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My Private Little Holocaust, A Personal Point Of View


Gershon I. Willinger
St. Catharines, Ontario

My biological mother immigrated to Holland from Germany in 1929. She apparently did have some family living in Holland. Her name was Edith Helene Rotschild. My biological father, Guido Willinger, left Germany in 1937. He left in a hurry once he realized that the systematic dehumanization of the Jews became too dangerous. Not long after arriving in Holland, as a refugee, he met my mother and soon thereafter they were married. By marrying my father, my mother who had become a naturalized Dutch citizen, lost her Dutch citizenship and became stateless. My cousin Helmuth, ten years older than myself, informed me that “ for a time my parents enjoyed the better things in life.” They possessed a proper icebox and a gas stove. It is said that they operated a guesthouse in Amsterdam.

In 1940 my oldest sister, Rita, was born in Amsterdam. In 1942 during the roundup of the Jews my mother gave birth to me, a son. My parents were acquainted with a farmer in the province of Drenthe in North east Holland and when life became too dangerous my parents placed me at the age of approximately five months with the farmer, Geert and Riek Schonewille and their three children.

The village of Niew Zwinderen was not far from Camp Westerbork, which was situated in the same Province. Camp Westerbork had a makeshift school, children’s home and other services. The most important service, though, was provided through a railway station from where the trains left for the East to assist in the completion of the annihilation of the Jewish people. The family Schonewille was part of the resistance movement. In actual fact most of the village was part of the resistance. One older son and daughter and one son, Henk, who was my age. I was told by his family that his mother nursed us both. My safety was short-lived. A neighbour across the street gave the secret way that I was an infant of the ‘Jewish faith’, in hiding at the Schonewille farm. As a consequence my foster father went to jail, his family was threatened and their movements were closely scrutinized.

I was brought to the children’s home in Camp Westerbork. The camp physicians, a Jew, by the name of Frits Spanier must have taken a liking to me, as from the moment that I arrived in the children’s home of the camp I was known as Fritsje. The explanation that I received in later years as to why I was not deported immediately was that the farmer, Mr. Schonewille, had told the authorities that I was child from a Jewish mother and a German officer.

Monument in Westerbork Transit Camp: Inscription from Lamentations 4:18: "They hunt our steps, that we cannot go in our streets; our end is near, our days are fulfilled; for our end is come."

On September 13 1944, after spending close to a year in camp Westerbork, I left with the ‘last kinder transport’ for our final destination and probable death at Auschwitz. The ages of the children varied from approximately 9 months to 9 years. The only fatality on the journey was a 9 month old little girl who was with her older brother on the train. Due to circumstances at that time our train did not reach its intended destination but instead arrived at Bergen Belsen, where we remained for a short time. From Bergen Belsen we were sent to our temporary home of Theresienstadt (AKA Terezin). We had left Holland with a group of designated young women, who until liberation tried to do the best they could to look after our welfare. Besides the 9 month old girl all of us children, approximately fifty, survived.

From the moment Theresienstadt was liberated I actually became aware of a change in my short life. Suddenly, as I well remember, people smiled at me, hugged me and kissed me and fed me all kind of delicacies, which felt sweet and sticky in my mouth. I had discovered chocolate. After the initial shock of people caring about me and being comforted when necessary I was placed with other children in a large army truck after which the never ending journey started. We stopped frequently along the way to collect other children, mostly older than myself. I lost the sense of night and day as it appeared to be dark most of the time.

Although feeling confused, being enveloped by darkness, gave me a feeling of comfort and safety. The stars in the sky were magical and allowed me to enter my own dream world. Not being able to express myself I screamed my needs frequently and was often taken in caring adult’s arms to be comforted. As the journey entered it’s second day, I was not able to be consoled anymore and screamed literally for days unless I was asleep. I do not exactly know how, but I ended up going back to the Schonewille family in Niew Zwinderen. I was told later that I screamed all the time and that my foster parents Geert and Riek, were very patient with me. I did have many open sores and welts on my back and big ugly scars on the back of my head.

I did have some lasting memories from those early postwar days. I was taken to this impressive large stone building with thick walls and high ceilings. I enjoyed it especially, when the people present, started to sing, their voices echoing throughout the hall. The majestic sounds of the hymns calmed me down as if a weight was lifted from me. This was my introduction to church attendance. I also remember wearing wooden shoes (Klompen), thick brown stockings attached to clasps, which were in turn attached to my undershirt. Over my stockings I wore shorts, held up by suspenders. I did get used to my new home and played with Henk, the youngest son, who was my age. We used to run into the field and pick turnips out of the soil, wipe them clean on our shorts after which, we ate the hard earned fruit of our labour. I shared my bed with Jan, the oldest son.

