Judas Page 6

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  My mother wasn’t impressed. “Will you back off?” she snapped. She pushed his gun aside and kept walking. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have anything better to do? You should be going after the Heineken kidnappers!” she said in all sincerity, not knowing that was exactly what they were doing.

  “That piece of shit Cor,” Mom was saying now. “Why did he do it? Has he gone mad? And he’s coming to our place? He’s finished! Sonja can’t see him anymore. What a filthy bum. Why didn’t I see it sooner? That felon!”

  “What are you saying, Mom?” I asked.

  “Cor kidnapped Heineken!” she cried out.

  “Wim was in on it, too, wasn’t he?” I replied.

  The moment I said it, she crumbled and sank down on the couch. “Wim?” she asked, perplexed. “Wim is involved as well?”

  “Mom, didn’t they tell you at the station?”

  “No,” she said. “Tell me what?”

  “That Wim was part of it, too.”

  “No,” she stammered, and stared in the distance. “No, they didn’t tell me that. They only talked about Cor.”

  Her world had just collapsed. She started weeping.

  “My boy, my boy—how could a child of mine do such a thing? How horrible, how horrible. Where is he? Is he at the station, too?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  At that moment, the TV news announced that some of the Heineken kidnappers had been caught, but two of them were still on the run.

  I watched my mom and saw the pain in her eyes. Her son was a fugitive.

  “We may never see him again,” she murmured. “They’re getting away and leaving us with the mess.”

  Sonja was released the following day. As soon as she got home, she ran straight to Francis and held her tightly. The investigators had threatened to put her in foster care for good if Sonja didn’t tell them everything she knew about the kidnapping.

  Sonja didn’t know anything, though, and only when they were fully convinced of this did they let her go. Sonja was a complete mess—mad at Cor, mad at Wim. How could they do this to everyone? We were all angry, but worried, too. Where could they be? What would happen if they were found? Could they be killed during their arrest? From the news, it was clear there was a huge hunt going on for them and that part of the ransom money hadn’t been retrieved yet.

  From then on, the police were on our backs, hoping we’d lead them to Cor, Wim, or the missing money. When we bought something in a store, they’d check whether we paid with ransom money.

  We were free but not free. We were observed and wiretapped. We had no privacy left whatsoever. We were publicly depicted as a mob family, and everyone turned their backs on us, or made it clear that they would be justified in doing so. The president of my basketball association informed me that the board had decided that I should not be held accountable for my brother’s crime, and that I’d be allowed to keep playing for the association.

  Not accountable for my brother’s crime? Allowed to keep playing? Why shouldn’t I be allowed to keep playing?

  As it turned out, my basketball association wasn’t the only place where common sense went out the window; it happened everywhere.

  Suddenly, just because I was “related to the Heineken kidnappers” I was complicit in what had happened. We’d spent all our lives under my father’s dictatorship, so afraid of his wrath that we wouldn’t have dared to run a red light, and suddenly in the court of public opinion we’d all become criminals—thanks to Wim.

  The media eagerly agreed. Denial was futile. We were “evil,” and there was no possibility of redemption. Everywhere we went, we were “relatives of,” not independent individuals.

  Our last name was all we had. The name Holleeder defined us.

  I didn’t want to lie about it and then have to invent more lies about where I came from. So I always gave my last name and replied in the affirmative when people asked me if I was “related to,” at which point the person looked at me as if I was contaminated with some horrible disease.

  This happened to all of us. Our shared experience strengthened our solidarity. Within this solidarity there was safety, so my mom, Sonja, Gerard, and I huddled even closer together.

  My family, where I used to be treated as weird, became the only place where I wasn’t the odd one out.

  In My Heart

  Three Positive Memories

  OUR HOUSE ON EERSTE EGELANTIERSDWARSSTRAAT WAS PUT ON THE registry of protected buildings and had to be completely renovated by the Amsterdam city council. We moved to Egelantiersgracht temporarily. “Temporarily” turned into four years.

  Sonja, Gerard, and I slept together in a room on the first floor. My bed was beneath the window. I had a view of the canal and Westertoren. By then, Wim had become a teenager and had a small room to himself. The living room was one floor up, and my parents slept in the attic.

  “Assie, wake up. Look what I got you,” Wim whispered softly so as not to wake anyone. I can’t have been much older than ten. He often woke me up in the middle of the night and lay beside me on the bed. Often he’d brought me something, chocolate or other candy.

  This time he’d brought me a thick chocolate bar and a doll, a puppet: a yellow bird with an orange beak and feathers. “It’s for you,” he whispered. “I won it at the fair.”

  “It’s so pretty,” I whispered back excitedly.

  “Move over,” he said and lay down next to me.

  He’d always ask me to tickle his back, which I did as we lay munching chocolate.

  “Do you like it?” he asked, proud to have made me happy.

  “I love it!”

  These secretive moments were incredibly exciting. If my father heard us, all hell would break loose, but Wim did it anyway. He didn’t obey our father, and because he woke me up and lay next to me, I was disobeying, too. I’d never have had the guts otherwise, but I felt safe with Wim being so nice to me.

