Translated/adapted from the Groninger dialect. The original, entitled "Taande Betje," was published on www.dideldom.com. The story appeared under the name of Jan Prak, Sense's pseudonym.

My Dad and Mom already had three kids when, in the year 1934, in the village of Vlagtwedde, I arrived. When my Mom knew her time was near, she called Pa (my Dad): "Quick, go and find Tante (Aunt) Betje and tell her to come."

Tante Betje was a midwife known near and far in that part of the Dutch province of Groningen, called Westerwolde. She also belonged to the Jewish community in Vlagtwedde. Perhaps she wasn't all that orthodox, but she was Jewish and that did not prevent the people from loving her any less.

When Tante Betje arrived, the two oldest kids, Kees and Truus, had been sent away to a place where they normally were never allowed to go. With eyes larger than marbles they had gone to the fair which had been set up next to the Hervormde Kerk (Reformed Church). They were given a few cents to spend and soon they had great fun on the merry-go-round. Finally, there was little Herman, but he stayed home playing in his room.

My Mom and Tante Betje were great friends and together they'd already been through a lot. Tante Betje was not related to our family in any way. We just always called her that way. According to my Mom Tante Betje couldn't do anything wrong and on that day, in 1934, she smoothly helped my Mom give birth to me. No fooling around, keep it going and just bite your teeth. All went well. Tante Betje probably smacked me around a bit looking me up and down. Maybe she said to my Mom: "‘t Is a ‘leutje kereltje' (little man). He looks like a quivering monkey, quite a bit different from the other little guys. What are you going to name him?" My Mom must have said something like: " Call him Senske, after my Dad" (my Opa).

I never knew Tante Betje. My sister, Truus, has many memories of her. Tante Betje often came over to the house in Vlagtwedde, not only when my Mom was expecting a baby. When Mom was sick or needed rest, Tante Betje was there to help out. Or Mom would say to my siblings: "Go to Tante Betje for a while, Pa will pick you up again." They loved her cosy home. Her eldest son still lived with her at that time.

Pa was transferred in 1934 from Vlagtwedde to Winschoten, the second largest city in the province. My family moved into a house on the Acacialaan, close to a stinking place where the contents of the city's toilets ended up. But the street and the houses were neat. Of course, I don't remember a thing about us moving there. I only knew I grew up in Winschoten. Vlagtwedde, as such, meant very little to me.

My sister told me, however, that during the years prior to the war my family stayed in touch with Tante Betje. Sometimes she'd come to Winschoten to visit us. Or my Mom and the kids would take the tram to travel to Vlagtwedde. But all that changed when the Germans invaded Holland during May 1940. Especially for Tante Betje and others who regularly attended the synagogue in Vlagtwedde.

The Nazi scourge

With the German occupation forces everywhere, Tante Betje absolutely refused to come to Winschoten. Could it be that she was already then aware of how she could endanger the de Jong family on the Acacialaan? People talked about those who were known to be pro-German. Could they be trusted?

One day, during the early forties, my Mom said to Truus: "I'm really worried about Tante Betje, we have to go to Vlagtwedde. Want to come?" But when they arrived at Tante Betje's familiar house, no one opened the door for them. They knew she was probably home, since smoke curled out of the chimney. They kept knocking on the door, but Tante Betje refused to open up. Finally, they heard her voice: "Oh laiverds (dears), please, please don't come in. Go home. Don't stay there, please go away!" Mom and Truus heard her sobbing behind the door.

My Mom was a gutsy woman, and she resolutely went inside. As far as she was concerned all local members of the NSB (the hated "Nationale Socialistische Beweging" which collaborated with the Nazis) could drop dead! And then they saw how sick and weak Tante Betje was. My Mom and Truus washed her, put fresh sheets on her bed , cleaned the house and made a meal. Oh, how happy she was then. But her fear remained. All the curtains had to be closed, so that the neighbours couldn't see anything. Finally, Mom and Truus had to go. Crying, with a heavy heart, they travelled back to Winschoten.

They went back a few more times. Later, my Mom said to Truus: "Remember how scared Tante Betje was when we visited her? Why, oh why, didn't we take her with us to Winschoten?" It bothered my Mom and Truus for a long time.