Once a week I also shared the tub placed in the kitchen with Jan and Henk for our weekly bath. We used the same water, with the exception of Alie, the oldest daughter, who had the privilege of having clean water from the kettle before entering the tub. Before every meal we had to bend our heads, close our eyes, and clasp our hands together. I never quite understand what went on, but moved my lips copying the others at the table. Often I used to open my eyes to look around the table, hoping not to be caught by my foster parents. I was quite adventurous and remember venturing away from home and exploring my neighborhood. I adjusted reasonably well, considered Henk my permanent playmate and my foster parents as my safety net. However this safety net was soon to be shattered. Without further explanation I was taken away by new faces and traveled with people I did not know.

After what seemed to be a never ending trip I arrived at a very large home with children of all ages. Some, it appeared, were too old to be called children. I remember a lot of chaos. There was a large dining hall with long tables. I was placed at a table with the younger children. During mealtimes it was very noisy. Often the older children tried to steal the food from each other’s plate. I liked the safety of my small bedroom, which I shared with another boy my age and I remember that he had one leg shorter than the other and he walked with a limp. Every day we marched in a long row to the beach, where we built sand castles and splashed in the salt water of the North Sea. I felt that I had yet again created another home from myself, which made me feel safe once more. My hope for consistency, familiarity and safety were soon to be shattered yet again. I was placed with a spinster aunt ‘Tante Marga’ and her wheelchair bound elderly father, my uncle ‘Oom Julius’. Aunt Marga was short, stout and a friendly woman. She tried to explain to me that she was family. She was related to my mother Edith. At that time I did not understand what she was trying to explain to me. She informed me that most children had parents, a father and a mother. She continued to explain to me that at one time I had a real father and mother.

I did not question this fact and accepted that once I had parents, whatever this implied. Aunt Marga lived in a beautifully wooded area in the town of Bilthoven, near the city of Utrecht. After being with Aunt Marga and uncle Julius for a while my aunt explained that my ‘real parents’ were dead. She said that they died in a camp and that they were killed by the Germans. This additional information confused me even more. She then revealed to me that I had a sister, a ‘ real sister’ named Rita, who was a little older than myself. She lived with a family in Amsterdam. Once again I accepted this information for what it was. The concept of father, mother, sister, aunt, uncle and family in general was alien to me and to top all this information, death was a word beyond my comprehension. I was of course instructed by Aunt Marga to cal her ‘Tante’ and her father, Uncle Julius as ‘oom’. It did not mean anything to me, but if it pleased them, why not? I was placed in kindergarten and had to be only shown once how to walk carefully along a long busy road to get there.

Enjoying my own company the best, and not being fearful by nature, I thoroughly enjoyed the walk. Soon I settled into a routine at my aunts’ home. I became more aware of life around me and started to realize that I had made several physical moves. Somehow my sense of self preservation started at an early age, and I made sure to only superficially attach myself to others. Just as well, as on one clear day another lady came to visit me, asking me all kind of questions about how I felt. I did not understand most of the questions. Mind you I did very much enjoy being the focus of attention. Not long after this visit a well dressed couple came and visited me at my aunts’ home. The lady’s hair was thick, glossy and pilled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were very blue and her lips were bright red where lipstick had been applied, a phenomenon, I had not witnessed before. Although the couple met me for the first time, they acted as if they had known me forever. They bought me many toys, which I was happy to receive. However, I had no idea why these people seem to like me so much after meeting me for the first time and even more so bestow all these presents onto me. After they had left and when finally at the end of the day Aunt Marga tucked me into bed, she asked me if I would like to live with these visitors. She said, “You are a very lucky little boy, to have the chance to live with a new mama and papa.” I readily agreed with her, anxious for her not to notice that I did not have a clue what she was talking about.

The year was 1949. I was seven years old and old enough to understand to play along with other people’s plans, because what I felt deep inside of me was of no consequence to anyone else. I remember asking Aunt Marga why she did not like me anymore. She hastily tried to convince me that she liked me very much, but that other people had decided that I could not stay with her because she was alone and there was no ‘papa’ living with her. After all a child needs a father and a mother.

