Immigration Story

Introduction.
On an overcast Tuesday in May of 1950, Paul and Grace Rustenburg with their eight children went to Rotterdam, Netherlands and boarded the Steamship Volendam and immigrated to Canada. What I have written is the recounting of this event by their eight children as a collective memory for our children and coming generations.

Let me begin by sharing briefly a series of events which moved me to write about this. In the summer of 1998, my wife Diane, and I were privileged to be able to go to the Netherlands on a tour. Shortly after arriving there, I was overwhelmed by the feeling, “I am home again!” I did not expect to feel that way. Our group consisted of six of Diane’s siblings, their spouses and some of the children. It had been exactly one hundred years ago that year that their grandfather, Jan Buteyn, immigrated to the USA from Nieuwdorp in the Province of Zeeland. The itinerary included places that were of significance to the extended family history. Diane and I stayed a week longer to visit some of my cousins.
Two years later, in the spring of 2000, the two of us made a second trip to the Netherlands. It was made primarily to see, one more time, my Father’s youngest brother, Pieter, who was in failing health. On that trip we also went back to our home town, Pijnacker, and found the place where our family lived prior to emigrating. Although the neighborhood had vastly changed, I recognized the house instantly.
In the Fall of 2000, two more experiences impacted me. First, I was appointed to serve on the Board of Directors of the Dutch International Society, based in West Michigan, USA. It put me in touch with individuals and events that heightened an interest in wanting to remember more of my past as an immigrant. Then, second, about the same time, I got involved with a family that had just emigrated from the Netherlands. The youngest needed some help with translating his homework and I was recruited. This experience intensified the tug.

In January of 2001 I read an ad for an evening class on learning to teach English as a Second Language. With the encouragement of Diane, I signed up. While taking this class it dawned on me in a whole new way that English was my (and my family’s) second language. Through this class I encountered more recent immigrants who, unlike the Dutch family I had just met, had no knowledge of the English language and little of the North American culture. It set me to reflecting on the fact that our family went through this same trauma.

Then it was that I read this story:
A Lasting Legacy
I once heard a story about a philosophy professor who was the quintessential eccentric philosopher. His disheveled appearance was highlighted by a well worn tweed sport coat, which covered a thickly knit turtleneck sweater. He wore poor fitting thick glasses, which often rested on the very tip of his long pointed nose. Every now and then, as most philosophy professors do, he would go off on one of those esoteric and existential "What's the meaning of life" discussions. Many of those discussions went nowhere, but there were a few that really hit home. This was one of them:
"Respond to the following questions by a show of hands," the professor instructed.
"How many of you can tell me something about your parents?" Everyone in the classroom raised their hands.
"How many of you can tell me something about your grandparents?" About three fourths of the class raised their hands.
"How many of you can tell me something about your great-grandparents?" Two out of sixty students raised their hands.
"Look around the room", he said. "In just two short generations hardly any of us even know who our own great-grandparents were. Oh sure, maybe we have an old, tattered photograph tucked away in a musty cigar box or know the classic family story about how one of them walked five miles to school with bare feet. But how many of us really know who they were, what they thought, what they were proud of, what they were afraid of, or what they dreamed about? Think about that. Within three generations our ancestors are all but forgotten. Will this happen to you?
"Here's a better question. Look ahead three generations. You are long gone. Instead of you sitting in this room, now it's your great-grandchildren. What will they have to say about you? Will they know about you? Or will you be forgotten too?"

At that point it then occurred to me that while my siblings were alive and able to recall things, someone should put together a collective memory of the immigration encounter as we experienced it. Because the passion was mine, I made it my quest (zoektocht).
I can’t but help wonder how much resource material might be “out there” in the form of letters and pictures shared with family and friends. I am not sure who, if any, would have saved such correspondences. Perhaps, now that this project is posted, such items will come to light and a revised and even more complete version can be written. For now, the primary resource is from my siblings, both written and spoken.

