Rebecca - In Memoria

In the course of writing my book about my family’s experiences in the Netherlands during WWII, I came to know a couple of individuals, perhaps more than I ever thought possible. Rebecca is one of those. Mom was 17 years old, and Rebecca, who went by Beppie, was 24 years old when the war broke out. They were neighbors and became friends.

            How did I come to know Beppie? After my father passed away in 1999, Mom and I grew close and I would spend evenings with her, usually with a glass of wine or whiskey. She liked Black Velvet. Mom would reminisce, often about her experiences during the war, and I would take notes. One such night, with a faraway look in her eyes, she began:

            “I knew a girl who lived across from us on Keizerstraat. She and her husband owned a store that sold artwork and other home decorations. Her name was Rebecca Strauss, and I think his name was Johan. I remember they had the most beautiful rugs upstairs.”

            “Interesting that his name is so close to the German composer.” I replied, rather absently.

            “The Strauss family had a tough time during the war. Being Jewish, they had trouble getting food and other necessities. I remember climbing over fences and onto roofs to sneak to their home with bags of supplies. Many of us helped them as much as we could, despite the Nazi restrictions.” Mom continued.

            “What else do you remember?” I wanted her to keep talking, as Mom took a sip from her glass.

            “They had two young kids, one was born just before the war broke out…a boy, I think. The older child was a girl.”

            “During the war, we all had to move away from the beach, and we went to a house on the Gensestraat. The Strauss family moved to an apartment in The Hague. One time, I rode the trolley and visited them. Their apartment was tiny, and their beautiful rugs didn’t fit in the rooms. I remember seeing the edges of the rugs curled up against the walls. It wasn’t as nice as their home on the Keizerstraat. It was really sad.” I could see the wistful look on my mother’s face.

            “Then, one time I went to visit, and they weren’t there. I never found out what happened. I often think of Rebecca and wonder what became of them.”

            That last phrase haunted me. Mom has been gone more than ten years, but two years ago, during my research, I “googled” Rebecca’s name. I stumbled upon a website entitled “Digitaal Joods Monument”, a memorial to the Dutch Jews of WWII. The site had the following entry:

Rebecca Strauss-de Rood

Delft, 31 May 1916 – Auschwitz, 23 August 1942

Reached the age of 26 years

 

My heart sank. It is one thing to know that six million Jews perished in the various Nazi death camps, and it can be an abstract number. But seeing a name connected to one’s past is sobering indeed. The entry also contained the rest of the family. Beppie’s husband Johan, was 27. Their son Levie was five years old, and their daughter Johanna was three. They all died on 23 August, 1942.

Perhaps I could find a number for Rebecca, recalling that many prisoners had a number tattooed on their arms, I thought. I continued to dig on the internet, but to no avail. What I learned was even more disturbing.

More than 1.3 million people were deported to Auschwitz during the war, of whom one million were Jews. Only 400,000 were registered and imprisoned. The other 900,000 were gassed and incinerated within hours of their train’s arrival*.

I cannot imagine what Beppie’s final hours, or final days were like. The long ride, crammed into cattle cars during transport, clutching each other and not knowing their fate, certainly was excruciating. Arriving at the camp, they were likely herded by soldiers and barking dogs into a building, ripped from each other and stripped before being pushed into what looks like a shower room. The hydrogen cyanide gas likely killed them within two minutes**.

This week marks the 83^rd anniversary of the Strauss family’s passing. Rather than thinking of an abstract number, I choose to remember an individual…a person. It drives the horror of what happened home, and though I never met her, Rebecca’s name will be forever etched in my memory.

  

*Jews in Auschwitz / Categories of prisoners / History / Auschwitz-Birkenau

**Zyklon B - Wikipedia

 

 The Watch

Most of you know I like old things. It quickens the nostalgia in me, especially when it’s connected to my ancestry. After my parents passed away, I inherited many things, most of which went to one of three places: to my kids if they wanted it, to various charitable groups, or into a box for later consideration. Almost 20 years passed before the box suddenly beckoned, and I pulled out a few items. Each item coaxes a memory associated with it, and today’s was no different. It was my father’s watch, one he had worn as far back as I can remember. This was back in the day when such things lasted longer than they do now and were not as easily victimized by changes in fashion trends.

             The watch seemed unassuming. A steel case with a simple black dial, analog of course, with gold elongated triangles instead of numbers. This hearkens to a day when the hours on a clock were intuitive, before the onslaught of the digital era.  It was not as flashy as some in my current collection, nor as utilitarian as my Apple smartwatch, which measures various body functions, health trends, and emails. This one only tells the date and time.

            But today it sparked a wee bit of curiosity. This watch meant a lot to my father, and upon inspecting the back, the reason became apparent. Inscribed was “Sus amigos de las Shell. Maracaibo 23-7-57”. That was his last day at Royal Dutch Shell, before he left Venezuela with his family for Canada. It was given to him by his coworkers (“his friends…”) with whom he worked for almost ten years.  But it doesn’t stop here.

            The watch happens to be an Omega Seamaster Automatic Calendar, which, after a little internet sleuthing, turns out to be quite the watch in its day, and perhaps even now. The automatic feature is a small weight inside the watch that moves as one walks, winding the spring that powers the mechanism. I can feel the click as I move my wrist. My internet perusing also found several of that vintage for sale…for more than $1,800!

            The fact that my father wore this watch until his passing in 1999 is a testimony to its quality. More than 42 years since he received it, and now this watch is 68 years old.

            Watchbands don’t last as long as watches, and it currently has a “Twist o flex” band, popular in the 1960s and itself quite innovative. I thought a traditional leather strap was more fitting to my tastes (remember my earlier comment about fashion trends?), so I swapped the old band out.

            I’ve now worn the watch for a few days. It still keeps accurate time.