No, I never wanted to write this book, got talked into it by friends and family. But in retrospect, I'm glad I did. It seems several of our friends found it 'inspirational'. At least that is what they keep telling me. Don't ask me why though, ask them.
About the title: I survived the Holocaust by going into hiding. I was just seven when the war started, nine when I ended up in my first hiding place in Edam, with a couple I had never met. I had to stay in the tiny back room all the time I lived there, because passers-by could look into the front room. I shared the room with a smaller girl with brown eys and black hair. Clearly Jewish, but she never talked. Not a word all those long months I stayed there, before going into another hiding place, that time in Friesland.
I survived.
Shortly after the war the Red Cross sent me to foster parents in Switzerland, to a tiny village near the foot of a mountain, Säntis. I could see the mountain from my bedroom, and to me it looked liked a beautiful guardian, protecting me. Hence the title of the book.
Don't let all this scare you off, the book was written knowing that our young grandchildren might read it without getting nightmares. I wrote it as a kind of dialogue with my granddaughter, Tracy Cappèl. She would ask a leading question which then brought back memories. So, like the way memories come to mind, the book is not strictly chronological, just in broad outlines.
The 'story' starts more or less with my birth, and covers my life till about two years ago. I left out some of the worst experiences, but what I did put in is accurate and truthful.
The main 'theme' is that whenever something we had planned became impossible - like sailing around the world after we built our yacht - we changed tack and started something completely new. And enjoyed it!
A few snippets from the book:
1945
Frau Willy-Kern takes my suitcase, gestures to follow her. We go back to the railway station. She has brought little bread rolls with ham and a lot of cheese. And she gives me real chocolate with nuts. I can't understand a word of what she is saying, but somehow that doesn't matter.
Her house is really large, white, with dark brown woodwork all over.
Frau Willy-Kern shows me a booklet like a small dictionary in three columns. Her own language; Dutch and how to pronounce the Dutch words.
'Are you hungry?' she tries to say.
'No, you don't pronounce it like that.'
She clearly does not understand me.
'Do you have to go to the bathroom?' she reads off, again in Dutch.
'Yes, that's how you say it,' I tell her. 'We'll be able to talk together yet.'
She shows me where the bathroom is. And my bedroom.
The house is a little way up a slope next to the village. And beyond the village stands a mountain. A beautiful mountain, glowing red in the light of the setting sun. So beautiful. I don't know how far away the mountain is, but it feels like I can almost touch it.
Frau Willy-Kern says that mountain is called Säntis.
Säntis.
From my bed I can see the mountain. Protecting me. Guarding me.
Säntis, standing there like a sentinel.
===========
1959
We made many good friends that first year, and often they went out of their way to make us feel at home.
I remember one occasion when we were asked for dinner and the lady of the house had promised us a very special, typically Dutch desert. After the main course she very proudly brought in what looked like soup plates full of yellow custard topped with whipped cream.
'The man in the shop said the traditional way is to serve it with plenty of whipped cream, and it is called Advokaat. We bought the biggest bottle in the shop.'
Karen and I looked at each other. 'Did the man also tell you what Advokaat is? What it is made of?'
'Isn't it some special custard?'
'Actually, it is straight brandy thickened with beaten egg yolks. Nothing else. But he did have the whipped cream part right. In Holland we often had a small wineglass of Advokaat with Christmas and New Year.'
'What do we do now?'
'Why? Eat it of course. We're not going to waste it. No way.'
And eat it we did.
==============
1960
It was indirectly through our friend Herman, that I got my first museum job.
One evening he brought a young woman along. A school teacher, who had recently arrived from England. Herman had told her I was working for the NZ Railways just then, but had been an art teacher in Holland. We talked art teaching the rest of the evening.
The very next morning - coincidence? - a school inspector came to her school, to see how she was doing. Olive was nervous, and didn't know what to talk about. So, she told the inspector about the kind of work I had done before coming to New Zealand.
'I want to meet that chap,' he apparently had said. 'Can you arrange for him to come and see me? I'll be at the Canterbury Museum next week.'
'No, I'm not looking for an art teacher,' he explained when I met him. 'We used to provide a service for country schools, we made portable museum displays for them. You know, like miniature dioramas? Would you be able to make those? The job has been vacant for nine years now and we stopped advertising a long time ago. You'd be on the Christchurch Training College staff, but you'd be working here in the Museum, as part of the Education Section. You may have to do two or three hours a week of teaching as well. Of course you'll be working the same hours as teachers and you'll get the same holidays. I take it you can work without supervision? Would you like the job?'
'Would I? When can I start?'
'Actually, as this is a government job we have to follow the rules. As far as I'm concerned the job is yours, but we have to get confirmation of your qualifications from Amsterdam.'
'Fine with me.'
Only it wasn't fine. Every once in a while I rang him to find out if he had heard from Amsterdam.
'No, sorry, not yet.'
One day, many months later, Herman asked what was happening: 'Did you finally get the Museum job?'
'I stopped ringing them.'
'Try once more.'
I did, and the answer was: 'Don't you know? You're supposed to start this Monday.'
It seemed they had written to Amsterdam by sea mail, and that letter must have got there just at the beginning of the long summer holidays. The confirmation was sent back after the holidays, also by sea mail!
When I resigned from my Training College job after four years to accept a better position in Auckland, I received a very flattering thank-you letter, regretfully accepting my resignation. But I never got my letter of appointment. I loved the work though. Doing work that other people would do as a hobby and getting paid for it? And even going on the occasional field trip? It was great.
The book is published under the imprint Schoolhouse Press and costs NZ 45.--
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