THE DECISION
Since even the oldest of the siblings were but young teenagers, they were not included in the initial decision making process. Enough conversation was overheard to pick up on a few details. However, their opinions were not taken into consideration, at least not at first.
It is not certain which of our parents initiated the idea but two factors that impacted our family seem to stand out. The first was that Mom’s youngest brother, Peter Lenters, was already in the United States. As a matter of fact, the close relationship between them, a closeness already forged in their childhood, meant that there was a lot of correspondence, even before the war. His being in the USA was a blessing as well because he was able to help with the recovery from the war deprivations that devastated life. Out of gratitude, our parents gave their names (Carol, Pieter) to me as my middle names. My first name was in honor of Mom’s oldest brother.
The second personal factor that seemed to be of some influence was that many others in the community were leaving, or talking about it. One person who it seems was significantly persuasive was Dad’s business competitor. One wonders if he had ulterior motives.
Of course there were other influential factors. Not the least was the fact that the Netherlands was, as was all of Europe, a long way from recovering from the war. There was not a good economic outlook for the future of the common folk. It seemed to a lot in the Labor Class that a new start in a country like Canada or Australia provided much more hope for a good future, especially the children.
About the time this was going on, Mom got sick. Her illness came to light when physicals were taken as part of the application process. Some speculate that the nutritional deprivation of the war years had taken their toll. It became evident that she needed a hysterectomy. This was major surgery at that time and the recovery period, they were told, was at least a year. The immigration process was seriously delayed but even during her recovery, plans were still worked on. It seemed like once the decision was made, they were eager to go. During our last winter in the Netherlands (‘49 -’50) Dad and Peter took English language courses in the evenings. At first in Canada, Peter often functioned as an interpreter. He must have picked up much more than Dad. Even today, talking to new immigrants, the English language is difficult to learn as an adult.
As Mom’s recovery progressed, the process moved forward again. Finances were arranged with a couple of Dad’s customers who also were emigrating: Koorneef and VanderKooy. It was to their advantage to loan out money. At that time no one was allowed to take more than 200 Guilders out of the Country. This was to protect the Dutch economy in its effort to recover from the War. For those who had such finances, by loaning to immigrants, they would be paid back in Canada and so recover some of this cash. Later, the Dutch and Canadian governments decided to underwrite the travel fare for Emigrants. Considering the hardship caused by this loan, this was a bitter pill for our parents to swallow.
Taking this step was a financial risk taking. Dad could see being burdened long term with paying all this back. It was therefore discussed with the older children that all of them would have to commit to pooling income until this debt was paid. For the boys, this was probably easier to promise. For the two older girls it was a more serious and sobering obligation.
All of this was done in the context of a close knit community as well as family relationships. The process of leaving all that behind was a painful one. There wasn’t much as far as possessions were concerned so what we did have was valued. Sorting out what was truly essential and what could be left behind was as much heartrending as leaving neighbors. One sister recalls vividly the pain of having to leave behind a treasured doll.
Through the war experience our family had built close bonds with many of these families. Some of the older siblings remember receiving mementos from friends and neighbors. Some had formed close friendships with peers. Saying goodbye was a deeply emotional experience and tears flowed freely. Yet for the older boys it appears that this was an exciting adventure. For the girls, however, it was frightening and much more emotionally traumatic. For John and me, we were too young to comprehend the impact this would have on our future.
Although I do remember a few specific experiences of the Netherlands, I have only one personal recollection of this process. I can remember sitting on Mom and Dad’s bed one morning. There were others crowded around and they were discussing the emigration. The conversation must have been about language because I remember Mom saying that the only English words she knew were “yes” and “no”. My other memories do not appear related to this time so I will write of them at another time if the Lord gives me that opportunity.
The process involved going to Den Haag for passport applications and pictures, physicals and also immunizations. After Mom’s recovery, it all seemed to go fairly smoothly and we were cleared health wise. Arrangements also had to be made for employment. I know that there was an Immigration committee of the Christian Reformed Church in the USA that helped the immigrants once they arrived, even in Canada. None of my siblings mentioned knowledge of any advance contact that was made with this committee. We were informed by the Immigration Bureau that we were being assigned for employment to a Mr. Jefferies in Grimsby, Ontario. Now we knew our specific destination. I wonder if any maps were consulted to see where in the world this Grimsby was.
Once the arrangements were completed and a departure date was set, things started to move along. The remaining possessions got packed into a large wooden crate and trucked to Rotterdam. This happened some time before departure so the family went to Enkhuizen to lodge with family there. I was given the impression that this stay in Enkhuizen was part of the plan. Most of the older ones remember the ride in a stretch limousine. The name of the taxi service was Van Sloot (or Van Slooten). One brother recalls this to be a ‘48 Plymouth. It must have been a very accommodating vehicle to take ten people plus carry on luggage. It was Saturday and the ride was a happy experience, detracting from the pain of parting from the friends and neighbors in Pijnacker.
 

