you make some of your own choices.

What makes us look back?

A sound? A look? A touch or feeling?

It can be a seemingly insignificant thing,

So subtle you barely notice it.

Like the other day,

A customer smiled at me.

He had piercing blue eyes … just like Johan had.

For a moment, I had to catch my breath … still … after all these years.

Memories came flooding back.

Sometimes, there is a sunset that warms you long after the sun is gone.

It leaves you in a pensive mood and brings you back to another time, another sunset.

A melancholy melody that drifts through the air as you walk past an open window,

A whisper in the wind, the summer breeze that strokes your face ever so softly,

Leaving you to wonder if it ever was …

But more disturbing, it can be that dream that changes into a nightmare,

And you wake up crying.

I hardly dream anymore.

My life has changed so completely.

A different country, a different job,

And even more important, a different husband.

Now I lead an ordinary life, far removed from the one I had long ago.

My life, then, was filled with darkness, drama, and abuse.

Looking back now is like watching a movie about some other woman.

The little girl who lived through fearful, painful years has changed

into a mature, healthy, smiling woman.

Something happened that brought me back to Holland and made me realize I was not yet done with the past; it would always come back to haunt me unless I did something about it. The death of my stepmother unsettled me more than I imagined it would, and once again I felt I needed to write down my thoughts. More than that, I wanted to write down the story of my life. Yet I had never done it because I was afraid I would hurt other people and because I was afraid my family and friends would stop loving me. On my flight back home, I had eight hours to think. My thoughts tumbled through my mind, reliving the past. It was like a floodgate opened up, and I could not close it. By the time the plane landed in the USA, I knew I had to write my story, no matter how painful.

I only have a handful of real friends. I hope they love me enough to deal with my story. Others—well, they don’t really matter. I learned long ago that people accept you or they don’t. Usually, people make up their mind about you in the first few moments they meet you, and I am sure that won’t change. Of course, only time will tell, but from deep inside, the urge to just do it was too strong to ignore. My story has to be told.

Where to start? How do you put a whole life between two covers? It soon became clear to me that it was not going to be easy and not necessarily because of the obvious reasons that come to mind. With English as my second language, my grammar and spelling is not the best, as Alison (who had the enormous task of editing) can attest to, but it was the emotional side that made it so hard.

Memories came faster than I could write, and when trying to put them down on paper rapidly, so as not to lose my thoughts, I made the mistake many foreigners make when excited or sad and fell back on my native tongue. The feeling the writing stirred up was another; my heart, so full it seemed too small to hold it all, spilled its contents. Each chapter called up another memory. Some things that had been buried for so long now were brought out into the open and affected me deeply, yet had to be dealt with. Others tumbled out in fragments, out of sequence. Borrowed family members’ recollections whose accuracy was never put to the test (as not to hurt each other) had to be woven into my recollections. Some memories are from so long ago and written from the understanding I had as a child and the feelings they provoked at that time—a time when secrets were firmly kept and nothing was discussed. Do they still hold true with the knowledge I have now? Does it matter? Sleepless nights followed; tears but also smiles appeared as I relived the past.

I will tell you about my lonely childhood; my years of running and my struggle to live a normal life; my anger at my mother, as well as at my father, who stood by and never helped me; but most of all, Johan, whose fault it was I had to leave the country I love. I will also tell you about love and redemption and how I emerged stronger, with a whole new outlook. But before that happened, I encountered new problems as I got into my story.

For years I was forced to live in hiding (even before I came to America). I destroyed every evidence that would show where I lived so no one could find me. Now I had to piece together a timeline. Not easy without proof, especially for a woman who barely remembers her husband’s birthday. I do not even want to go into the trouble and frustration I felt while dealing with the computer, about which I did not know the most rudimentary thing. This uncooperative machine I wanted to throw out the window; only the thought of having to replace both the machine and the window stopped me. Maybe the famous Dutch stubbornness had something to do with it as well.

I started my story out of a deep need, and it healed me. Yes, I still miss my country of tulips, flatlands, and ocean breezes, where people are friendly and you can bike everywhere; but it is not about me anymore, but about the others it could help to find courage. It is about the horrible effects secrets can have. The need for love drives us all, even if we do not acknowledge it, and it often sets us on the wrong path. We choose partners who are not good for us or jobs that do not suit us, all in an effort to please. Yet it does not have to be that way. I now want to use my experience to help others who are in a similar situation I once was in and to let them know there is a way out. I never thought I would live in America or that I could write a book, and I never thought I could make a difference, but by never giving up, I have been able to accomplish all three.

