Women!: Book 1: Crying Mothers

By Shan

Women! is a novel about women. The main character, Shan, believes the women in her life are 'willing slaves of the West'. The book takes the form of a memoir but is considered a novel due to the potential unreliability of human memories. Shan takes the reader on a bumpy ride through the Netherlands, Belgium, Fra

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clear Mind Press
• Release date: Jul 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645707472

Shan

Shan likes to call herself 'the rockstar of the European memoir, and we agree.

Book preview

1

The turning point

Bang! I pulled the door of the apartment shut behind me and listened. There were no noises behind it. Snake poison seemed to flow through my veins. I stood still. I was in my socks. My shoes were inside. I could not go back. My legs felt weak. No! I could not pause here! I had to run at all costs. I looked around. Where could I go? What could I do? Who could I tell? Nobody!

The horse farm!

I ran.

The air felt like jelly; my body seemed to move in slow motion. I reached the stairs, grabbed the railing and swung around it. My feet hardly touched the old wooden steps as I raced down. Out! Out! There was the heavy front door. It seemed to be coming toward me. I pushed it open. A gulf of fresh air hit me. Without hesitation, I jumped onto the dark garden path before me. It was as if I was running on a giant ball and was pushing the surface away with my feet. I felt the mossy surface of the pavers through my socks. There came the gate racing toward me. I fought with the rusty iron lock. The gate swung open. Into the street it went; my now icy-cold feet carried me down The Mountain toward the old city centre. Under the street lanterns, cones of yellow light stood on the pavement. There were hardly any people. Nobody took notice of a running thirteen-year-old anyway. The station passed me on the left while dark trees raced by on the left. The streets seemed to pour into me. It was as if I was swallowing them. My socks were soaking wet now.

A sob escaped my lips. If only I could reach the farm, I would be fine. I would climb to the attic. Hide between the straw bales. Sleep in the hay. If I were lucky, there would be a pair of rubber boots. I felt a stitch. Ignoring the pain, I ran straight through the centre, the city’s church towering over me, to the ring around the suburbs. Keeping the suburbs to the left of me, I turned into an unpaved road to the right and saw the thatched roof of the farm ahead of me… I felt calmer as soon as I spotted it. I slowed down. 

2

Amsterdam 1957

I was born in 1957 in the North-West of the Netherlands, a flat land where the horizons are empty and windswept, except for a small town that emerged, a church and a few houses, all constructed of orange bricks. The roofs were orange too. One or two roads led to such a town and away from it, meandering through neatly arranged meadows and fields with golden crops nearly ripe for harvest. Ditches bordered the pastures; their water levels were so high that they spilled into the dark soil, enriching it with summery fertility. In one such town, stood my cradle. Its name is Hoorn.

It was late summer, with a vast sky hanging above. The clouds seemed to be hiding, and when they appeared, they were white and far apart, like the sheep grazing beneath them. The meadows teemed with calves and foals nibbling the grass with their baby teeth, imitating their mothers, shaking their heads after each bite.

Swans and ducks, accompanied by their offspring, which were awkward with youth and undergoing plumage changes, populated the ditches. Straight dikes ensured that no more water could enter the land. All that land lies below sea level. The harvest promised to be bountiful. Wooden carts stood ready at the field's edges. Around the wheels, a cacophony of colours emerged as dandelions, cornflowers, poppies, clovers, and hogweed vied for space to thrive.

Here and there, the low roof of a farmhouse was visible behind orchards and hedges. Heavy with pears and apples, the trees stood behind neatly trimmed hedges and rows of pollard willows. The scents of hay in the attic, the sounds of chickens and roosters, and the buzzing of a bee or two wafted toward the road. A farmer's wife, dressed in long skirts and wooden shoes, hurried from the house into the stable through a large dark green door, where a distressed cow cried out. Where farmers prospered, shiny Trabants or Volkswagens were parked in the yards.

Moving towards the town of Hoorn, the ditches converged into wider creeks, carrying fast-flowing water. Bridges graced the landscape, leading to the Hoornse Hop, once part of the Zuiderzee, an inland sea that would later be contained by a long dike, a marvel of engineering, transforming it into a lake.

