The first years of my life we lived in Vlagtwedde , a small village in the province of Groningen. Kees, Herman, Sense and I were born there. The years when Kees and I were small, we had an older lady often coming to our house, to help my mom and taking care of us when our mother wasn't feeling well or when the babies were born. When she wasn't feeling well, Mom would often just tell us, "you two go to Tante Betje and Pa will pick you up again." We really liked that because it was so cozy in her little house and she would spoil us. We knew she was Jewish, but that didn't mean anything to us. It was just a name.

In 1934, the de Jong family moved to Winschoten, where Pa was transferred for his work. I was six years old, Kees was eight, Herman four and Sense was a baby. It was very exciting and I started grade one with lots of new friends.

Winschoten seemed like a big city to us, though the population was under 10,000. Unfortunately, we had to leave behind our dear Tante Betje. She was not really an aunt but we were so close we called her that anyway.

In Winschoten, we lived on a quiet street in a nice house. There was a relatively large Jewish community (about l0 % of the population) and that included our butcher and many of the city's merchants. Until the war broke out, we never thought about it, that they were different.

During those years before the war, we often visited Tante Betje and sometimes she would visit us. After Germany occupied Holland, everything changed. At first we would go to see Tante Betje, but when we asked her to come to Winschoten, she would say "No, No !" She was obviously aware of something that was going on of which we were not yet aware or couldn't believe yet.

Later, after not seeing or hearing from her for some time, my mom said, "I am worried about Tante Betje. Let's go to Vlagtwedde." When we came to her house she did not come to the door, although we could see smoke coming from her chimney. After we knocked on the door a fair bit, Tante Betje opened the door a little bit. She cried and begged us not to come in. But my mom, who, as everyone knows, would never do that, went in anyway. Then we realized how sick and weak Tante Betje was.We were so sad to see that dear old woman almost scared to talk to us. We gave her a bath, made up her bed and prepared some food for her. She was so thankful but also very afraid. We had to close the curtains so the neighbours wouldn't see us. We left with a heavy heart and did a lot of crying on the way home.

The next week, my mom and I went again. The door was closed again, but this time, there was nobody home. All the Jews of Vlagtwedde had been rounded up and brought to camps. We thought they were labour camps in Germany. Later, we learned that they were death camps: Auschwitz, Buchenwald ...etc.. We heard that Tante Betje had been carried out on her bed, because she was too weak to walk. My heart still cries, thinking about it.

I recall watching trains go by with box cars full of Jews, occasionally tossing out pieces of paper with messages. We were all very quiet and crying but we could never get close enough to pick up those pieces of paper. The Germans were standing by every crossing, ready to shoot whoever dared to come close.

It was only after the war, that we realized the incomprehensible thing that was done to the Jews. How few of them came back !

In 1990, on a trip to Holland, we saw the synagogue of Vlagtwedde. On the outside was a plaque with all the names of the Jews from that village who had died in the Holocaust. There we saw her name: Betje van der Brug - 59 years old