I hope my readers will open their hearts and forgive me for the way I put things on paper, as it is no small feat to write in a language other than my own. I am by no means a scholar, and I learned to speak English as I went along. This is my very personal story written in my own voice, the way I would tell it in Dutch, sprinkled with Dutch sayings, about my travels, experiences, love found and lost, but also being honest and telling about all my wrong choices. It is my hope that it will be an interesting, readable, and helpful book that will set you soul searching and help you realize how good an ordinary life can be, as well as give you a little insight about who I am and why I came to America.

My family is like loose sand thrown on the beach by the waves—one in name, but in reality, separate. Each grain of sand has to fend for itself when the waves attempt to carry it back to the sea. When you see all the grains together, it looks beautiful, but when you try to build sand castles with the sand, it is swept away the moment the tide comes in, not like a mountain that stays together through rains, storms, and even hurricanes. No matter how hard one wishes it to be different, it never is.

Are any families really what they seem?

CHAPTER ONE

My Earliest Recollection

I was pulled through that door …

A huge door, made of heavy wood, dark, with big iron hinges and bolts.

At the top of the doorframe were figurines—just faces, ugly faces, unfriendly faces.

I was convinced: Nothing good could lie behind that door. The door was at the end of a narrow alley, sunless and dark, squeezed between two houses—another bad sign. I loved the sun; not seeing it always made me feel scared.

Either way, I knew I did not want to go there.

I cried … I resisted … I fought. I was only four years old. What could I do?

Strong hands pulled me through that door. Over my head, I heard people talking about stoute Mama (bad mother). Was that my mother they were talking about? I tried to remember her. I could not.

I tried to listen, but the water was running as they scrubbed me from top to bottom with funny-smelling soap. They said I was neglected, they said I was covered with lice, and they threw my clothes away, with pulled-up noses. What did neglected mean? Where was my sister? They had picked her up as well, but I did not see her.

We were playing in the street, and I had just made a drawing with my crayons on the pavement when they came and unceremoniously put us in a car and drove away. Over my head, I heard them talking in loud whispers: something about us being handed down from friend to friend. They could not locate my mother; she was most likely in a bar somewhere or with a new man friend. And that was the last time I heard a mention of her for decades.

All I knew was that faceless people dressed me and gave me a sandwich. (I was not hungry, which surprised me because usually I was; I was just too shocked and afraid to think of food.) I was not even allowed to keep my doll. She was knitted and soft and usually my only source of comfort in a world that forced me to grow up before my time.

I sat at the end of what was to become my bed, and later I was told to get under the rough but clean sheets and go to sleep. As I lay there sobbing, I was aware that someone had put a teddy bear in my bed. I did not like bears; I wanted my doll back. I pushed him away as if it were the bear’s fault that I could not have her. I never played with him. He just lay there unloved.

A strict regulated schedule, day after day, would follow. I was now one of those girls in the drab navy blue dresses—just another mouth to feed in the state-run orphanage in the center of Amsterdam.

My sister, Lena, found a group of older girls to hang around with and could not be bothered to deal with her little sister. Someone had given me crayons and a sketchbook, and I filled my days with those. One of the other girls had a transistor radio, and I would listen to it when she let me.

I used to look out the window, waiting. I did not know what I was waiting for; I just knew that one day something good would happen, and somehow I would be able to leave.

I hated the breakfast they served—a kind of milk pudding with leftover sandwiches from the night before thrown in. (I still hate pudding.) Actually, all the meals were awful. I was told I was a picky eater, and I sometimes had to sit for hours until I ate the food. But I never did. I was stubborn even then.

That stubborn nature would serve me well in the years to come.

Papa was coming. I was so excited! As I was dancing around the room, my mind was spinning beautiful fairy tales. He would take me to his home and read me stories; he would buy me pretty dresses and … and …

Where did I put those pretty ribbons I found in the laundry room? I hid them for just an occasion as this. Ah … under my pillow. I tied them in my hair as best I could. At least they had not cut my hair, but it was hard to keep my untidy blond mop under control.