Although scared of the unknown I was quite excited of plunging yet into another adventure. By this time I was quite skilled in blocking events out of my life. I decided there and then to forget about Aunt Marga and Uncle Julius and start something new for however long it would last. Upon arrival into my new foster home I was welcomed by the beautiful lady with hugs and kisses. The man was more reserved and not as demonstrative. I felt very uncomfortable, a little scared and definitely overwhelmed and confused. There was a perpetual lump in my throat and my heart was racing. However, once I was safely tucked into bed in a beautifully furnished room with the lights out and enveloped by darkness, did I feel secure especially after pulling the blankets over my head. Finally no one telling me what to do, no more strange faces, just being by myself, able to disappear into my own private world. The next day the nice lady and her husband asked me if I would like to stay with them and call them ‘Mama and Papa’, because they would like that very much. Eager to please them I naturally agreed and in order to score points I added that mama was very pretty and that she had beautiful red lips.

Although eager to please I always managed to spoil it by outrageous behaviour such as picking the ivory from the piano keys and ripping off wallpaper. By the challenges I put my foster parents through I was convinced and expected them to get rid of me. I learned many new things and accepted new challenges, such as climbing stairs and urinating in the toilet instead of the sink or the garden, using the flower beds as a toilet whenever I felt like it. I continued to challenge my foster parents. I was very defiant and told them on many occasions that I did not have to listen to them because I was only a foster child and they were going to throw me out anyway. One day my foster mother sat me down and asked me if I would like to hear about who I really was. I was told and also overheard them talking to others that I was ‘a very special child’ (a bijzonder kind). I did not understand why I was found to be so special. Until recently nobody had wanted to keep me. I was an upset, insecure, and confused child most of the time so what could possibly be the reason for me being so special.

My foster parents explained to me that I was Jewish and that my real parents had been Jewish as well. They continued to explain that my parents were killed by people who did not like Jews and that they were killed in a place called a concentration camp, and that I was very fortunate to be alive , which was the reason why I was so special. Many children were murdered during the war. I was told about camp Westerbork and other camps where Jews had been murdered. Although not understanding exactly the enormity of this information I gathered that it must have been a very bad place.

It did take me a few weeks to call my foster parents, Mama and Papa, and a couple of months not to make mistakes and mix up the aunt and uncle with the mama and papa. I ended up calling them Mama and Papa all the time and realized that this was what other children called their adult care takers. Mama told me that I had an older sister and that her and papa tried very hard to have Rita live with them as well, and raise both of us together. However, our aunt Gerda, our birth father’s sister and her husband uncle Josef decided to keep Rita. Aunt Gerda, uncle Josef and their daughter Vera had survived the war. It was decided for Rita to be placed with them. The term ‘sister’ did not mean anything to me and I took all this information into stride.

Mama often told me that she loved me and in order to please her I answered that I loved her as well. I was quite thankful that I was able to live with them and was smart enough at this early age to give the anticipated responses. However, in the little box safely tucked away in my soul I really did not have any idea what the word love meant. My major concern at that time was to belong somewhere and I have my needs met. I pretended to be my foster parents’ natural son but soon, without guidance from any outside source, developed a hunger to find out about my personal background.

Thus, at the ripe old age of seven, my life’s work had started. I asked myself a few important questions: Who am I, where do I come from and am I really the person others tell me I am. I knew that I was different from the others at school. And even more than that I wanted to be different. I did also have a dilemma of a different kind. On the one hand I wanted to be part of the lives of my new parents and their extended families, but by the same token I did not really want to be their son. I was already the son of mystical parents who had been murdered. Deliberately spending a lot of time by myself I spun many imaginary stories of what they were like. Even at this tender age I developed a sense of belonging to the past. Bergen Belsen, Theresienstadt and Sobibor, the grave of my parents, belonged to me and nobody was going to take my little secret away from me. It became my daily ritual to sneak into my foster father’s library and seek out literature and photographs of the concentration camps.

Reading passages from the books available to me became a daily routine which continued throughout my childhood. I also felt that by doing this I kept my birth parents memory and my personal history alive. The difficulty was that I kept all this information inside of me and had no one to share my secrets with. I used to stare for hours at the photographs displaying mountains of corpses as they where stacked for mass burial. I was fascinated by the dead vacant eyes of these corpses and at the tender age of approximately nine years old I was drawn to stare at those eyes over and over again while weaving stories about who they where and who their families might have been. What was their last earthly thought before entering the gas chamber? When does the light appear after dawn and when does the world become dark after dusk?