  Once I reached puberty, I found it hard to accept my father’s omnipotence. It caused the conflict after which I had to leave the house at thirteen and after which my mother, Sonja, Gerard, and I went to live on Lindengracht. When I was fourteen, my mother went back to my father, and I tried to be away from home as much as I could. I found an escape in basketball, and the gym became my home. I could be there every day of the week until eleven p.m. It was my salvation.

  When I played basketball, I didn’t think about anything. My aggression was interpreted as fanaticism, a positive twist to the emotion that used to bother me so much.

  My gym teacher at grade school was amazed at my “golden hands,” as he called them. I could throw most balls, no matter what kind or from what distance, through the net. He advised me in strong terms to develop this talent, but within my family this was not an option. To my father, every activity outside the house was a threat to his dictatorship. Every form of self-development was a personal attack against him.

  It didn’t even occur to me to bring this up at home. I knew without asking there wouldn’t be any money or chance for a child to join a sports club and have to be taken to and from a gym.

  Only when I started high school and learned to use public transportation did my world expand beyond the Jordaan quarter and I could start exploring without my father knowing. And he couldn’t forbid what he didn’t know about.

  At school I happened to meet my cousin on my mother’s side for the first time. He was at least four years my senior and looked after me a little bit, since “we’re related.” I was quite happy to have met this relative, for he was nice and gentle, just like my grandparents on my mother’s side, whom I’d only met for the first time when I was eleven years old. He saw me playing basketball at school and asked why I didn’t join his basketball club.

  “You’re good,” he said. “You’ve inherited your mother’s talent.”

  “My mother’s talent?” I asked. I didn’t even know my mother had any talents. I just knew her as my
father’s doormat.

  “Yeah,” he said. “She was an excellent korfball player [a Dutch sport similar to basketball]. Just like grandma.” My jaw almost dropped to the ground in amazement. Both my mother and grandmother turned out to have played at the highest level. I had no clue, as I realized I pretty much didn’t know a thing about my mom. But it was nice to know, and it explained my skills with a ball.

  I told my mom I’d met someone at school who claimed to be my cousin. I told her the boy’s name.

  “That’s right, he’s your cousin. He’s my brother’s son. How nice the two of you are in the same school.”

  “He asked me to join his basketball club,” I continued tentatively, aware it would burden her immensely to be asked something we both knew my father wouldn’t approve of. “He says you used to play korfball and that I’ve inherited your skills,” I added.

  She smiled.

  “Were you really that good, Mom?” I asked.

  “Yes, and so was your grandmother. We won the national championship,” she said with pride, and began telling me about the wonderful times she’d had. I’d never seen this side of my mom, and I listened in awe. It was a joy to see her glow while she relived her memories.

  “So can I?” I asked when she was done telling, and I saw her smile fade into a pained grimace.

  “You know your father will never allow it,” she murmured softly. Then, suddenly, boldly, “But we’ll do it anyway!” She was going to give her daughter the fun she’d known when she was young herself, and for the first time, she was daring to decide something on her own.

  We left my father out of it. For a long time, he knew nothing about it.

  I spent day and night training at the gym, constantly handling a ball. The practice quickly turned me into a major player on the team. I was appreciated, which stimulated me to get even better. I hungered for even more appreciation—I couldn’t get enough of it.

  Before long, every single day revolved around my sport. I wanted to reach the top, and I was asked to train with the Noord-Hollands Cadets’ special team. One day, the association board showed up before training began, to break the news, and they handed me a letter with the invitation and where I should report. I knew it! If I just trained hard enough, one day I’d succeed. This might be my stepping-stone, my chance to get into the national selection.

  The letter said I had to report for my first training session at the gym in Hoofddorp on Sunday at noon. Sunday was the one day my father didn’t go to work, and I didn’t know anybody else who could take me there, so my mom had gotten my father to agree to do it.

  That Sunday morning my nerves woke me up early. Around eight a.m., I heard my mother shout upstairs, “We’ll be right back!” I heard the door slam shut, and I went downstairs. My parents had left. At that point I was still thinking, They probably won’t be long. I wanted to leave at eleven at the latest, for once I got there I’d have to change into my training clothes.

  The clock struck nine and my parents weren’t back yet. Nor at ten. Typical—surely they hadn’t forgotten. They couldn’t have. They’d be back any moment now. There was still plenty of time before we had to leave. But, at ten thirty, they still weren’t there, and now I started to worry.

  I decided to change into my training clothes so as soon as I got there I could go straight to the playing field. I was standing in the hallway, my bag packed and the invitation in my hand, staring at the door, hoping it would open and my father would be there to take me. But at eleven, there was still no one there.

  Things weren’t hopeless just yet—we could still make it. I just wouldn’t be able to get accustomed to the court before the training session.

  Quarter past eleven, and he still wasn’t there. By now, time was getting very short and I was on the brink of tears. All the stress was making my body tense, which would really hinder my performance. Twenty past eleven: no Dad. Half past eleven. Forget it, I was missing out on the training. He’d ruined my chance.

  One time in my life he was going to do me a favor, and he didn’t show. I’d never asked him to take me anywhere or pick me up—I always got a ride with the other girls on my team. This time I couldn’t, since I was the only one on my team going to the selection training. Just me!