The town was slightly elevated. It was celebrating its six-hundredth anniversary. Its past as a trading harbour for the East India Company in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries took centre stage. Red, white, and blue flags fluttered from facades and boat masts. A marching band captivated throngs of children while their parents made their way to the square in front of the railway station, where the town's elders were treated to a meal. An ox rotated on a spit. On this Day of the Long Knives, butchers sharpened their knives and carved the ox when it was so tender that it nearly fell off the bone. The head chef, renowned gastronomer and writer Herman Nicolas had prepared a special unicorn sauce. The first taster was the mayor, who, as a gracious host, wanted to ensure everything was cooked to perfection. Alongside the meat, Unicorn Beer was served.

A friendly football match between the Enkhuizen Veterans and the Farmers ended in a draw. A dance troupe from Denmark added to the festivities, performing folk dances beneath the trees. The local North Hollanders demonstrated their prowess in folk dancing a little later. The weather was fantastic, and the town was brimming with excitement. I couldn't have chosen a better day to be born.

My mother grew up in Hoorn. She was a beautiful child with long golden locks that turned heads as she walked the streets. She had a passion for ballet dancing. Her name was Sjaan. She was even more striking when compared to her older sister, who had a dark complexion but shared the same large blue eyes. Together, they were a captivating duo with their long braids, cheerful dresses, and large ribbons in their hair. Their proud mother always hovered in the background, watching over them. They had two younger brothers who playfully teased them. Their father was a competent provider, and together they formed a solid family in a spacious brick house, where the mother ruled the household and never seemed to sit still.

During the war, they had been part of the Resistance. They had risked their lives hiding people. They had experienced hunger and starvation during the harsh, bitterly cold winter of the war's final days. While the South had already been liberated from the Germans, those living above the great rivers endured fear, cold, and famine. They resorted to eating tulip bulbs and nettles and suffered such extreme cold that their father, my Opa, suffered permanent numbness in his toes.

Those days of hardship were now behind them. Like everyone else, they were swept up in post-war excitement and the pursuit of prosperity. They were considered more attractive than most. When they were teenagers, the two sisters attended high school parties, and Mum met Dad at one of these gatherings.

Dad was raised in a small village near Hoorn. On the map, Etersheim consists of one winding road that resembles a snake, a narrow lane that splits into two empty directions at the dike of the inland sea. A bit further inland, struggling farms were less prosperous than those near Hoorn. Their yards were muddier, the grass in their fields longer, and more children were running about. Families with six or more children were the norm. The farmers raised pigs and sheep, unlike those around Hoorn, who owned cows and horses. The only notable buildings in the village were a small primary school and a church with a  parsonage next to it. There was no need for a shop because everything was grown and produced at home. For new clothes, one had to journey to Hoorn once a year.

The main source of income was milk, which was collected daily by the nearby dairy factory. The farmers left cylindrical cans at the roadside, which workers in white rubber aprons tipped into a tank on a truck. In return, the dairy factory workers left cash in a small indentation on the milk can's lid.

Dad lived in the parsonage with his family. They were considered city dwellers forced to leave Amsterdam after Dad's father was arrested at the war's end. Dad's mother had turned her back on her husband, who had worked for the Germans, and she began living in sin with a man employed by the butcher. Together, they raised three children who, being seen as city folk, never quite fit in with the Etersheim community. Dad was the middle child.

By the time Dad was in high school in Hoorn, he had developed a passion for Jazz and the arts under the influence of his much older friend Rik Schipper. Dad played the guitar and cycled around with a field easel and a portfolio containing his drawings of cattle, vegetable gardens, and vast, windswept landscapes. He cycled to Hoorn to attend art school, occasionally staying overnight at a friend's place.

***

As my sixty-sixth birthday rapidly approaches here in Australia, I find myself contemplating these places and reflecting on my fate, the plight of being born in a woman's body and how that has influenced my life. It may sound cliché, but time accelerates as one ages. I often think about the years I've spent as a woman, as what I used to refer to as being a Willing Slave of the West. Some of these thoughts demand to be written down. I use slaving instead of caring when discussing women's behaviour because the behaviour is compulsive. Women, unless they consciously awaken and intentionally cease this slaving, are bound by their DNA, their upbringing, and a society that expects them to be slaves. This causes silent suffering that can be detected in their body language. In the West, women cater to the needs of those around them. While this may hold true for women worldwide, I can only speak of the places I have personally been to. It was evident in Japan, where I lived for eleven years, that women slaved.

