Westerborkpad (2012)
In the footsteps of the persecution of the Jews in the Netherlands

Anne Frank was never there, but for many of the 107,000 Jews deported from the Netherlands, the Hollandsche Schouwburg (Dutch Theatre) in Amsterdam was the starting point of the last journey they would ever make. Jan Dokter lost twelve family members in the Second World War and followed their footsteps from Amsterdam to Camp Westerbork. Together with Johan Vellinga, he turned it into a 336 km long hiking trail, which was opened on 27 January 2012, Holocaust Memorial Day.

Day 1: Amsterdam - Dieme, 14 km
I do not understand. And I hope I never will. The Westerborkpad guidebook starts with a long list of measures that made a carefree life impossible for Jews. 1933: Jews banned from art, radio, literature, theater and the press. 1935: Marriages and sexual relations between Jews and non-Jews prohibited. 1938: Jewish doctors are only allowed to treat Jews. 1941: Jews are no longer allowed to go to university, swimming pools, parks, libraries, zoos, museums and markets. Among all those bans, I am suddenly hit by a 1942 ban: Jews are no longer allowed to fish. Such an innocent pastime. While a perverse logic can still be discovered in some prohibitions, this one prohibition strikes me as pure, pointless harassment. I try to imagine what it feels like to become so isolated as a human being, to be so humiliated. I can't, but the countless bans affect me. This is not just any hiking trail. It is a thought-provoking path, as the Airborne Path Market Garden was before. But where that path tells of courage and struggle, of those who had the freedom to act, this story is so much more tragic. As I leaf through the guidebook and read the stories of families, I see people whose only possibility of resistance was to make themselves invisible, to deny their existence. The Westerborkpad brings their stories back to life.

From Amsterdam Central I walk along the frozen canals, on which a single daredevil is already skating circles. Stately canal houses lean forward. The snow crunches under my feet, but fortunately it’s not slippery. This part of the route is already way marked up and especially in the city, with so many narrow streets and a turns or a bridge every few hundred meters, that’s nice. The route soon takes me to the Anne Frank House, the Annex. Anne Frank, the icon of the persecution of the Jews, but also an ordinary girl of thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old who dreams of boys and later of a career as a writer and journalist. You can't imagine until you’re standing in those rooms with blacked out windows, and even then you really can’t, what it must be like to be locked up here for two years. Deprived of daylight and freedom. The rooms seem large, until you consider that eight people in hiding stayed here, eight people with different characters and never a moment of privacy. Silent, afraid to be heard. They couldn't even flush the toilet during the day. Afraid of a knock on the door, an open window, discovery. Stripes on the yellow wallpaper indicate how fast Anne and Margot grew during their period in hiding, while Father Otto kept a record of the Allies' progress on a map of Normandy. Recently I read the diary for the first time and what struck me most is the hope. Despite all the misery, Anne always looked to the future with hope. A future that was taken from her.

After the Anne Frank House, the trail continues through the heart of Amsterdam. The Westertoren, the Herengracht and the Rembrandtplein. Places full of Amsterdam’s bustling life, only the guidebook tells of a sinister history. I let the Jewish Museum pass me by. I can only tolerate museums in small portions and with two in a day I am definitely on my limit. That's why a trail like this is ideal for me. You are not all at once overwhelmed with information, but culture, nature and history alternate at a leisurely pace. Opposite the museum is the Dokwerker (Dockworker) in a square. This statue is a reminder of the February strike, the first Dutch protest against the persecution of the Jews. The strike organized by the communist party SNP followed a raid which many non-Jewish Amsterdammers witnessed. The raid was triggered by an attack on the Jewish ice cream parlor Koco, in which the owners sprayed a patrol of the Grüne Polizei with caustic gas. Ernst Cahn, one of the two owners, refused to mention the name of the person who installed the gas installation even after torture and was the first resistance fighter to be shot on the Waalsdorper plain.I reach the Wertheimpark via the Plantage Middenlaan. The Auschwitz monument of Jan Wolkers, Gebroken Spiegels (Brokken Mirrors), has been located here since 1993. How do you make a work that does justice to the victims, whose ashes are buried here in an urn? The explanation Wolkers gives is spot on. The blue sky, which hung indifferently and serenely over the misery of Auschwitz, as if it were a field full of flowers, will never be unbroken again. It fits so well with the feeling I had during my visits to Auschwitz that I cannot imagine that there was a time when this work of art did not exist, or that someone else would create an entirely different work. But now heaven is unbroken. The mirrors are covered with black wreaths and a thick layer of snow. Only the glass text "Never again Auschwitz" stands out above the white blanket, with a small square behind it where children are playing. For this monument I will return in summer, when the snow has disappeared and the glass scream is visible again.

