The Family, One-by-One, Are Transported to Concentration Camps

The Cohen Family, Sonja, her sister Judie and her parents

On a Sunday in June in 1942, the Jewish Council mailed out the first batch of envelopes containing orders to report. Last names, A through D, under the age of forty were first.

Two days later, at around 10:30 am, Sonja was at work when the phone rang. Her mother cried, “Your notice to report arrived in the mail today, one for you and one for our Judie. Uncle Philip came by to tell us that Sara and Beppie are also leaving.”

Sonja reacted immediately. “Let me get a hold of Herman.” “Herman? Are you still seeing him after we...” “Mother I love him. Let’s not waste time.” “Can he stop this?”

“Perhaps he can. I’ll pick them up from you.”

“Your father is already on his way to you.” The moment Sonja hung up, the phone rang again. Herman sounded agitated. “We can’t meet for lunch today. There’s a big roundup going on. Even people with exemption stamps are being arrested. I’ve got to stay and help them.”

She told him about the notices for her and her sister. “Tell you mom not to worry. Bring them to me as soon as you can, but stay away from downtown. Tell your dad too.” “I love you.”

“See you later.” She hung up, and the door opened. Her dad entered. He quickly closed the door behind him and handed her the two envelopes. She noticed he looked pale. She told him that Herman he might be able to help. Jacob hesitated. “Can we accept that after everything that’s happened?” “Of course dad, doesn’t everything happen for a reason, remember?”

He faintly smiled, and told her to be safe. “Stay away from downtown today.” He kissed her gently on her forehead and left. She put on her coat. A surge of adrenaline rushed through her as she used her purse to cover the yellow star. Herman worked across town. She saw a horse pulling a cart that belonged to the company her father had used for shipping his fabrics. She asked the driver if she could hitch a ride under the canvas.

Anxiously, she sat amongst the parcels. It seemed to take forever. She peeked out and recognized the Beethovenstraat.

When the cart stopped, she jumped and kept running until she reached Herman’s office. It was hectic inside. The hallways were crowded and noisy. Nobody knew where Herman was. She decided to wait. By four o’clock, when she was about to leave the envelopes with a young man who promised to pass them on to Herman, she saw him through the crowded hallway, making his way toward her.

She gave him the envelopes. “Everything’s fine, Sonja! Tell your mom not to worry. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help your cousins. They have to go. Tell your uncle not see them off to the station.” Someone called his name. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”

He kissed her quickly and disappeared into the crowd. That evening, she told her parents not to worry. Her mom cried. Her own daughters didn’t have to leave, but her nieces did. And so did everyone else between the ages of five and twenty-five. Long after bedtime, her neices arrived at Camp Westerbork, unaware of how much worse things were going to get.

Jews leaving Amsterdam for Camp Westerbork

Later that evening over a cup of tea, the Rabbi who came by, suggested letting Sonja and Herman marry. “Lots of couples are getting married. At least with the same last name, they will stay together. Also, if Herman is your son-in-law, you’ll be fine to accept his help.”

Sonja, not usually at a loss for words, was speechless when she heard the good news. How could she ever thank her parents and the Rabbi? They were married during a civil ceremony with some forty other couples, in August of 1942. It was a frugal event and they were not the happiest of times but she was thrilled to be Herman’s wife. They wanted to honeymoon a few days at her uncle’s in the South, but leaving Amsterdam was against the law and not even Herman’s papers could safeguard them. She didn’t mind. He promised her a honeymoon after the war. He was taking her to America. They had the rest of their lives to celebrate. After cake and coffee, they went back to work.

Even though Herman came home late every night, these were relatively happy months. Without realizing it, by marrying Herman Rosenstein, Sonja had moved from the C to the R on the list of deportations because the names were alphabetized, thereby delaying her fate.

In the meantime, Sonja’s mom collected their most valuable belongings and gave them for safe keeping to Mrs. Roderigues, their housekeeper. With the neighbors watching her coming and going, it had become too dangerous for this brave woman to keep working for the Cohen family. They cried when they hugged good-bye.

On Sonja’s birthday, Sonja was in the living room with her landlady Mrs. Gan, when the bell rang. It was her dad. He was alone. “It’s too far for your mother to walk. Happy birthday from both of us.”

Her dad told them that a police officer had come by to take them away, but he saw their wedding photo and asked, “Who is that? I know that guy.” “That’s my son-in-law and my daughter,” her mother had answered.

“Is that right? Well, good day, then. Come on,” he had said to his partner. “We’re at the wrong address.” “They left, but your mother is terribly worried.” He looked worried too.

It was then that her mother decided to have her polio foot operated on, for their upcoming trip. Fourteen days later, she was released from the hospital. She walked a little better, which made her feel more confident and optimistic about the future.

Meijer Square roundup, 1941

In May, the captain, Herman’s boss, left town for a business trip to Berlin. The major signed off on a huge roundup, and decided to see for himself. The phone rang at the new address in the Rijnstraat. Herman sounded anxious. “There’s a round up near the Meijer Square. I’m going there to see if I can help. I’ll be home late.”