My sister had disappeared after she told me the news. She was never around; she was with the popular crowd, and her gruffness seemed to work for her. I could hear her laugh loudly, and I would occasionally see her running up or down the stairs, or maybe at meals, where we would sit at long tables neatly set out in rows. She never had to stay behind because she would not eat her meal. She happily ate her dinner and thought it stupid that I would not.

We could not have been more different. I was always trying to make my surroundings prettier, with picked flowers, scarves, or bits of material. She just fell into her untidy heap she called her bed.

I kept busy. If I was not drawing, I cut out pictures and pasted them in a book. All my activities were solitary, while Lena always surrounded herself with her friends, playing games, taking part in whatever sport was going on at the time. We were in the same place, yet worlds apart. That would never change; in fact, now we are physically oceans apart as well.

I had no idea how she felt about Papa coming; if she was happy, she did not show it.

I looked in the mirror. I wished I had a prettier dress to wear; I so hated that drab thing they called a dress. I ran to the window and waited.

Then I saw him—a handsome man with a black moustache in a tweed winter coat. He was about a foot shorter than the woman who walked next to him. Who was she? This beautiful woman wore a coat with a fur collar, high-heeled boots, and long leather gloves. She had dark wavy hair that peeked out of her fashionable hat. I thought she was a movie star. They looked good together, and Papa smiled. This was the introduction to the woman who was to become my stepmother.

The visit was brief. I stood at the windows for a long time after they left.

The winter seemed endless, but finally the snow disappeared and buds started to form on the trees. Everything turned green and made the drab, cold winter a distant memory. Instead of being pulled on the sled on the frozen canals that surrounded the city, we would walk with Papa to the park to feed the ducks or, if the spring rain made that unpleasant, we would ride on the tram. The trip always ended with chocolate milk or ice cream. I did not cry anymore when Papa left after his visits; I patiently waited for the next visit.

I think I was five or six years old when Papa finally asked my sister and me if we would like to live with him, and then we could call the lady Mama and we would be a family again. Lena put on her I don’t care face, but I planted kisses all over his face. My dreams had just come true. I was so happy! I would never wear a navy-blue dress again. My guess is that we lived there two years, maybe even a bit less, but when you are a kid, you look at time much differently, and that fact is a little fuzzy because we never spoke about it. It was a forbidden subject.

CHAPTER TWO

New Beginnings

I faced another door to step through, but this one I wanted to go in. There were no big bolts of iron or ugly faces above this door. This was a simple, nonthreatening door. It was green with a gleaming brass doorknob. It would lead us up the stairs to the flat above the shoemaker. We ran upstairs.

My stepmom was waiting for us and led us to the room with a small white bed; in the bed was a baby. She was so little, and we stared at her in disbelief. We realized we had a new sister, as well as a new mother. Our new sister’s name was Luci. She had a lot of dark hair and was covered by the softest light-blue blanket. Peeking out from underneath the blanket was the cutest outfit with embroidered rabbits on it. So sweet! I put the new doll Papa had given me into her crib, as she was pretty and so was the baby; they belonged together. And for the first time, I did not mind parting with her.

Later, we girls would all share the same room. My parents slept in the room between ours and the living room, which was L-shaped and functioned as our dining room as well. A narrow galley kitchen was on the other side, and then there was a small powder room. Unlike an American bathroom, it did not have a sink or a bathtub. Instead, we all washed at the sink in the kitchen, and once a week my mother would get the big iron tub off the balcony, where it was stored, and turn on the oven in the kitchen to heat the water and the kitchen at the same time. Then we would all take turns getting in the tub, after which we would sit in our PJs on our sofa, and my father would tell us a story before tucking us into our beds. Not much, you might say, but for us it was a palace. We went to sleep with a hot-water bottle because the bedrooms had no heat. The only heated room was the living room, which had a coal-burning stove. We would sometimes sit around it when Papa played the guitar and made up songs for us. It was a happy time.

My happiness was short lived, however, as I found out that my new mother was as cold as she was beautiful. She did feed us well, though. She kept an immaculate house. We all had tasks, except for my father, who did nothing. We had to make our beds, mop the linoleum floor, and dust. When we came home from school, we would set the table, cut vegetables, and peel the potatoes so all Mama had to do was to turn on the stove to finish dinner.

She worked full-time in the fashion department of a store much like Bloomingdale’s. There was not enough time for her to do everything, but she was very organized and ran the house like a well-oiled machine.

