Singing with grandpa

Grandpa was the tamed wild extrovert rogue while grandma was the silent intellectual. One of opa’s joys was singing with his family and oma would watch us with a smile on her face. “Als in een emmer een gat zit” ("If there's a hole in my bucket") was the name of his favourite song. A song where the family would sing/ask questions and he would sing/answer them:

It went like this:

"If there’s a hole in my bucket dear Dorus, dear Dorus,
If there’s a hole in my bucket?
Dear Dorus, what then?

Then you have to fill it, simple Liese, simple Liese
You have to fill it simple Liese.
Simple Liese, fill it.

With what I’ve to fill it, dear Dorus, dear Dorus.
With what I’ve to fill it?
Dear Dorus, with what?"

The rest of this question and answer song went like this:

Dorus would suggest a cork,
Liese wondered what to do if the cork was too big,
Dorus suggested that she’d cut it,
Liese wondered with what,
Dorus suggested a knife,
Liese wondered what to do if the knife was too blunt,
Dorus suggested to sharpen it,
Liese wondered with what,
Doris suggested a grindstone,
Liese wondered what if the grindstone was too dry,
Dorus suggested to wet it,
Liese wondered with what,
Dorus suggested with water,
Liese wondered how she would get that water,
Dorus suggested a bucket and then Liese would get back to her first question that what to do if there was a hole in the bucket.


And we’d all end this song singing the first part again with a smile.

Holocaust survivors, second generation (10)

Two cousins, two perceptions.
To my cousin, she was the nicest grandmother imaginable, but to me... My first vivid memory of her was when I suppose I was 8 or 9 years old. We had not seen her for a while and my mother took me to the bus station to fetch her. Walking towards us was this old, aloof, surly and sombre woman. Then there is this other occasion I remember; I must have been 11 or so. I was waiting somewhere when she coincidentally walked by. I went over to greet her, innocent and naïve as only kids can be, and she looked at me with some disgust. She continued without even stopping or saying anything to me.

“Your mother acted as a spoiled child in Bergen-Belsen.”
What coloured this relationship to such extent? Was it bad chemistry between mother and daughter, plain wickedness or something else? Why did that woman favour her eldest daughter and her children above her other daughter and hers? My cousin recently told me that according to his mother, my mother acted like a spoiled child in the concentration camp (she was 12 when the war ended). That remark shone a whole new light on the situation for me.

Family as relics of pain?
Painful memories dug up, flashbacks, just by seeing someone or hearing the name of a murdered spouse (I’m named after my grandfather, her husband). If so, I feel pity for this woman who wasn't capable of digesting her emotions, but vented them frustratedly. If not... well... at least I had the two nicest grandparents imaginable; on my father’s side.

To the next post in the "second generation" sequence