At about this time I became acquainted with the local Jewish community of Utrecht. Consequently I came into contact with the local Zionist youth movement and acquainted myself with the Land of Israel. I quickly developed a love for Israel, more so than for my foster parents who were not my real parents anyway. I also questioned: if I was truly the person I was told I was supposed to be. My only security was the fact that no one could penetrate my inner thoughts. My mind belonged to me, My secret! Even if I had to act my way through life, my personal history and future dreams were mine and nobody would be able to take those away. While other youngsters felt connected with their families I felt connected with my legacy as a child survivor given to me since birth. In an odd way this was comforting to me.

I was known as a ‘difficult child’ and often threatened my foster parents that I was going to run away. I constantly made them aware of the fact that they were not my real parents and that I hoped that they would find a reason to rid themselves of me. I felt genuinely envious of my friends who were placed in the then existing Jewish children’s home, “ De Berg Stichting”. After losing their families during the war they were placed in the care and custody of these homes.

They retained their original family names, while I assumed unofficially the family name of my foster parents. Especially not having their own biological children made them even keener that I assume their family name. I felt a close kinship with other children who had a similar background as myself. But how could I disclose my true feelings to my foster parents? They were under the impression that I loved them and that I wanted to be a part of their lives.

Mostly I was able to pretend that everything was just fine and that I wanted to be with them forever. My foster parents were taking care of my physical and educational needs and there was no way that I was going to jeopardize this privilege. I was given to frequent bouts of melancholy. My mind drifted away to events hidden away in my subconscious which made me feel sad but on the other hand elevated me to my private little world where I could imagine my dead parents in any way I wished them to be. A world in which I did not have to be told by others who I am today. A world in which I happen to be old enough to remember my biological parents and family. In other words “A living childhood history” I often feel that even today I still have to justify my existence and my right to be a whole person.

As one of the youngest survivors I do not have a living memory of those early days, but if other children and myself are fortunate enough to remember anything it is very fragmented and stuck somewhere in our subconscious. As one of the youngest child survivors I hang on to my legacy with an almost fanatical urgency. As for many decades our right to voice our innermost feelings as participants of the Shoa has been kept dormant in the catacombs of our souls. Myself as well as many others felt that we had no right to voice our feelings, perceptions and opinions which had an impact on us, the very young children with no visual memory of what really happened of the traumatic experiences that we went through. However, as a result of the Shoa our lives have been shaped into the people we are today. Each of us deals with our experiences in our own unique and individual way.

I would like to mention the so called “in between years” I call them the years of denial where I was very busy being a survivor and making sure that I fit in with main stream society. Immigration to Israel, higher education, and especially marriage and children. Something I could really claim as my own. However, as one grows older and approaches ones senior years there is more time to think and contemplate life. As happens to many of us childhood memories seem to be more vivid than ever. Questions, such as what does it mean to be a Jew occupies my mind frequently. I also struggle with the question of who will keep the legacy of my birth parents alive?

When looking in the faces of other child survivors, especially when staring into their eyes, is as if I am staring into the window of my own soul. I then sense the fear, the hope and the resilience of the ever present “child” in each of us. Yes, at times even in our senior years, we vie for acceptance and recognition, not necessarily as an adult but as a child. Having been denied the opportunity to live in an average family had its impact on me throughout my life. All these past experiences have given me a strong identity of who I am today, especially as a Jew. What does being a Jew means to me? Am I a Jew as a result of being a child survivor? Am I a Jew because of the five books of Moses or am I a Jew because I was told that my parents and family were Jewish? Probably a combination of all the above.

Who I am and what I am has become an integral part of my total being. Some of us have learned to cope by living in denial of the past, in denial of their true identity by assuming a pseudo identity which makes us believe to be well adjusted members of society. For some of us this works. For some of us life is living a façade in which pretense that a traumatic event, such as the Shoa, did not alter our life becomes increasingly difficult to live with. As for myself though, I do realize at times I do give in to sudden sadness. I feel that confronting my childhood works for me. Living with the Shoa on a day to day basis is for me a far better solution than pretending that one should ‘Get on with life’. I feel that I own the Holocaust as part of my whole being. My personal history is part of my body and soul. Yes it is true that the environment one lives in shapes and changes one’s life. However, my “Private little Holocaust” continues to live in my heart and soul until the Kadosh Baruch-Hu decides it is time for me to leave the living and join my six million family members. Amen.