Her persoonsbewijs (internal passport) reveals part of her story. She was born Rebecca van Leeuwen in Rotterdam on September 11, 1887. When we visited her, the heavy curtains were always drawn and the lights were dimmed. In the short time I knew her, I never heard her say a word. Oma Walraven was one of them, but the grief of losing friends and blood had been too much. Only 30,000 managed to stay underground and survive. By the time the country was liberated in May of 1945, 110,000 of them had been shipped to concentration camps and lost their lives. There were an estimated 140,000 Dutch Jews in the Netherlands at the beginning of the war. Oma Walraven, I learned, was fully Jewish, descended from a long line of Dutch Jewish families. When the sobbing had subsided, she kissed me gently, turned off the light, and closed the door softly behind her. When I woke up screaming in fear, Mama came and asked me what was wrong. Even though it was night, the sky was alit with bright flashes everywhere. I was looking at the skyline of an unknown city. That night, after being safely tucked into bed, I had my first nightmare, at least the first one I can remember. I didn't understand the words he was saying, except that it had something to do with the destroyed buildings. We sat quietly in the small oppressive sitting room while Opa Walraven talked of the war and the suffering Oma had endured. The city was quickly rebuilding but many of the structures were still in ruins and there were large city blocks that stood empty - testimonial to the severe bombardment the city had suffered in 1940. After the funeral, Opa moved back to Rotterdam where he was born. It was the only time I ever saw Papa cry. Oma Walraven had died earlier in the year when they were still living in Den Haag. We were on our way to visit Opa Walraven, who was only months away from going blind altogether. On a dark, gloomy Sunday in 1952, we took the train from Den Haag (The Hague) to Rotterdam. Little did we know that our floating home, a 20,000-ton merchant ship flying the Norwegian flag, would find its final resting place some ninety miles up the Saigon river. The surrounding deep green hills, the beached fishing vessels with their nets hung out to dry under the warm blue sky, released some of the tension we had all felt since learning that we were going to Vietnam. Warning! Some segments in this document are inappropriate for children.Īs we dropped anchor in the sheltered waters of Vung Tau, it seemed eerily quiet. © Copyright 2004 Jack Walraven, All Rights Reserved. The Early Years by Jack Walraven last update: February 6, 2004