About a month later they once more took the tram to Vlagtwedde. Arriving at Tante Betje's home they just knew something was amiss. The curtains were closed and no smoke came from the chimney. They knocked and knocked, but there was no one home. Walking in the village they then heard that all the Jews in the Vlagtwedde-Boertange district had been herded onto trucks and transported to so-called work camps in Germany. And then they learned the awful news that Tante Betje and her son were picked up, too. Tante Betje had not been strong enough to walk to the truck. She was in bed. So the Germans threw the bed - with her on it - on the back of the transport!

Only later, years later, did they, and all of us, understand that all 46 Jews of the Vlagtwedde-Boertange area had been gassed in Auschwitz-Birkenau or other death camps (Vernichtungslager) with names like Sobibor or Bergen-Belsen. According to well-known Dutch author Geert Mak, of the 140,000 Jews who lived in the Netherlands at the start of WW II, more than 100,000 were murdered - about 75 per cent. And most of them had been in Camp Westerbork, a concentration camp (a so-called Durchgangslager) located in the province of Drenthe, less than a hundred miles from Winschoten. ( During the spring of 2005 my wife and I visited the area were Camp Westerbork had been. We learned there that the Jews, who had been moved to that camp from Amsterdam and other places, would board trains in nearby Hooghalen from where the trip to Germany would begin. And those trains always went through Winschoten....)

In Winschoten itself almost the entire Jewish population disappeared. Almost 400 perished in Auschwitz or Sobibor. Only a handful returned. The former Jewish synagogue now stands on a lonely spot somewhat off to the side of a street. Other people now make use of the building.

Personally, I don't remember too much of those war years. Not as much as my sister and brothers. Truus told me that they remember seeing trains full with Jews coming through Winschoten. How could that be? These trains belonged to the "Nederlandse Spoorwegen" (Dutch Rail) and they ran punctually, right on time, with the help of "faithful" Dutch NS employees....

Kees and Truus stood at familiar railroad crossings like St. Vitusholt, Garst and Blijhamsterweg. In my mind, I see them standing there with tear-stained faces Sometimes they saw pale faces or hands sticking out of the little windows. Little pieces of paper came fluttering out of the cattle cars and they wanted to pick them up so badly. But at each crossing stood German soldiers, rifles ready to shoot.

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Jan Boer (a medical doctor who has done much to preserve the Groninger dialect) once wrote a story about the "Fourth of May," which in Holland is the day on which they remember all who died in WW II.

"A red trail runs through those five years, a trail of blood," he wrote. Dr. Boer, on the fourth of May each year, is in the habit of visiting a Jewish cemetery. "About those Jews who are buried here one can say they died a normal death. But all those others, who are not buried here, who were dragged away and were gassed and murdered in the east, that's the issue. And then I become very quiet. This happened before our eyes and right under our noses when they took them."

He continued: "Lonely and abandoned the gravestones stand in this Jewish cemetery, in the middle of this field. How good is it that these people did not experience the holocaust. That they didn't hear or see the cries of the little ones, the moans of the mothers and the quiet suffering of the fathers. But we have. And it'll never let go of us!" No one can say it better than that!.

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My wife and I visited the Netherlands during May 2005. I said to my cousin that I'd love to see Winschoten again. And that happened. Oh, how everything had changed. From Winschoten we traveled to "Vesting Bourtange" via a road in Germany. "Vesting Bourtange" was a stronghold during the Middle Ages. It was designed to stop people from invading that part of Holland.

It now has been beautifully restored and is a popular tourist attraction. I had never been there, so I took my time looking around. All of a sudden I saw a very small synagogue and learned that this was the synagogue which once stood in Vlagtwedde. They had moved it - lock, stock and barrel - to this museum-like village. Outside the little building I saw a place where they had laid flowers under a memorial plaque. There was a text: "Remember what the Amalekites did to you.... Do not forget! " (Deuteronomy 25:17-19). And further: "In remembrance of the 46 persons who were deported from the Jewish congregation in Boertange-Vlagtwedde during the years 1940-1945."

With growing interest I began to read the names: Rotschild, Salomons, Mozes, Levie, Sachs, etc. I still did not realize that this would become an unforgettable moment in my life. Because, what was the very last name on this plaque? Betje van der Brug.

My sister confirmed it later. That was the name of Tante Betje.

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1. Jan J. Boer, Fuut, fuut, laange bainen en gain kuut (Wildervank, Uitgeverij Dekker & Huisman. 1989).
2. Geert Mak, De eeuw van mijn vader (Amsterdam, Uitgeverij Atlas, 1999)