The Hollandsche Schouwburg (“When you walk in here all your smiles go away.”)

Before 1942 The Hollandsche Schouwburg (Dutch Theater) was a theater, a splendid theater. In 1941, commanders of the German occupying force, in an effort to segregate Jewish people, decided the theater would be used and attended by only Jews. They mockingly renamed it “Jew Schouwburg.” In 1942 all performances ended as the theater became an “assembly point”--a holding tank--for the thousands upon thousands of Dutch Jews who would eventually be sent to concentration camps throughout Europe. The Nazis chose the Schouwburg for at least two very practical reasons: it could accommodate thousands of people at one time; and as it had no windows--it was undetectable from prying eyes including allied bombers. Small children and infants were separated from their parents and housed at the nursery across the street.

Although the theater was ideal for holding thousands of people, it was just as inadequate to house that many. Impossible conditions soon developed, as there existed only two rest rooms for men and three for women. There were said to be “two or three” working sinks. Soon infested with lice and vermin, illness was inevitable. Ever industrious, the inmates created an infirmary for sick or wounded prisoners, and were said to have instituted regular exercise routines.

As of September 29, 1943 “Jew Schouwburg” was no longer necessary as it was declared, “all Jews had been removed from Amsterdam.” (That number exceeded 104,000 people.)

 

The Courtyard 

Among the many, many tragic stories of Dutch deportation (including internationally famous people like Anne Frank) is hidden the work of Walter Süskind. Süskind, a German Jew, left Nazi Germany in 1939 when he lost his job as the manager of margarine factory. A Dutch citizen by virtue of his grandparents, Süskind was appointed the head of the Jewish personnel in the Schouwburg. It was his responsibility to manage the Jewish staff (of mostly doctors, nurses, and the actors and musicians who once performed at the theater) in their work to “manage” the Jewish people who reported for processing.

Walter Süskind spoke fluent German and was often seen talking to and being very friendly with the soldiers who guarded his theater and the nursery across the street. The story is told that Süskind generously plied his captors with alcohol and other gifts. He seemed to enjoy their trust, which he, in turn, used to deceive his jailors. His plan was amazingly simple. The vantage point from the theater to the nursery across the street was often obscured by the trams which stopped directly in front. On the occasion that trams travelling in opposite directions stopped together, the view was completely blocked. Using such moments, Süskind orchestrated the safe passage of over 600 children and infants.

 

View to the Nursery

On Saturday I stood where Süskind undoubtedly once stood. As I stared in the general direction of the school that now stands where the nursery once was, I was reminded that life is timing. I’ve been at The Top of the World in the World Trade Center in NYC, but not on 9-11. I’ve walked the streets of Phnom Penh, but not on April 17, 1975 when the Khmer Rouge rampaged through the city killing and capturing anyone they deemed a threat, and I’ve stood on Omaha Beach with the English Channel at my back, but not on June 6, 1944 when over 2,000 men were slaughtered before they left the sand.

The trams are not the same. The schedules are not the same. The urgency is certainly not the same, but I wanted to see it for myself. I wanted to see two trams stop side-by-side. I wanted to imagine the feeling of risking my life, the terrifying thrill of whisking small children (often hidden in shopping bags or knapsacks) from the building to the tram (30 yards?) in a few life-threatening seconds.  As I stood there watching tram after tram come from one direction or the other (without ever seeing the overlap I pictured) I wondered if I would have the same commitment, the same willingness to risk my welfare for that of children I didn’t even know.

6700 Surnames

In 1960, the Schouwburg was all but demolished. Fifteen years of deterioration cost it it’s life, although the front of the building remains. The proud legacy remains, but so do the memories of the atrocities originated in that building. Today the Schouwburg is a memorial. It features a small collection of artifacts and a few  displays to help attendees understand it’s heritage. It also contains the names of 6700 families who lost at least one person during the Nazi occupation of Amsterdam. The courtyard gives an indication of the relatively tiny space in which 1,300 prisoners could be held for sometimes up to one week.

Walter Suskind did not survive the war. Along with his wife and daughter, Suskind was sent to Westerbork (deportation camp) in north Holland. From there his wife and daughter were sent to Auschwitz where they were killed. Suskind died in 1945, probably on a forced march by Germans fleeing the approaching Red Army.

The eternal flame

After a short while in such a solemn place, the feeling of something like shame, or grief, or helplessness sort of creeped over me. As I stood reading the long lists of family names I was remotely aware of a short, dark-haired boy standing near the eternal flame which burns in the memorial. I heard him say, but to no one in particular, “When you walk in here, all your smiles go away.”