I consider myself to be an extraordinary woman. I believe I possess greater adaptability and resilience than most. However, my reasons for feeling remarkable depend not on the fact that I pursued a law degree later in life or that I am pursuing a PhD. My knowledge spans the arts, literature, psychology, and neuroscience. I am proficient in five languages. I have worked closely with Aboriginal women in remote desert regions and am a skilled four-wheel driver. I have a keen eye for drawing and a sharp sense of perspective and a good singing voice. But, I regard myself as remarkable because I emancipated myself from my family of origin. At the age of fourteen, I left home.

Another thing that sets me apart is that I chose to leave my partner and children (who were four and five at the time) and refused to return unless circumstances changed. I was twenty-four years old. Unfortunately, things did not change.

Things could have unfolded quite differently, like for my sister, Flo, who has recently been reaching out to me. Flo seems to have everything one could desire: a caring and supportive husband, two grown daughters, a spacious house with a garden in The Hague, and a lucrative career in education. However, she battles alcoholism and suicidal thoughts while lacking any education in matters of the psyche. Our conversations last eight to ten hours and can only be described as tackling profound spiritual crises.  I find the term spiritual somewhat unsatisfactory and struggle to articulate its precise meaning. Our shared past prompted Flo to reach out to me from The Hague to Alice Springs via late-night phone calls in 2021. After such conversations, I often felt compelled to contact her husband, who was just waking up, and alert him to the potential danger of Flo's self-destructive tendencies. Flo is once again in danger, Rud. Please ensure her well-being.

Leave it to me, Shan; I will take care of your sister. I promise.

***

My mother embodies the archetype of a post-war North European woman, a typical Willing Slave of the West. She once possessed remarkable beauty and took great care of herself, maintaining an elegant appearance. She adores ballet, fills vases with bouquets, and appreciates stylish clothing. Throughout her life, she has never experienced solitude. She has always been in a relationship, willingly taking on the roles of cooking and cleaning. Despite enduring humiliating insults from her second husband, Said, about her lack of education, she remains silent. Her protest is evident in how she closes the kitchen door with too much force, serves slightly too small portions during dinner, hums in a dull and lifeless tone, and, according to Said, refrains from engaging in sexual activity since the age of forty.

My father never spent time alone, either. He passed away a couple of weeks ago in a hospital in Sneek, Friesland, peacefully, they say. My sister Lena recorded videos of his last days, which she sent me as MP4 files. They still reside on my phone. Dad was a crazy old man. Sitting in the hospital bed, he assumed the air of a king on his throne, gesturing towards invisible objects in the room. He conducted the surroundings with both hands, palms up, reminiscent of a priest. He would abruptly clutch his head as if his mind were exploding.

An angry gaze at the camera: Are you filming me? Why? I'm an old man who can no longer do anything.

Many years ago, my father fell into the blue eyes of the beautiful daughter of the Resistance. At nineteen, he became both my father and my best friend. When he passed away, he was surrounded by his children from different relationships, representing his first, second, and third family. As had become customary by that time, I was absent. We hadn't seen each other for twelve years. The Covid pandemic conveniently prevented me from travelling from Australia to the Netherlands for his funeral.

I clearly remember the last time I saw Dad. Twelve years before he died, my Beau of the time, an Native American man named Blue, and I drove away from Dad in a hired car. Dad had his arm around his second wife, Agata. She kissed him on the mouth. They waved. We waved back. Dad turned his head a little to receive the kiss. His hand froze in the air; his open palm turned at us as if he had put a period behind the waving. Bye. It was a gesture that was typical for him. He had small hands. They were ravaged by psoriasis, all red and raw. That's why he was wearing white cotton gloves. His head had shrunk with age. His hair was nearly gone, and what was still there was a mousy grey. In the background was the harbour of the old town of Harlingen in Friesland, where the roads are made of cobblestone. Blue was driving. I turned around, looked at Dad and Agata waving, and decided never to see them again.