It was also a happy ride because we were going to Enkhuizen. There Father’s parents and some siblings lived. Everyone has fond memories of them all. Dad, Mom and the two youngest stayed with Opa and Oma Rustenburg. The others were put up with aunts and uncles; the two oldest girls stayed with family of Dad’s sister Aunt Nel and Uncle Simon. Everyone that has any memories of this time agree it was a happy time until the final goodbyes. Familiar places in town were visited as well as family in that part of the Country.
I have two very specific memories of a visit in Enkhuizen. Whether or not they were from this particular time I cannot say. The first was that of Opa telling me about a surprise under a piece of furniture. It was up against the wall so probably a buffet. Looking underneath, I saw a box that I was told to pull out. In it were little wooden blocks of assorted shapes and sizes. They were smooth and polished. It was a home made building block set. I was very happy with this and started playing with it right away. Since this is the only memory of this block set, I surmise it was kept in Enkhuizen for other toddlers that may be visiting them.
The second memory likely may have happened on that same visit. I was playing on the living room when suddenly there was frantic screaming which came from the kitchen. Everybody came running fearing to find some disaster. Oma was peeling potatoes and had grabbed one that had a slug on it. I can still picture Opa laughing and gently reprimanding her for such an overreaction.
Of course the happiness for our parents was tempered because a serious effort was made to dissuade them of their decision. Some recall that Dad’s brother Pieter even offered him a job (perhaps a partnership) in his Print shop. We don’t know all the intricacies of family relationships in those days, but someone speculated that the fact that Mom’s brother had been in the printing business in Enkhuizen and in some ways had been a competitor of Uncle Pieter, may have been a factor in turning down such a proposal. Regardless, both of our parents were resolute. Not many months before his death, Uncle Pieter, in a conversation with one of my siblings, recalled things of Dad with tender feelings. However, he was reluctant to talk about our Mother as if there were still some hard feelings. These tensions were conveyed to some of us children by other of Dad’s siblings.
Some of my siblings specifically remember that the final farewells were said at Opa and Oma’s place on Semeyn Street, house number 18. No one had dry eyes, not even Opa. It was remembered as a very emotional time. So when the ten days there were ended the limousine was again hired to bring us all to the Holland America Lines dock in Rotterdam.
On our trip in 1998 we visited this dock. I recognized the buildings immediately even though I had no specific memories connected with them. Mom’s brother, Martin, was bringing Oma Lenters there by auto so we could say our goodbyes to them there. On the way, his car had a flat tire which made them late. The gang plank had already been taken up; it was too late! The older siblings have the painful recollection of seeing this aged woman holding up a farewell gift as she waved to us. For all they knew in those days, the parting was permanent. It was a bitter memory. By God’s grace, our parents were able to return to the Netherlands in 1962 and see their parents one more time. But at that time it was a heart rending event.