“Please be careful,” she said nervously. The square was crowded with uniforms: regular police, Dutch SS, German SS, Gestapo, Green Police, so called because of their green uniforms and the Order Police.

As soon as the victims saw Herman, they rushed over to him. He did not want to attract attention and tried to calm them down. He got his lists out, checked their names, and assured them, “I’ll see what I can do.”

The major was watching from a distance. He saw the commotion and walked over, followed by several SS men. “What’s going on here? What are you doing? Who are you?” Herman told him he worked for Aus der Fünten and there’d been a mistake.

“These people have been wrongly detained. They all have exemption stamps.” He held up the list. Lages grabbed the list from his hand, tore it up, and accused Herman of sabotage. She waited up all night. The following morning, earlier than usual, she went to the office.

“Herman is in jail. Lages himself arrested him yesterday,” her boss told her. Sonja was frantic and wanted to go and visit him, but her boss warned her that she might be arrested if she tried. A couple of weeks later, Herman was deported to Camp Westerbork, a concentration camp in Holland, not far from the German border, where most Jews were sent before leaving for Poland.

He was held in the punishment barracks for criminals who had committed a crime, which was distinct from simply being Jewish. His aunt Betty and her daughter Jenny were already at there, as were Feli and Jack, two uncles. They had been there since 1938. June 20th, some four weeks later. It was a warm Sunday morning. Holland had been occupied by Nazi Germany for three years now. At around ten-thirty, Sonja walked to work. Her mind was with her beloved brand new husband Herman. When was she going to see him again? It had been four longs weeks since his arrest.

Children arriving at Camp Westerbork

All of a sudden, a car and a truck screamed into the street from opposite ends and came to a screeching halt. The sound of shrill whistles suddenly filled the peaceful street. About ten police officers with angry barking dogs jumped from the back of the truck and ran up to anybody wearing a yellow star. SS men motioned spectators to move on.

The driver of the truck saw Sonja’s star on her coat. “Papers,” he barked at her. She handed him her ID. “Come on, get in.”

Terrified she climbed into the back of the truck. Men, women, and a few children sat packed side-by-side on facing benches. They made room. The driver dropped the canvas cover and climbed behind the wheel. She heard him say, “We’ve got enough of them for now.” He was referring to the Jews quota for the day.

He drove them to the soccer field on the Olympia Square, a block from her office. At the entrance, behind a row of tables, Jewish prisoners from Camp Westerbork were registering the new “load.”

“ID! Address? Front door keys!” She saw a guy she knew from the Jewish Committee, helping an elderly couple with their suitcases. When he was done, she called him. She asked him if he could pick up her backpack from the office.

Half an hour later, he returned. “Your parents and your sister came through here earlier today. They left a couple of hours ago. You’ll see them there.” She thanked him, but he barely heard her. He was already busy with the next person. She was ordered to wait and sat down on the grass, calmed somewhat by the news.

After a couple of hours, they were ordered into the back of a truck and were driven to the strain station. No one said a word. At the station, the group of fifty or sixty people walked towards the train. Some carrying only a backpack, others, dragging suitcases.

A policeman walking next to her, whispered, “Girl, take off your yellow star. Rip it off. Let me take you home. Don’t be afraid. I will take care of you.”

He kept insisting. “Don’t get into that train. Tear off that star.” “I want to go to my husband.”

She whispered, looking at the ground ahead of her. “Take it off while you still can and come with me.” She thought, if she went with him, he’d report her to the police. “I am married; I am going to my husband in Westerbork.” “Don’t get onto that train. Listen to me!”

She hesitated. “But what if the police...?” “I am the police.” She could hardly move. Children and babies were yelling and crying. More and more people were pushed into her car—suitcases, backpacks, and blankets. The cattle car was packed.

She sweated abundantly. The sliding door was shut. She heard the clank of the bolt being secured. The locomotive with its fifteen or so cattle cars jolted and started moving slowly. How did she get here? How did she end up in a cattle car on her way to Westerbork?

It was dark and dirty. Do not drop your purse, she told herself, or you’ll be trampled. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A woman next to her said, “At least the fear of being caught is gone. Tonight I can finally sleep.”

She agreed, “There’s something to that.” The sound of every click-clack, click-clack brought her closer to Herman.

When they arrived at the camp, they were handed over to camp personnel, Jewish prisoners themselves.

It was dark out when the locomotive came to a juddering stop. Sonja felt tired and dirty, but it had been worth it. She’s going to be with Herman.

Sonja's journey from camp to camp to forced labor and then back to Amersterdam, follow the bold line beginning at Westerbork

The door slid open. “Get out. Get out,” instructions echoed along the train. With slightly more than a thousand people, they were herded to the registration barracks and ordered to wait. Soon the hall was packed and lines were forming outside.

Grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts and uncles, parents, children, crying babies, brothers, sisters, sick and disabled people, everybody rested on the floor amidst their luggage, waiting to be registered. Doctors were making sure people were all right.