We hadn’t stayed in their house, which was gradually turning into a hoarder's den, but they had rented the neighbouring house for us instead. At that pre-Covid time, everyone was feverishly turning their investments into Airbnb’s. Dad's neighbours had just finished theirs. We had been miserably cold in the bed in the drafty attic. We had dined with Dad and Agata off a dirty wrinkled tablecloth—no frills for guests. As usual, I was ashamed. Dad had bought herring from a stall and served it to Blue with raw onions and pickled dill cucumber. He showed Blue how to hold the raw beast by the tail, tilt his head, and let the slimy body slither into his mouth. He served jenever with it, a sharp Dutch gin.

***

As I age, my memory seems to extend further into the past. Reflecting on the early months of my life, I recall images of circles, shimmering light, and a sense of despair. They can be attributed to my experience of spending the first five months of my life in one of the first two incubators in the Netherlands, which had been recently imported from America. This occurred at a Hoorn hospital where my grandparents, Opa and Oma van R, lived. Without that incubator, I would not have survived. It marked a challenging and tumultuous beginning. Scientific studies have explored the impact of maternal deprivation on rhesus monkeys, and I, too, bear the deep imprint of that experience within me. I have always felt a profound sense of aloneness. It brings to mind the words of Chuang Tzu, who expressed, I am alone, I have nothing, my mind is like that of a fool, nebulous-indiscriminate. Worldly people appear bright and cheerful; I alone seem dark. Worldly people appear sharp and clever; I alone am dull. I drift like the waves and blow like the winds without a destination. While the multitudes find purpose and employment, I alone feel rustic and worthless. I am different because I treasure sustenance from the Great Mother.

It is said that happiness is connected to belonging. I belong nowhere. Hence, I am never happy. But I have learned to be content. My aloneness no longer troubles me, and I have become quite content in my own company. I can sit and do nothing without feeling bothered, although, like anyone else, I prefer the distraction of my phone. There were times when this was not the case. In my twenties, after experiencing the sting of love lost for the first time, I was terrified of my aloneness. During that period, I tried to understand the phenomenon of love while pursuing a degree in psychology. I discovered that love, particularly the experience of being in love, results from electrical and chemical processes, a mere reduction in serotonin reuptake.

Most people live under the illusion of a deep connection with others and believe in a solid self with free will. I have never had the fortune to embrace such notions because my mother did not nurture me. Safety and a clear sense of identity have always eluded me, but I have always instinctively recognised truth.

During these early days, my weight hovered just below a kilogram, giving rise to serious concerns. As evident from this narrative, I managed to defy the odds and lived to tell my tale.

My mother pumped milk from her breasts, which caused them to become what she called empty tea bags. This posed a problem, as women are typically better protected when their breasts are full because they attract more attention from men. Such knowledge came instinctively to Mum, passed down from her mother, who was an even more devoted Willing Slave of the West. Ah, yes! My Oma van R knew how to run a household while raising four children and dealing with a demanding child-man.

She excelled at preparing Sunday's beef roasts. Opa preferred his meat cooked rare, and he would be the one to carve it at the table, generously dousing it in Maggi sauce, while Oma, as she did countless times throughout the day, would say, Oh, William!

Looking back, I understand that there was immense concern surrounding my well-being. However, the glass walls of my life-saving prison shielded me from the worries and the range of emotions and sensations outside. Some individuals could extend their hands through the round holes in the glass wall of my dwelling and touch me, but those hands were always gloved in rubber. In 1957 the benefits of skin-to-skin contact, now recognized in hospitals for premature infants, were not yet known.

A nurse changed my cotton nappies, which extended to my chin. Apart from the nappy, I remained unclothed, resembling a shrimp wrapped in an oversized cotton loincloth within a fish tank. This is what the initial small black-and-white photos depict. My complexion was a dark red, and it's safe to say that I was not exactly a beauty.

Opa and Oma van R would often recount how much they adored me, their first grandchild, born out of wedlock and premature. As a young child, I would repeatedly ask them to describe my time in the incubator, and they went to great lengths to narrate the experience through their eyes. Their vivid descriptions became imprinted in my memory.