I hated Mondays when she was off. Monday was laundry day. She was always in a cranky mood, and so were we. We had a washing machine with a wringer on top of it. The wet sheets were folded so they could be pressed through the wringer, and we took turns cranking the handle. Then we would take the sheets out to the balcony at the back of the house, where Mama would hang them on the line. We handed her the wasknijpers (clothespins). Later, we would fold them and sprinkle them with water so she could iron them with more ease. She also taught us how to sew buttons and do small repairs. While she was ironing, she would hand us whatever needed to be repaired. After that, it was bedtime for us, and she would have a cup of tea before going to bed herself.

Mama did not have an easy life either. Looking back, I wondered how she did it all: Working full-time, raising three kids, and keeping a house going with little money and without any help whatsoever from my father, not only because he was a dreamer (he was spoiled by his mother and thought men did not do women’s work), but also because he was often ill.

We would stand on the balcony looking out for Papa. As he turned the corner onto our street, we could see by his walk how he was feeling. Sometimes he had to stop several times to catch his breath or use his inhaler. He walked slower as time wore on, and little by little his smile disappeared. Papa stayed home more and more. Often, I sat at the foot of his bed drawing, and he would show me how I could do better until I had the drawing the way I wanted it. Other times, I would read to Papa until he fell asleep. I loved that one-on-one time with him. We were never allowed to have friends over, and we always had to be quiet so as not to disturb him. The house grew more silent every day.

We did not know why the atmosphere felt so tense. How could we know all the secrets that were so carefully hidden? It would take years before it all came out and we understood. It would have been so healing if we could have talked to them about it, but we never did.

Sometimes Papa felt good, and then he would take us to the park, where he would rent a bike for us to ride. We would have it for an hour, and we were supposed to take turns riding it. Usually, Lena took off and did not come back until the hour was up and we had to take the bike back before I had a spin on it. I did not mind really. I just wanted to be with my daddy. I always worried about him, and I would hold his hand tightly.

Around Christmas time, he was at his best. In Holland, we celebrate St. Nicolaas on December fifth. We give gifts accompanied by a poem, and Papa was a master at that. He had great fun writing very long poems—always very silly ones similar to those of Dr. Seuss.

After the excitement of St. Nicolaas, where all the children are rewarded for being good, it is time to get ready for Christmas. As the name suggests, we celebrate the birth of Christ, which has nothing to do with gifts under a tree as it does in America. For most people in Holland, it is a religious holiday (or at least it was when I lived there).

My father liked to go to the Christmas Eve service at the Lutheran church, but my stepmother, who did not believe in God and did not want her children’s heads to be filled with that nonsense, tried to keep us out of there. Yet occasionally, Papa won the argument and took us there. I was very intimidated by the big pulpit that rose high above the pews, the massive woodwork, and the stern-looking minister (they were all frightening to me), but I loved the Christmas music and the story of baby Jesus. After the service, the church would hand out oranges, chocolate treats, and coloring books for the children, and I gladly stood in line for those treats.

For me, the best part of Christmas Eve was yet to come. We would walk to the corner where the Christmas trees were sold. The smell of the evergreens hung in the air. The shops and houses were decorated, the glowing lights in the dark changed everything, and it felt like we were walking in a fairytale world. We had to stop frequently to press our noses to the windows to see all the beautiful things that were displayed. Papa took advantage of those breaks to use his inhaler; he knew he needed his strength to carry home the Christmas tree. We agonized over which one to choose, not that there were that many to choose from because they were always pretty much picked over and only the saddest-looking ones were left. But Papa told us it was tradition to buy the tree on Christmas Eve, and we would not get one any earlier. It was only when I was older that I realized the more likely reason was that on Christmas Eve, they practically gave away the trees for nothing. But we always managed to find one special tree, and we proudly carried home our trophy. Papa walked up front, Mama at the end, with us children in the middle, marching with the rhythm of the Christmas tunes we were humming. (We must have looked like ducks marching to the nest, and I still chuckle thinking about that mental picture.)

