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200 Disillusionment Judith Levy Straus It all happened during World War II, in Holland. The year was 1941. I was eight years old, and I became the owner of a beautiful doll. She had real blond hair, eyes that opened and closed, and a pretty smile on her face. Her dress was light blue, and she wore tiny socks and shoes. This doll was very special to me. Actually she was special for reasons that had nothing to do with her looks; she was special because of the why and where and how I got her. At that time it was not possible to purchase dolls, especially for Jewish children. So this doll was not bought by my parents, and she was not new; she was a hand-me-down. Family friends had a daughter who had outgrown the doll, and I became the lucky new owner. I was the only child of parents who had lived in Germany and who had attempted to escape Hitler by fleeing to Holland. But now Hitler and the Nazis were in Holland, and by 1942 the persecution and deportation of Jews was in full force. At age nine I could not share or even comprehend my family’s anxiety about deportation or survival. What I felt was loneliness. The adults in our home were always so busy with discussions that stopped when I came into the room. Their voices were filled with emotion, which they tried to hide from me. They wanted to shield and spare me, but instead I felt excluded—threatened by something unknown—and lonely. This is why the doll became so important. I had no brothers or sisters to share time or feelings with. I had learned that friends, at my age, are really only playmates. We children usually tried to hide our fears from one another. Playing with friends was also limited by Nazi restrictions as to where Jewish people were allowed to be and at what hour of the day. And so my doll became my sister, my brother, my confidant. She became a very important and special doll. My doll and I were separated in June of 1943, when my parents and I were deported to the Westerbork camp. Westerbork was a transit camp in Holland where the Nazis incarcerated Dutch Jews before sending them “east,” which turned out to be the concentration and extermination camps of Auschwitz, Sobibor, BergenBelsen , and Theresienstadt. I was ten years old when we came to Westerbork. A concentration camp has its own horrors for each person. The horrors of a ten-year-old are probably quite different than those felt by adults. For me, the fear of being alone, of being separated from my parents, was overwhelming. I am convinced my parents sensed this because miraculously, one day my doll appeared in our barrack in Westerbork. I do not remember the exact circumstances of her arrival. We were allowed to receive packages from relatives or friends still in Amsterdam, and the doll must have arrived in one of these packages. No one can imagine the joy I felt upon receiving this doll. I can only say that, no matter how long I will live, I will remember that feeling. I remember more. I learned what disillusionment and betrayal feel like. Aftermath 201 In 1944, my parents and I were scheduled for a transport “east.” My parents felt this would not be the right place to take the doll, so I asked a girlfriend to keep the doll and take good care of her until I returned. Her father had a very important job at Westerbork, and she was not likely to be transported anywhere. And she promised me that the doll would be taken care of. Our transport went to Theresienstadt, in Czechoslovakia. After three weeks my father, along with thousands of other men, was transported farther “east.” My mother and I stayed in Theresienstadt until the camp was liberated by the Russians in 1945. Shortly after that my mother and I returned to Holland. Just my mother and I returned, but not my father. One of my first missions after we came back to Amsterdam was to find my friend and reclaim my doll. I went to their apartment, rang their bell, and my friend and her mother came to the door. I could not quite understand the look on their faces. I expected a happy welcome. Instead their mouths sort of dropped, and I thought I saw surprise...

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