Memory is a strange thing, as it proves to be highly unreliable. Yet, we can only recount what we remember, adhering to our perception of the truth while acknowledging that it may all be an illusion, a mirage, or even a lie. The past is irrevocably gone and undergoes constant transformation. The future never truly arrives because when it does, it becomes the present moment. Even the notion of now is dubious, as it exists at the juncture where the past and future intersect. There is no discrete present moment, thin as a hair, between the doors separating the past and the future. These doors close tightly, sealing off the past and future hermetically. Bang. One could argue that the present moment exists outside of time, with us existing within it. In my younger years, I used to ponder such concepts extensively. As I've grown older, contemplating such matters seems a waste of time.

When Flo and I were toddlers, Opa van R entertained us by playfully stealing food from our plates while Oma busied herself serving and bustling about. She patted her hair to ensure it was still perfectly arranged and touched up her lipstick between courses.

After dinner, Oma checked her appearance in the round mirror above the small sink in the toilet. She straightened her skirt and blouse, put on her matching jacket, and lifted me to the mirror to clean my face with her handkerchief. 

We need some fresh air, little maid,  

We venture into the garden at the back of the house to pick hazelnuts. Sometimes we went out to the street and fed stale bread to the swans in the Singel, a body of water across the street covered in duckweed.

Or we walked to the farmhouse at the end of a sandy path to buy milk and eggs directly from the farmer. Upon returning home, washing the dishes began, and the drying, with blue and white checkered tea towels. We placed the dishes in the dark oak wooden cupboard in the living room. Silverware was be polished, and tablecloths and napkins washed and starched. Oma wore a starched apron. The rows of crockery in the cupboard captivated me—the sheer size and multitude of pieces. Stacks of plates, soup terrines, sauce boats, and sugar pots were neatly lined up on the shelves. They all bore the same blue pattern depicting a landscape with a horse cart and a cottage. I gazed at the endless repetition of the picture. Once everything was washed, dried, and put away, it was time for another meal, and the cycle would begin again.

Dinner consisted of leftovers from lunch. At the table, Opa slowly lifted his left hand high, holding a sparkling silver spoon. As we followed his hand with our eyes, his right hand, holding a fork, swiftly darted out to pierce a piece of food from our plates, bringing it to his wide-open mouth as he widened his blue eyes. We shrieked in delight and horror, No, Opa, don't!

Oma said: Oh, William, don't.

Opa was boisterous and animated throughout dinner while Oma smiled, served, and gently wiped our cheeks. Opa was fond of monkeys and often entertained us with various imitations. He pounded his chest with his fists between bites, emitted loud cackles, scratched his armpit with his arm raised overhead, and pretended to pick imaginary lice from our heads with intense concentration. His hands and wrists, emerging from a perfectly starched white shirt, were covered in black hair. His head was bald and shiny, with only a ring of dark hair remaining. When he laughed, sparkling teeth appeared. Only now do I realize that they may have been dentures.

Their house had a strong scent of washing powder. Opa worked for Persil and brought home ten-kilo drums of the stuff. Cleanliness was paramount in their household—no spots on clothing were tolerated!

They were the only ones in the extended family who owned a car, a pale-yellow Opel Kadett with cream leather seats. They towed an impeccably kept caravan behind it. The caravan served as an extension of their home, with Oma presiding over it while Opa sat, read newspapers, carved meat, drank jenever, and meticulously maintained his tools. 

They were warm, loving, and generous despite their well-organized household or maybe because of it. Their two youngest sons, my uncles, Abraham and Johannes, were still living at home. I assume Mum and Dad must have lived with them when I was in the incubator.

As I grew stronger, my parents relocated to Dad's mother's parsonage in Etersheim. 

Dad and Opa held opposing views on politics, and I vividly remember their disagreements during their Sunday afternoon drinking sessions. Opa became unreasonable, mimicking the actions of Germans during the war. He lined up imaginary Jews against a wall and simulated gunfire. To shield us from the horrific scene, Oma swiftly guided us away through the doorway into the hallway, and the kitchen, where she diverted our attention with fabrics for new skirts and dresses or engaged us in a round of spool knitting. As we worked on creating meters of rainbow-coloured spool-knitted snakes, we heard Opa vent his post-war rage upon the others in the room. Oma occasionally ventured into the living room to assess if the coast was clear for us to return. Eventually calming down after his outbursts, Opa would mutter, "Goddamned Mofs!" (Mof being a derogatory term for 'German'). Oma spoke to him in a calming way, and he would settle, his forehead full of sudden wrinkles. Dad was silent, and Mum stared out the windows into the leafy street. Opa van R knew that Dad’s real father was a traitor. Dad was so ashamed of this fact that he never mentioned his father. Opa van R thought that his daughter could have done better than to date the son of a moffenhoer. No matter how far one distanced oneself from a traitor, one was never forgiven if one had one in the family. The war wounds were too fresh, the memories too raw.

