-
Journal Entry – 23 July 2010
- Wilfrid Laurier University Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
56 23 July 2010 I start the day with a walk to the Rijksmuseum, which is under major renovation . Only twelve rooms displaying the Old Masters are open. One of them houses Rembrandt’s The Night Watch. I stand in front of it for almost an hour, overwhelmed by its severity, its darkness, and the strange play of light on the canvas. It’s huge—and at that, was cut down on all four sides in 1715, the reduction of the left side resulting in two people being cut out. The painting has quite a history: In 1975, unemployed schoolteacher Wilhelmus de Rijk attacked the work with a bread knife, leaving large zigzag slashes. Though the work was restored, there is still evidence of the damage. The culprit committed suicide in 1976. Then, in 1990, a man sprayed acid on the canvas with a concealed pump bottle. Security guards intervened just in time and the acid penetrated only the varnish. The painting was again restored. It fascinates me that this work could inspire such acts of violence. I stand there, suddenly struck by all the violence this trip has forced me to contemplate—the violence of the war and its residual effects on my mother, and on so many others. Followingmyvisit,IhavelunchatasmallcaféontheSpiegelgracht,*veryclose tothemuseum.IpickattheinnardsofmysandwichasIwatchpeoplewalkby. I make several stops for souvenirs on the way back to the hotel, and, along the Herengracht,* stop at the Netherlands Institute for War Documentation, a library that houses the world’s largest collection of World War II materials. In addition, it is the Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies. Upon entering, I consult the librarian, who shows me how to access the institute’s online catalogue (they use a system I am not familiar with, neither Library of Congress nor Dewey). I sit at a computer terminal and end up finding a number of interesting sources, many of which have been published in North America and can be procured from home. Surprisingly, two of my most interesting finds are published by the small Ontario publishers Seraphim Editions and Second Story Press, probably because of the great numbers of Dutch immigrants who came to small Ontario towns. Much of what I find is written from the Jewish perspective. I come across writings by Louis de Jong, a Dutch historian who was director of the institute for many years. This man spoke at conferences and wrote many articles—most, if not all of which are collected here. 57 I find specific writings on helping Jews written from the Dutch non-Jewish perspective, as well as other material on life for Jews and non-Jews in Nazioccupied Holland. One book, Quiet Heroes: True Stories of the Rescue of Jews by Christians in Nazi-occupied Holland, by André Stein, published in 1988, is a collection of several stories based on interviews that Stein conducted. Reading this, I feel the wind knocked out of me. Here are stories I am certain strongly resemble the stories my mother has told me—with the Christian aspect well-documented. (When I return to Canada, I will manage to get a used copy of Quiet Heroes on Amazon and will be jolted all over again by the inscription to the previous owner on the inside cover: “To remember your grandfather and granduncles from 1940–1945 and all the uncles and second cousins who gave their lives so others would live. From your mother with much love.”) After I leave the institute, I stop at a bakery to buy freshly baked speculaas, my favourite Dutch spice biscuits. They’re still hot—and are by far the best I’ve ever eaten. I get that odd feeling again—of being home, of feeling like I belong. Later in the day, I decide to visit the Museum Amstelkring, now called Ons’ Lieve Heer op Solder (Museum Our Lord in the Attic). A number of stoned young men stumble out of coffee houses into my path as I trace and retrace my steps, trying to find my way. It’s the first time during my stay that I long for home. I finally find the museum on the Oudezijds Voorburgwal.* Inside, I’m reminded that there was once a ban on Catholicism in this now-liberal city. During the Reformation, when Catholics were forbidden to hold public services, they built this clandestine sanctuary across three attics. It makes me think of the attic sanctuary in my mother’s childhood home, where her family hid fleeing Jews...