Flory Van Beek - Flory: Survival in the Valley of Death

When I immigrated to America from Holland, in 1948, I brought with me a huge suitcase filled with close to one thousand documents, diaries, newspaper clippings and photographs, all of which I had saved during the five-year war and Holocaust. They had been hidden by me in metal boxes and were buried deep in the ground, with the help of our benefactors and with whom we were hidden. This book is based on these documents.

Each time that I looked at that suitcase, filled with its dismal contents, I got pangs in my stomach, thinking how my darling mother found her death in the gas chambers of Sobibor and how she must have suffered.

As a testimonial and everlasting memory to my mother, I wanted to bring tribute to her life by writing this manuscript, which I began thirty years ago. The emotions of the past overwhelmed me to such an extent, that I burst out in tears again and again. After my first attempt, I cried so bitterly that my husband Felix said Stop, I want you to stop for now and I will put the suitcase somewhere so you will no longer see it. It is said that time heals, but it does not. One learns to cope with tragedy a bit better.

We moved to Newport Beach, California, in 1962, and I began to write again looking out from my room to palm trees and lovely greenery with cheerful flowers. Every word and every event in this publication is true. To my amazement, when initially published in Holland and elsewhere, it became a success. I finally have learned to accept the past, knowing that my mother is at rest in the Heavens with the Angels, and in her memory I consider this book a decent grave and epitaph.

This book is meant to be my Eulogy for my dear mothers unknown grave located in a strange land, where she met her tragic death in such an abominable way. It has been written in tears. Through the support and love of my dear husband Felix and many friends, I received the strength to continue writing. Now it is time for me to express my sincere thanks to those involved in the publishing of my testimonial. First, my gratitude goes to our dear friend Jim Riordan, for his initial assistance in constructing this book. My profound thanks to my very active and enthusiastic literary representatives and film producers Daniel Sladek and Chris Taaffe, who championed my life story this close to being produced as a major miniseries at ABC. Despite a setback due to extraordinarily unfortunate circumstances, the project is still in development with their company, and I am convinced it will make its way onto film in the near future. My sincere thanks to Eileen Cope and the team at Trident Media Group for their hard work on my behalf, and to HarperOne staff members Gideon Weil, Cynthia DiTiberio, and Laurie Dunne. My profound appreciation and thanks to all those from my home country of Holland for your fan letters and gifts, including flags!

Sincerely,
Flory A. Van Beek

Amersfoort

Y ou can take your skates along with you today, I heard my mother say as I was preparing for school.

My family lived in a small town in the Netherlands, the country of my birth. The town was called Amersfoort, located in the center of Holland. Amersfoort was quite picturesque, surrounded by many canals, old castles, and lush forests. In the winter, when the canals were frozen and the ice was strong, children could go to school on their ice skates, taking shortcuts and having lots of fun at the same time.

I was the youngest of four children, born of Jewish parents in the city of Rotterdam. My oldest brother, Jes (Ies), was nineteen years my senior. Then came my brother Ben, ten years older than I, followed by my sister, Elisabeth, who was nine years older. When I was very young my family lived in Rotterdam, close to my fathers parents, sisters, and brothers. It was a large family. Many Sunday mornings when all of us assembled at my grandparents home, we had to wait in line to pay our respects to my grandmother. My grandfather had passed away long before.

My mother was very beautiful; she had married my father when she was nineteen. She was soft-spoken, gentle, and an attentive listener. When I was five years old my father died in an accident, leaving my mother devastated. It was then that she decided to move to Amersfoort to be near her parents and siblings.

My mothers parents, my beloved grandparents Oma and Opa, were very religious and helped to raise me in the Orthodox Jewish fashion. When I turned six years old I began Hebrew school and shortly thereafter learned to read Hebrew.

My school, called De Meisjes School, was an all-girls school located on a plateau near an old castle. My teachers were quite strict; the headmistress especially was to be awed and feared. However, all who attended De Meisjes School received an excellent education, including learning the languages of our neighboring countries. In the fourth grade we started to learn French, followed by English in the fifth grade and German in the sixth grade. I disliked mathematics but loved languages, which were taught, as was the custom, by teachers from the countries where these languages were spoken.

I attended school each day from nine in the morning until noon and from two to four in the afternoon, with the exception of Wednesdays and Saturdays. On Wednesdays we attended school half a day, and I did not go to school on Saturdays, which was the Holy Sabbath. On the Sabbath I went with my grandfather, Opa, to the synagogue. This was an exciting event because afterward my sister and I went home to join my mother, grandmother, aunts, and uncles for a plentiful luncheon. We sang Hebrew songs of grace and enjoyed sweets, and I savored the feeling of safety and security with my family in this warm and loving atmosphere.

Opa was very handsome and dignified looking. On our way to the synagogue, people greeted him with reverence. One of my favorite memories from this time is my grandfather reading the daily newspaper aloud to my grandmother, whose eyes were not in good condition. The love they shared between them was enviable.