***

The other grandparental house differed in countless ways from the one in Hoorn. Dad's former home carried the aroma of drying apples and pears on old newspapers, mingled with the scent of cats and dogs and their feed and the fragrance of freshly harvested vegetables heaped in large piles waiting to be processed. The pungent odour of neighbouring farmers' manure sometimes made life almost unbearable.

Oma V had replaced her incarcerated traitor of a husband with 'Uncle Arne'. She made coffee while Uncle Arne set the table. He was a silent man who found it impossible to sit still. The fragrance of coffee permeated the expansive kitchen, which resembled a scullery rather than a traditional kitchen. After drinking coffee, Uncle Arne vanished into the vegetable garden to resurface at dinnertime.

The world raged with noise and movement outside. The long thick grass bowed under gusts of wind. Rain pelted against the windows. The house squeaked and groaned, and the pollard willow at the dike leaned perilously close to snapping. Beyond the willows, the grey Inland Sea thundered. Cows and sheep stood in lines, their hindquarters facing the wind, guarding their heads. Hay torn from haystacks formed chaotic patterns in whirlwinds while birds sought refuge in their nests and burrows.

Yet, occasionally, the world outside became silent. The grass was still on a summer's day, and I was placed in a wooden pen nestled in the grass. The women were hanging freshly laundered clothes on lines in neat rows, clasping clothespins between their lips. The cat joined me in the pen, emitting a loud purr. I stood unsteadily, gripping the bars, dressed in white socks, white shoes, and a polka-dot dress. I must have been around one year old. I gazed at Mum, my eyes following her every movement. Her thick blonde ponytail cascaded down to her lower back as she leaned backwards while draping a sheet over the clothesline. Pausing for a moment, she glanced at me and waved. Filled with adoration, I attempted to wave back but lost my balance and fell. I was intoxicated with love for Mum, completely captivated by her beauty.

We eventually relocated to Amsterdam, where Dad needed to complete his education at the Instituut voor Kunstnijverheidsonderwijs to become the family's breadwinner. I am still piecing together how they managed financially, as both families had a longstanding taboo against borrowing money. It's remotely possible they received financial support from our grandparents; I'm uncertain.

Suddenly thrust into motherhood, Mum transformed from a ballet-dancing teen to a mother dedicated to domestic duties. I silently observed her tireless efforts—washing, scrubbing, cooking, baking, folding, pressing, and rearranging. She carried out these tasks joylessly though her happiness temporarily rekindled when Dad arrived home, and she set the table. But her joy dissipated as soon as he absentmindedly glanced at the food while engrossed in the evening paper. Mum dutifully cleaned up after him.

The highlight of my day arrived when I was allowed to sit on Dad's lap after dinner. I inhaled the scent of Caballero cigarettes emanating from the breast pocket of his tweed blazer. Dad gave me his Potter's Linea box to play with. It was filled with tiny rattling lozenges. I begged him to open the tin, wanting to take in their scent. He slowly lifted the lid, his eyes wide, revealing a golden interior with a second lid containing a small hole. He poured some tiny black lozenges into his palm and let me savour the smell of liquorice. But he firmly refused when I pleaded for one: They are only for smokers. And you don’t smoke, do you? 

We laughed.

Yes, I said, I smoke, Dad.

Really?

Yes!

I don’t believe you.

Dad!

I have to report you to the police then. He stood up.

No, no, Dad. Dad! No! I don’t smoke.

Aha! He strummed his guitar while recounting a tale about a smoking swan. Each time the swan settled in a chair, having rescued me from the icy canals of Amsterdam and brought me home, Dad would offer her a cigar. The sheer absurdity of the story caused me to lose my balance with laughter. Dad lit the cigar, and the swan puffed away like a seasoned smoker.

