Choices

I was pulled through that door . . . A huge door, made of heavy wood, dark, with big iron hinges and bolts. At the top of the doorframe were figurines—just faces, ugly faces, unfriendly faces. I was convinced: Nothing good could lie behind that door. The door was at the end of a narrow alley, sunless and dark, squeezed between two houses—another bad sign. I loved the sun; not seeing it always made me feel scared. Either way, I knew I did not want to go there. I cried . . . I resisted . . . I fought. I was only four years old. What could I do? Strong hands pulled me through that door. Over my head, I heard people talking about “stoute Mama” (bad mother). Was that my mother they were talking about? I tried to remember her. I could not. I tried to listen, but the water was running as they scrubbed me from top to bottom with funny-smelling soap. They said I was neglected, they said I was covered with lice, and they threw my clothes away, with pulled-up noses. What did neglected mean? Where was my sister? They had picked her up as well, but I did not see her. We were playing in the street, and I had just made a drawing with my crayons on the pavement when they came and unceremoniously put us in a car and drove away. Over my head, I heard them talking in loud whispers: something about us being handed down from friend to friend. They could not locate my mother; she was most likely in a bar somewhere or with a new man friend. And that was the last time I heard a mention of her for decades. All I knew was that faceless people dressed me and gave me a sandwich. (I was not hungry, which surprised me because usually I was; I was just too shocked and afraid to think of food.) I was not even allowed to keep my doll. She was knitted and soft and usually my only source of comfort in a world that forced me to grow up before my time. I sat at the end of what was to become my bed, and later I was told to get under the rough but clean sheets and go to sleep. As I lay there sobbing, I was aware that someone had put a teddy bear in my bed. I did not like bears; I wanted my doll back. I pushed him away as if it were the bear’s fault that I could not have her. I never played with him. He just lay there unloved. A strict regulated schedule, day after day, would follow. I was now one of those girls in the drab navy blue dresses—just another mouth to feed in the state-run orphanage in the center of Amsterdam. My sister, Lena, found a group of older girls to hang around with and could not be bothered to deal with her little sister. Someone had given me crayons and a sketchbook, and I filled my days with those. One of the other girls had a transistor radio, and I would listen to it when she let me. I used to look out the window, waiting. I did not know what I was waiting for; I just knew that one day something good would happen, and somehow I would be able to leave. I hated the breakfast they served—a kind of milk pudding with leftover sandwiches from the night before thrown in. (I still hate pudding.) Actually, all the meals were awful. I was told I was a picky eater, and I sometimes had to sit for hours until I ate the food. But I never did. I was stubborn even then. That stubborn nature would serve me well in the years to come.