THE JOURNEY                                                              
At the time of this writing, no copy of the passenger list is available from the Volendam. I hope to do more research on this and will include more details of the ship as I discover them.
We all have more personal and specific memories of the boat ride, including myself. The older siblings remember the three long blasts of the ships whistle. Perhaps it was the signal that all was ready for departure. The tug boat then pulled us out of the dock area and by Hoek van Holland we were on our way under the ship’s own power. Most people stayed on deck to continue waving farewells and get one last look of the Homeland they were leaving behind. It was a sobering experience to see land slowly disappearing on the horizon.
Families did not lodge together as a unit. Such luxury was only for First class passengers. Immigrants were packed together but separated by gender. Men and older boys were put in large rooms, much like barracks and slept on bunk beds or hammocks. Women, girls and young children stayed in cabins. The girls recall these as cramped quarters and not the most comfortable. Mothers with little ones busied themselves with their care which no doubt allowed for a degree of distraction from the discomforts of their circumstances, lack of privacy but also, and perhaps more importantly, from any misgivings there might be over the decision to emigrate.
One of my personal recollections, one that is very distinct, was shortly after we were on our way. I recall everyone pointing at a white line on the horizon and saying, “There is England.” Later in life I came to realize that what we were looking at were the Cliffs of Dover. Peter thought that we went around Ireland.
Once out on the Atlantic, it became obvious that very few people were used to the rolling environment of the ocean. Seasickness was rampant and added to the misery of cramped quarters. Of course, many used the railings to vomit. Some of these lost more than the contents of their stomachs as dentures were irretrievably lost overboard. That may seem humorous now but for them this only added to the stress. An even more humorous observation was of a group of Dutch sailors who themselves got very seasick. They were traveling to Canada to pick up a submarine for the Dutch Navy. Peter recalls that he and his friend harassed them often on the journey.
Some older siblings recall who among us was sick or not. I’ve been told that I was seasick at first but I do not recall this. I also do not recall my brother John coming down with Rheumatic fever, being confined to bed the rest of the journey. I remember playing on a carpeted area with tiny plastic toys. They were baby blue in color. I played with someone close to my age but do not recall if it was a new playmate or my brother John.
One other very pleasant memory I have is standing on the bow of the ship with Dad eating an orange. I was told to chew the pulp until all the juice was out and then to spit the pulp overboard. (This was in the days before the value of roughage fiber was recognized) This memory was always one I had treasured but it came back in living color when I saw the movie 'Titanic'. Actually my memories turned into nostalgia during that movie and then already made me want to hear more about it from my siblings.
A third and less pleasant personal memory of the boat ride was of encountering a storm. I’ve been told that it was 5 days into the journey. Everyone was being fitted with life preservers. Apparently they came in various sizes but there wasn’t a small one left for me. I recall putting up a serious fuss, screaming and crying, when I was being fitted with one. I’m not sure if my fuss was because the life jacket was too big or if I was just afraid of the thing. Perhaps as a child I also sensed the apprehension of the adults in having to sail through a storm. I remember a uniformed man, likely one of the Ship’s employees, trying to settle me down while my parents stood by. This took place on deck, as I remember the overcast and windy weather. The trauma of that incident left a vivid memory.
My siblings shared much different recollections of the boat ride with me. The older ones made friends and may have already known some of the other passengers, like my brother Pieter, who was friends with Henk Boehm. It isn’t hard to imagine that the teenagers spent much time together with young people their own age and participated in activities that were available for them. Peter recalls making their way to the top deck even though it was closed to the public because of the weather. He doesn’t remember seeing much of his older sisters except at a few meals.
My middle brothers and their friends were just as adventurous; perhaps even more intent on exploring. Beer drinking, especially on the part of the sailors, was common. Since the bottles had a deposit, this was a source of income for these rascals. Of course, not all the bottles they found were empty but they were happy to consume the contents before collecting the deposit. After all, the store clerks only took empties. The money was used to buy candy, gum, ice cream and cigarettes. The brand of choice was Player’s cigarettes because the package had a picture of a sailor. Of course, Arie and some of their friends had to try smoking them too. No point letting them go to waste but Herman turned it down. They discovered other hanky panky as couples tried to find some privacy, sometimes under the covers of the life boats.
For the most part, life settled down into somewhat of a routine. There were morning and evening devotions every day. Peter recalls that they were held in a room in the bottom of the ship where one experienced the “roller coaster” effect. He recalled that the singing was accompanied by someone on the accordion but didn’t play very well. After a few days a group that belonged to the Church that had seceded to follow Schilder announced that they would no longer participate in the religious functions. They decided they would have their own separate religious exercises. Apparently the hostility between the factions was carried along and prevented them from wanting any fellowship with the Church that had rejected them. However, our father reacted with a biting remark of his own: “If the ship goes down, will you have your own separate place in heaven too?” The “roller coaster” effect also had an effect on the attendance and later was discontinued.
The dining room was very large with round tables. Everyone recalled the food as being very good. Of course, tables were not large enough for our family so Rita was assigned to another table with a smaller family. She recalls their name to be Salverda. Mom spent most of her time in the room where John was put to bed with his illness. None of the others remembered the storm to be serious. Peter recalled that as the sea grew rougher, even before the storm, sea sickness prevented many from coming down to the dining area. One time he and Dad and a few others were the only ones there for a meal.
The sea gulls followed the ship but that was the only diversion. The rest of the view was sky and water, although one recalled that we saw some icebergs. This is very likely as Spring is the time of year when they break loose and drift south into the ocean. In the book, “To all our Children”, there is a personal reminiscence of an officer on the Volendam in 1950. This possibly was the very trip that we experienced. He writes about the iceberg hazards that time of year. He made some poignant remarks about the people that were immigrating.