No, Dad, no! I shrieked. Dad continued claiming that the swan had smoked the entire cigar while I was asleep.

I became Dad's little girl while Mum toiled in the background. Her work was unending. We lived in poverty, unable to afford a washing machine. Our attic apartment was in the Jewish quarter of Amsterdam, just a short distance from the Anne Frank House, nestled in the shadow of the West Church tower. Its' bells chimed every half an hour.

The unevenness of the house caused the furniture to gradually slide towards the lower side of the wooden floor, necessitating rearrangements every few days.

Heat was generated by coals stored in the cellar, and it fell upon Mum to carry them up the steep and narrow stairs.

Our neighbours across the street were unpredictable folks. During their quarrels, he would hurl furniture, pots and pans, bedsheets, and pillows out of the windows while she retrieved the items from the street and carried them back into the house. Mum and I observed such a scene from our open window, the windowsill pressing into my stomach. On the cobblestones below, a crowd gathered to witness the spectacle. Above them, the houses towered, leaning in various directions on their wooden poles.

Amsterdam, built on wooden poles in the water, gave the houses a swaying quality as if they were dancing. 

The erratic couple ceased once the rain began. Rain was never far away, announcing its arrival with the sudden scent of dust and damp stone.

Mum felt ashamed and disappointed, finding herself in the Jewish quarter, living in a modest attic apartment with second-hand furniture. But she refused to acknowledge these feelings, even to herself. De Jordaan was far from the trendy and expensive neighbourhood it has become today. Mum couldn't help but feel inferior to her capable mother, who possessed a cheerful and resilient nature. Her mother was also a talented storyteller with a captivating radio-worthy voice that remained untapped. Mum saw Dad as inferior to her father, who had achieved financial success working for Persil, allowing him to afford a car and a caravan. Our apartment starkly contrasted with the grand house in Hoorn where Mum had grown up. Near that house, with its large bay windows overlooking the Singel, swans floated around on the duckweed-covered water while old weeping willows arched heavily over them. Mum longed for a nearby place where she could take me to feed the swans, just as Oma van R did. She shed tears and felt sorry for herself and me. I sensed it all. A child is an antenna, particularly attuned to the mother's inner currents.

The downstairs neighbours took pity on Mum, and she often entrusted them with my care. Even now, I dream of Ida and Moos, an elderly couple with no children. Ida earned a living as an ironer and brought me to her clients' homes. She carried me on her back, and I listened to the gentle sound of the iron gliding over the fabrics while inhaling the scent of steamed garments. Afterwards, I was treated to an assortment of sweets from a glass jar.

Moos delivered bread in the neighbourhood in the early mornings, using a cargo tricycle with a wooden box fixed to it. The aroma of fresh loaves enveloped me when I sat inside the box. As Moos pedalled through the city's dark streets, I peered through a narrow opening between two canvas curtains. Yellow lights illuminated the streets. When we passed the illuminated barber pole, a mesmerizing glass cylinder consisting of spiralling red-and-white bands, I knew we were nearly home.

Moos often remarked that I seemed too serious for a child and encouraged me to laugh.

Ha ha ha, he said.

Ha ha ha, I said.

Good! Now a bit louder: ha ha ha!

Ha ha ha, I shouted.

Moos stuck his two index fingers in the corners of his mouth and pulled them upward. Ha ha ha.

I did the same: Ha ha ha.

Laughing is good if you can’t go on," said Moos.

Moos, stop it, said Ida. That's not how you speak to a child.

I vicariously suffered by observing the tasks and burdens of the women around me. It was an unspoken understanding that women should shoulder heavy responsibilities without complaint, a norm that persists even now, more than sixty years later. Mum didn't have much time to play with me. Instead, she placed one of the kitchen drawers on the wooden floor after removing the sharp objects from it. I was captivated by the crystal knife rests, silver forks and spoons, and bone serviette rings. Mum went about her chores silently, clattering dishes in the sink, pouring boiling water over soiled linens, wrestling wet sheets through a wringer, and cleaning windows while standing on the windowsill. Seeing her standing in the open window, wearing her apron, my heart would sink as I was fully aware of the depths beneath her.