It was hard pulling the tree up the stairs, and many needles were lost during that process, but finally the tree would stand proudly in the corner, in front of our window, so all the neighbors could see it. After Mama put on the lights, we could all hang ornaments. I loved the beautiful birds with their real feather tails that we carefully perched on the branches. Shiny crystal ornaments that Mama had carefully wrapped the previous year were brought out with great fanfare and excitement, then placed up high so nothing would happen to them. By far, my favorite were the musical instruments, which included two trumpets that we would blow on before we hung them, and each time, we were thrilled by the sound. After that came all kinds of keepsakes, as well as kransjes (wreath-shaped cookies) and candied goodies. We tasted a few before putting them on the tree, and later some were stolen off the tree, but they were really a reward for taking the tree down later, when it would become part of the bonfires that were lit up all over town on New Year’s Day.

My mother was very particular about the colors that were allowed on the tree. Soft pastels were allowed for the decorations, but for the rest, it was silver and gold but never any colored ornaments or big lights; they had to be white and classy. Papa would shake his head but knew she only tried hard to hang on to her own Christmas traditions from when she was a child, and he would let her have her way.

As a final treat, my mother would make hot chocolate milk with real whipped cream, and we eagerly waited for the lighting of the tree. We would sit around for a while, sipping our chocolate and admiring our work. If we were very lucky, Papa would take out his guitar and play some songs for us. We were so happy!

There were other happy times, but most of our happiness depended on how happy our parents were, and in my case, how happy Papa was. Papa was happy when playing the guitar, he was happy when reading, and he was happy when writing his books, but he was happiest when he and his brother (Uncle Harry) were together. Uncle Harry seemed to bring out the best in him, and my normally quiet father would become a person full of fun, more like his brother.

Uncle Harry was a colorful figure, and the two of them were a comedy act. I liked Uncle Harry. He had a round, pleasant face, and he always made a fuss over us. He had been in a motorcycle accident and walked with a limp. He had a wooden leg and took great delight in showing us how strong he was, able to withstand pain by hammering a nail into his leg through his trousers. Only later did he show us that his leg was made of wood.

Uncle Harry and his wife sometimes came to play cards with my parents. He would also take Papa fishing with him and would complain about how he had to put the worm on the fishing rod for him and how Papa’s fishing line usually got stuck in the trees. They always came home with stories about the one that got away. But all his teasing was well-natured, and he always winked at us to let us know he was not serious. (Uncle Harry died much too soon, after a heart attack.)

His sons, Wim and Henk, always went out of their way to be kind to us. I adored my cousin Wim. He is a great artist and makes the most wonderful drawings. He still sends me homemade cards with beautiful drawings on them from places he visits on his travels. He was the only one who later came to visit me in the States. Wim loved my dad, and they sometimes went to soccer games. He was as handy as my father was clumsy, so he often did things around the house for us. Papa enjoyed him, and Mama loved Wim as well.

My father had little to say about anything. In fact, he barely spoke. He was always the quiet person in the background. He made a little money writing documents because of his beautiful penmanship. He also started to write books. He would create fascinating drawings around beautiful lettering. One letter could take hours and sometimes days if he could not get it just the way he wanted it. I loved watching him work.

I have very few stories about Papa, but there is one that Wim, Lena, or I enjoyed telling over and over. There was a party at Oma’s (Grandma’s) house. I think it was her birthday. She used to invite everyone, including Aunt Anna and her daughter, Jennie. I only found out later who they really were. The basement that had stone floors was usually set up as a dance floor, and Wim and Henk would teach us to dance, and we thought that was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to us. They brought the record player and the records. We danced to Fats Domino’s Rock around the Clock, and Chubby Checkers’ Let’s Twist Again, and later the Everly Brothers’ songs. (I loved them even more. They sang some pretty ballads, like Crying in the Rain, my favorite.)

Upstairs, despite my stepmother’s misgivings, liquor was served. In our house, with the exception of Christmas and Easter and maybe a birthday, no alcohol was served, so Mama (trying to outsmart them) weakened the drinks with water. Uncle Harry, who knew her well, brought his own bottle, and each time she was not looking, filled up Papa’s glass with the real thing. Mama was pleased that Papa was such a slow drinker and assumed he just paced himself.

As the evening wore on, however, it became evident that the alcohol had gotten to him. My normally serious father now had rosy cheeks and was smiling. He started to tell outrageous jokes and stories, while Uncle Harry egged him on. Realizing she had been duped, Mama left in anger and told Papa to have a good time by himself: Let your brother take you home, since he loves you so much. Papa with Uncle Harry by his side and a good bit of drink inside, did not seem to care. Uncle Harry and Papa were now singing songs and were amusing everyone with their comedy act.

