September 17, 2006
By Louise Lawrence-Israëls
It was cold, bitter cold. I was only two and a half years old. My feet itched and hurt and then itched again—the result of chronic cold feet. The attic where my family was hiding had no heating, only a very small camping-like stove that was only used to heat water or some food, if we had it. It was the coldest winter in a long time. The southern part of the Netherlands was already liberated. We were in Amsterdam, the northern part. We were isolated and it was very difficult to get food, oil, or wood to heat. Trees were chopped down clandestinely in the night. Punishment for that action would be fierce.
We were always hungry. My mother would ask our friend Selma, who was hiding with us, “Are you hungry?” and she would reply, “Oh no, not yet,” and vise versa, and that after a day without food. If there was anything to eat it was always for the children first. We could not get to a pharmacy to get a cream or other medication for my feet.
Before going to bed my brother and I had to go on a potty, and then put our feet in our urine. That made the pain better.
We had no idea that this was dirty or bad; we were just told that the pain would go away and that we would be able to sleep. Children do believe what parents or people with authority tell them. They do not argue or contradict them if they have never seen others do that. Our blankets were threadbare, but the children went to bed well wrapped.
Nobody complained and we were always told that things would get better.
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