We listened to the radio while she slaved, and I played with the kitchen drawer. Mum liked Teddy Scholten, who had won the Euro Song Festival with a song about a door in someone’s heart. I asked a hundred questions.

Mum, what is a heart?"

Mum put her hand on her chest and said, Your heart is deep in your chest.

Is there a door in it?

No, not really.

Why is Teddy singing it then?

Because it is a metaphor, said Mum.

"What is a metaphor?

Something that is not real.

Why sing about something that isn't real?

Because sometimes what isn't real is nice.

What's nice about a door in your heart?

Mum stopped answering, and I turned back to the kitchen drawer.

When I was two, Mum invited me to a rare moment of play together. She retrieved a large mirror from behind the sofa and took her golden lipstick holder from her handbag. With the cap removed, revealing the red tip, she gently pressed it against my nose, moving it in small circles, and pointed at the mirror. To my surprise, I discovered another little girl and reached out my arms. The girl had a red nose, which struck me as incredibly funny. We played with the kitchen drawer between us. She was a delightful companion, this girl. I often asked Mum for the mirror, and we played for hours, my red-nosed friend and I. With her delicate hands, rosy cheeks, and soft pink lips, I was in love with her. I thought her name was Mirror, and she was always ready to join me in the games I invented with the things in the kitchen drawer.

Mum, can I play with Mirror?

Mum nodded and took her golden lipstick holder from her handbag.

Mum was a striking beauty. She was what men would call leggy. As I observed her navigate through her lonely days, I sensed the hidden rage and sadness she concealed, even from herself. Unlike Ida and Moos, who showered me with cuddles and tickles, Mum wasn't approachable in the same way. Our connection only occurred when she initiated it; I was her caregiver and pleaser, not the other way around.

Within our separate spheres, we drifted through each day, and I quickly learned that a woman's work is never done, not to approach Mum too frequently and to treasure the rare moments she reached out to me. I do not recall her lifting me or placing me on her lap. She went through the motions of living but didn't truly thrive. She felt lifeless inside.

Dad, on the other hand, was vibrant and alive. He taught me to sing, strummed his guitar, read me stories, and drew me pictures that I would attempt to replicate. Occasionally, his old study friends visited. One bore a striking resemblance to Dad, with his thick black hair, curved nose, tweed jacket, and narrow knit tie. His name was Jan.

Another fellow had thin, sickly-looking hair and was named Jan too. When they were together, laughter and conversations filled the air. Jan One paid considerable attention to Mum, and she seemed to appreciate it. One afternoon, they decided to give Jan Two a haircut. They believed he would look better bald. Mum retrieved the scissors from the kitchen drawer, and Dad completed the task using his electric shaver. I observed timidly, unsure of how to process the situation. Losing all of one's hair seemed unimaginable. Jan Two underwent a drastic transformation, a sight that unsettled me. His head gleamed in the light from the window. When he began to speak, I recognized his voice, and a sense of normalcy returned. I sighed and retreated to play with the contents of the kitchen drawer.

When I requested the mirror and the red lipstick in its golden holder at the age of three, I discovered that the girl in the mirror was none other than myself. I brought my finger to my nose and realized it was my nose that was red. Overwhelmed with shame, I wiped away the lipstick from my nose with the tip of my dress. Sadness engulfed me. Leaning my forehead against the mirror, I felt lost and uncertain about how to move forward. I remained there while Mum made the beds and changed the sheets and pillowcases. I approached Mum by the bedside table and picked up a round rubber object from its tray. Mum, what is this?

This made her angry. That’s Dad’s, she snapped. Put it back.

She held my hands to her swollen belly. You will soon have a sibling; feel how it is kicking me from the inside? 

She pulled my socks up, straightened my dress and patted me on the bum to indicate that I should be on my way and be quiet and play with the things in the kitchen drawer. Heavy with dread over losing my friend Mirror, I walked away.

Mum took me for a ride on the back of her Solex in my red bicycle seat. As we traversed the cobblestones, I let out a long aaaaaaaah, The cobblestones caused my voice to tremble. The vibrations reverberated through my entire body. Our destination was the hairdresser. I watched in horror as a woman who wielded scissors ruthlessly