My Jewish sister

At this time of year, many of us turn our thoughts to Europe, and to the tyranny of the German Nazi regime during World War II.

Many of us have stories we remember, or that have been told to us, about what our families experienced in the early 1940s.

One such story I remember well. In those days my family lived in the town of Middenmeer in the Wieringermeer polder in North Holland, close to the Afsluitdijk. Dad was the pastor of the “Gereformeerde Kerk” in town. We lived in the manse on the church property. From the pictures we have, life seemed absolutely wonderful.

Born in 1940, I was still a toddler when our wonderful life was suddenly upended. A dark cloud hung over the manse, and only my parents and our helper in the housework were aware. It had to be kept secret because this knowledge could imperil the whole family.

In mid-1943 someone knocked on our front door asking if my parents would hide a young Jewish girl from Amsterdam. Her hiding place had been discovered, and a new one was urgently needed.

An immediate “yes”

My Mom overheard the request and immediately spoke to my father: “Sure, Arend. Let’s take her in.” And that is why I have a Jewish sister. I have often reflected on my Mother’s spontaneity. That was brave. Or perhaps it is better described as a strong reliance on her Lord, given the danger that was still very near. After all, two Nazi officers had previously been billeted in our home.

Soon Miriam, as I’ll call her, was part of our family. We played together on the church’s property – on the swings and in the sandbox. It was a great playground for young kids, who were oblivious to the real and present danger. Our “housemaid,” a young Frisian girl, helped my Mom in the busy household, taking care of us kids. A third little brother would soon join our family.

Precarious years

A terrifying story, told by my Mom, was of the day we were playing outside in the yard when a platoon of Nazi soldiers marched by. Noticing us children and our housemaid – who was splitting firewood nearby – the platoon broke up, entering our yard to play with us and flirt with the housemaid. They focused their attention on my Jewish sister, exclaiming, “Ach ein schone maidchen” (Oh, a pretty girl), picking her up and throwing her in the air. She no doubt reminded them of their children back home in Germany. All the while my Mother was watching out the window, praying fervently that God would keep the eyes of the soldiers shut, and not see that she was Jewish. God answered her prayer! We were spared from being deported to Dachau or the other horrible camps.

Miriam enjoyed being part of our family. She and I sat on my dad’s lap as he read from the large leather bound Staaten Bijbel the stories of the Christian faith.

During the war years, Miriam’s Dad was picked up by the Nazis and sent to his death in Germany. At that time her mom was in an Amsterdam hospital, expecting the birth of Miriam’s youngest sister. Her oldest sister was staying with other family members in Amsterdam.
Soon after the war, Miriam was reunited with her mother.

After the war my parents continued to keep in touch with Miriam and her mom. Needless to say, her mother expressed numerous thanks.

Sometime in 1944, my Dad taught our housemaid the rudiments of the Christian faith. This led her to profess her faith in Christ and Dad baptized her in front of the congregation. Later, when we had a reunion of Miriam and our family on July 2, 1999 she told us that witnessing that event was seared in her mind. The fact that she was raised Jewish created discord within her.

Final encounters

Our family emigrated to Canada in June of 1954. Dad had accepted a call from the Rehoboth Christian Reformed Church in Bowmanville, Ontario. The housemaid had emigrated earlier and recommended my Dad to the Bowmanville CRC consistory for a call.

I was 13 years old at the time. That must have been a very busy time for my parents, not to mention the goodbyes to families, friends and parishioners. They were able to spare some time to visit Miriam and her Mom to say “good-bye,” at a time when emigrating meant the possibility of never seeing one’s family and friends again.

During this final encounter, Miriam’s mom expressed her sincere gratitude for what my parents had done in sheltering her daughter during the war. She asked again what she could do to show her thanks for them having literally saved Miriam’s life. My Dad, being somewhat impulsive, blurted out: “You can give your heart to the Lord Jesus.” Miriam took exception to Dad’s response to her Mom’s last expression of gratitude.

In the spring of 1999, I connected with Miriam again, by email via a website called “Dutch Jewry.” Immediately, Miriam asked for my mother’s phone number. As soon as she connected with my Mom, she expressed her deep gratitude for saving her life. My Mom said, “Miriam, I don’t think of it that way, God spared both of our lives.” Miriam responded with some annoyance: “It must have been my blond hair then!”

Some years later I got a call from Maryland, USA. Miriam’s daughter was on the other end of the line. Her Mom was on her death bed. She wanted to talk to me. All she could say was “Thank you. Thank you.”