Behind a long row of tables, prisoners typed information cards. It took hours before it was Sonja’s turn. While waiting, she saw her uncle Anton in the crowd rushing toward her. He kissed her. She was surprised to see him. He had gone into hiding with his wife. He had no time to explain and quickly told her that he worked in the hospital and that her parents and sister arrived a few trains earlier.

“I admitted your mother and Mientje (his other sister) to the hospital.” “What about Herman?”

He knew nothing about Herman and disappeared into the chaos. Sonja saw Sol, one of her cousins and pushed her way towards him. He was busy but kissed her and told her that her parents and sister arrived a little while ago. “What about Herman? What do you know about Herman?” 

He shook his head apologetically and hurried to a typist who was calling him. Finally, it was her turn. “Name. Place of birth? Last address? Keys? Profession? Family?” the typist asked. She was told not to hide any money, so she handed over the little bit of cash she carried on her.

Moments later, someone called out, “Sonja Rosenstein, Barracks 65!” Barracks 65 was packed with triple bunk beds facing each other across a narrow aisle. The beds were so closely stacked that they were accessible from the aisle only. Sonja got a top bunk near the door. That night she found out that the light in the corridor would stay on all night and shine right on her face.

For a moment, she sat still, taking it all in—the noise, the open suitcases, the clothes everywhere. A young mother and her two children were dressed as if they were going on vacation.

She started to itch. There were fleas everywhere. Her neighbor in the next bed filled her in on the rules and regulations of the camp. Be inside your barracks by eighto’clock, in bed by ten o’clock. Breakfast was a piece of bread and was at eight o’clock.

She left her backpack on the bed and went to the hospital in search of her mother and aunts. On her way, she ran into her father pushing a wheelbarrow. He had lost weight. She cried as she ran up to him.

“No need to cry,” he said, and repeated as he had many times before, “everything happens for a reason. We must have faith, now more than ever. It’s going to be fine. Go visit your mom.”

The hospital seemed chaotic. She first found Anton’s wife aunt Jet. “We were hiding but someone turned us in for a reward.” Sonja hugged her and asked if she knew where her mother was. When she found her mother, they hugged.

“I just saw dad and aunt Jet. How are you? Where’s Judie?” Sonja found her little sister on the floor in a dirty barracks, fighting an asthma attack. A few days later, Anton admitted her sister to the hospital.

Uncle Feli and Jack had arranged a job for Jenny, Herman’s cousin, in the admin office. Jenny told Sonja that Herman was in solitary, and that she was trying to get him transferred to the hospital. It took her three weeks to get him finally admitted into the hospital. A few days later, according to plan, Anton diagnosed Herman healthy and he was allowed to stay at the cabin with his uncles. Sonja visited a lot.

Herman’s uncle Feli got Sonja a bread-buttering job in the kitchen for a while. After that, she joined a cleaning crew. She mopped and cleaned every morning from seven to ten. She spent a few hours in the hospital visiting with her mom, her aunts, and her sister. She kept Herman for the afternoon, evening and night. Quiet moments before the storm; they were oblivious to how the next chapter of their lives was going to play out.

The camp commander received instructions on how many Jews he needed to deport that week. He left the details up to the committee of early residents. They decided who was leaving. The committee met every Monday and discussed logistics like how many people went into a cattle car, car representatives, and which doctors were to accompany the transport.

Tuesday morning, between two and three am, the barracks leaders announced the names of those leaving. People packed and said their good-byes.

Early morning, all those leaving were required to line up inside their barracks with their belongings, ready to go.  The Camp Police fetched them and corralled them to the platform. Some families left together, others were separated. Imagine the drama with the kids.

Sonja saw her cousin Sara looking for an empty bunk, there were none. She called Sara’s name. Sara’s face lit up and made her way through the commotion towards Sonja. They hugged and Sonja insisted that Sara share her bunk. Fourteen days they spent together before Sara’s name was read from the list.

That Tuesday morning, with her backpack ready to go, Sara said, “We won’t ever forget these last days, eh, Sonja? When this is all over, we will catch up!” ”They kissed and Sara was gone. Three days later, Sara was dead.

June 28, 1943. Sonja and Herman visited her mom and the other family members in the hospital every day, but they weren’t sick and Anton couldn’t keep them in the hospital any longer.

“Father and I are leaving tomorrow. Judie is coming with us,” her mom told Sonja on Monday, Sonja kissed her mom good-bye. “I love you mom. We’re going to be fine, right?”

She kissed here again. And again. “Silly girl, we’ll be seeing each other soon.”

“Herman thinks so too.” “We’ve grown very fond of him. Your dad and I...”

“I hope they’re ok,” she said to Herman in the cabin the following morning, as they heard the train rolling out of the station. “Don’t cry. Trust me, this war won’t go on for much longer.”

That day, her mom and dad, her sister and her aunt were deported like cattle to their slaughter with nearly 2400 people other people.