But all good things come to an end, and finally it was time to go home. Wim, inventive as always, took his motorcycle and a rope. He told his brother to sit at the end of the seat, then they tied Papa between them so he could not fall. To get him up straight between them was a feat all by itself, and with much laughter it was finally accomplished, and they brought him safely home.

We heard Papa stumbling up the stairs, tripping over and banging into things trying to get into his PJ’s. After he finally got into bed, he flew out of it again to throw up. Mama was not pleased, and she said some unkind words. My father cradled the porcelain bowl, then stumbled back slowly and crawled into bed, saying to my mother, Cocky, please don’t be mad at me anymore; I soon will be dead.

Oh really, was her cool response. Why is that?

Well, I am bleeding. When I looked into the toilet, all I saw was blood, he said.

In reality, when he tripped over the chair, the small side table with the alarm clock fell as well, and the clock cut his hand. He had not noticed, but as he held onto the toilet bowl, his blood dripped into it. After my mother cleared that up, she told him, Sleep it off, you fool, but she could not help but giggle a bit when she relayed the story to Wim.

The next story is less funny, but nevertheless important because it repeated itself many times, and it confirmed my belief that our stepmother loved Luci more than Lena and me. She never said so, but actions speak louder than words. In general, Mama and Oma did not get along. My mother found her low class, and Oma in turn found her haughty. But no matter who she would have been, no one was good enough for her son. Papa still went to her for eel with mashed potatoes, his favorite meal, which Mama refused to make for him because it would make the house smell, but more than that, you had to keep the eel alive in a bucket of water until you are ready to prepare it. Seeing her way in, Oma would often bribe him to come over for that meal. She was a widow and would have loved it if Papa were still living at home with her; she used to stir the pot (no pun intended) to get her way. She never failed to point out Mama’s shortcomings to him. Things always came to a head on New Year’s Eve.

New Year’s Eve is usually a big day in Holland; everyone looks forward to it. The whole country cooks all day for the special food we only eat on that night. We eat oliebollen (which are similar to doughnuts, but they are usually made with currants and raisins and have no hole in the middle) and appelflappen (apple fritters) sprinkled with powdered sugar … sweet and delicious. I can still see us sitting in the corridor, with our faces pressed against the glass of the door leading to the kitchen, to see Mama with a scarf around her hair (knotted à la Aunt Jemima) so it would not smell of the cooking oil in which the oliebollen was fried. We would get the first taste, and the mistakes. So we were waiting like drooling puppies full of anticipation of the treat to come. (Thinking about it nearly makes me smell the aroma, and I am homesick for them at each year’s end.)

At midnight, fireworks are set off all over the city, then people walk out into the streets and wish each other a happy New Year. Neighbors and friends visit with each other and taste each other’s treats, each boasting to have the best. Yet … in our house, we had Oma to celebrate it with us. We would set the table: big platters of all kinds of treats laid out and, in the middle, the snow-white–powdered oliebollen and appelflappen that we were dying to eat. But we had to wait until the fireworks were over. Oma would wish us a happy New Year and would kiss us, but then she would go up to Mama and say, I hope this year will be better between us. Then my mother would fly into a rage, and they would start arguing, with accusations flying back and forth. Oma would go home.

Papa used to stay silent, just looking from one to the other, his arms hanging helplessly at his side. That would make Mama even angrier (he never took up for her). They would fight until Mama would take Luci by the hand and shout that she was leaving, slamming the door behind her. She would go to her mother’s in Zandvoort, leaving Lena and me with Papa, who was hopelessly lost without her and utterly miserable until she came back. And I would cry, not because there was no love for our father, but because she had left and she did not love us enough to take us also. Our real mother left us, and so did Mama, more than once, and that memory is engraved in my mind.

As always, things returned to normal in a few days. Then we would have a nice Sunday. When the church bells rang next door, the sweet smell of fresh pound cake would waft through the air. Earlier on, we would lick the bowl and the spoon that had stirred the dough, as our mother made the cake from scratch. In the summer, she would put fresh strawberries and freshly whipped cream on top of it. Steaming hot coffee would be served with the cake, and we would have it on the balcony. In the winter, we would eat the cake with peaches out of a tin