  I hated my father for standing me up, and I hated my mom for promising me she’d arranged it for me. How silly of me to put my trust in them, especially at the most important point in my life. I’d been training for years to reach this goal, and now it had all been for nothing.

  I decided to call the Union to cancel, to tell them I wouldn’t make it because I had no way to get there. I turned toward the kitchen where the telephone was, and I heard a car stop outside. Had he come after all? I ran to open the front door, and what I saw wasn’t my father’s Beetle but my big brother’s brand-new Mercedes. He got out of the car, and I walked up to him, bawling my eyes out.

  “What’s bugging you?” he asked, annoyed. “What’s with the crying?”

  I explained how I had to get to Hoofddorp to train with the Noord-Holland Cadet team, how the Bald was supposed to take me there but hadn’t shown up.

  “That fucking dog,” he said. “Get in the car. I’ll take you.”

  I grabbed my bag and jumped into his car. Wim accelerated and drove to the Hoofddorp gym at a mind-boggling speed. I watched him as he handled the car like a Formula 1 driver. In that moment I felt immensely grateful.

  At five minutes before noon we arrived at the gym. Thanks to Wim I’d made the training. I didn’t need the Bald after all. I had Wim.

  “Thanks so much, Wim,” I said.

  “Yeah, whatever, just get out of my car, handful, or I’ll be late myself because of you,” he said.

  I got out of the car and he raced off again. There he went in his shiny, expensive car.

  Two sports seasons later, I was struck by bad luck during training. I took a step sideways and sprained my ankle. The team’s physiotherapist advised me to tighten my shoelaces and keep moving as much as I could to keep the muscles warm and avoid swelling. So I played on, but the pain was excruciating. When I got home, I took my shoe off, and in no time my ankle had swollen to the size of an egg. The pain kept me awake all night.

  The next day my ankle looked even worse, and I couldn’t walk at all. This was bad. Wim happened to drop by with his latest girlfriend. She introduced herself as Martine, and it was obvious she was some kind of model. She thought Wim should take me to the emergency room right away, and she came with us. We got there, and I was told to take a seat in one of the treatment rooms. Martine stayed with me while Wim parked the car.

  After a while a doctor came to examine me. He looked at my foot and said, “This swelling isn’t from today, is it? When did you sprain your ankle?”

  “Last night,” I answered.

  “I can’t help you, then. This is the emergency room. You should have come yesterday. You should see your GP.”

  “Excuse me?” Martine said, clearly not afraid to show her teeth. “You’re sending her away in this condition?”

  That very moment, Wim entered the room. “What’s going on?” he asked firmly.

  “He wants to send her away,” Martine said. “She can’t even walk! It’s unheard of!”

  Wim, six foot six and three feet wide, stood very close to the doctor and yelled in his face: “You’re going to help her like you’re supposed to, or I’ll tear this place apart.”

  At decisive moments in my life, Wim stepped in for me the way a father should have. Admittedly, these moments were rare, but they made Wim stand out from my father.

  Jaap Witzenhausen

  1983

  I MET JAAP AT A BASKETBALL GAME WHEN I WAS FIFTEEN AND HE WAS THIRTY-five. I’d just turned eighteen when we moved in together. Jaap was the exact opposite of my family: he was an intellectual. As an artist, he saw himself as a guardian and creator of culture. He was always criticizing mainstream opinion and lived a liberated lifestyle. He preferred spiritual values to tang
ible goods. As far as Jaap was concerned, wealth wasn’t measured by expensive cars, but by one’s knowledge.

  Jaap didn’t drink or hit people. As a matter of fact, he didn’t have an ounce of aggression in him. People thought he was weak and feminine, but I knew I couldn’t have done better. Jaap seemed to have been custom-made for me.

  We were poor, but Jaap managed to put a feast on the table every night. He’d make something out of nothing. At the end of the day, we’d go to the market close to closing time and get the fish at a discount because the fishmonger would have to throw it out anyway. At first, I felt ashamed, because I thought it displayed poverty, but Jaap thought differently.

  “The guy is glad to be selling it—we’re doing him a favor. We’re helping small enterprises survive like this.”

  We were serving a greater purpose!

  Sometimes I’d stand next to him as he tore the outer leaves off the leeks before putting them on the scales. I felt deeply embarrassed: this was downright theft—what if we got caught? But again, Jaap didn’t see it that way at all. “I’m paying for the leek, not for the foliage. They are swindlers, they should know the people won’t be conned.”

  I was reassured. He was an activist, not a thief.

  We lived on Kerkstraat, and every day we’d walk to the bookstore on the corner of Prinsengracht and Utrechtsestraat to browse through the books that were on sale: books on art, literature, philosophy, anything interesting we could afford. We barely had the money for food, but we were always spending it on books.

  I was happy. We spent evening after evening with his—mainly younger—friends, discussing the effects of upbringing and to what extent parent-child relationships are determinant, but also all kinds of current events and what we should do about them. Jaap used to debate a lot, often on a level I couldn’t quite comprehend, but had the rare talent of being able to convince everybody of his ideas.