After a short loop I am in front of the building where the Westerborkpad officially begins: the Hollandsche Schouwburg (Dutch Theatre). Three trams in succession continue their way from the stop to reveal the stately building, which was used as a deportation site from July 1942 till November 1943. Here countless Jews had to wait for their departure, for days, sometimes weeks, while their children were housed in the nursery across the street. Just this week I saw the film Süskind, about the Jewish theater manager who saved some 600 children by handing them over to the resistance without a record. Although I am well aware that the story has been romanticized, it does give me a sense of what kind of hell it must have been, practically: so many people and only one toilet, but also emotional. Being separated from your children, waiting for a journey with an unknown destination, full of fears. The theater no longer exists. Behind the facade is a small reception area overlooking an open courtyard. Only the walls of the wings are still partly standing and embrace an obelisk in memory of the people who were deported from here. There is a memorial room, where an eternal flame is surrounded by a circle of colored stones. The light flickers on the black panels of the memorial wall, which bear the family names of 6,700 of the 104,000* murdered Dutch Jews. There is also a museum, which shows something of Jewish life. Life and limitations in photos and diary excerpts. A note from someone in Westerbork who writes: "It's a hell here." But also a letter from a Jewish guardianship institution to the foster parents of a child in hiding. Because well, what happens when parents do not return from the war and the Jewish people have already lost so many of their children? After all, the war orphans remain Jewish children, with all the cultural wealth and history that goes with it. Some orphans stayed with their adoptive parents. Others ended up in Jewish orphanages and about 10% went to Israel to help build that country.From the museum the trail continues, past the Tropeninstituut (Tropics Institute) with its beautiful gable stones and through the Oosterpark, where there are a lot of people skating on a small lake. I make a small loop through the Transvaalbuurt, the street plan of which was designed by famous architect Berlage. Old photos at the local supermarket tell something about the history of this district. During the war, this area was designated by the occupying forces as "Judenviertel" and raids took place regularly. A Star of David on the facade of a house on the Transvaalplein is a reminder of this. From there it is not far to Muiderpoort station, where, according to the guidebook, a monument commemorates the 11,000 Jews who were deported from this station. However, the cast-iron bench is hardly distinguishable from the other benches against which wrecked bicycles are parked. Victor E. van Vriesland's poem, punched into the metal, is difficult to read, but beautiful. After a few more bends I am hiking along the Ringvaart. Although there is a bit more green here, I never really feel like leaving the city behind. The buildings of the Science Park snuggle up against Diemen and you can hardly speak of nature here. There are plenty of birds in an ice hole where the Ringvaart ends. Cuddly gadgets, tufted ducks and a few wigeons, geese and swans. I read ahead and suddenly the word "self-service foot ferry" jumps out at me. That's not going to work. Normally I’s up for a prank or two, but now I can already see myself sinking through the still weak ice. The foot ferry is indeed out of order, but fortunately there is a bridge fifty meters away which takes me to the same dike. After a few meters of the Amsterdam-Rhine Canal the route turn to a small park. There is no lake to tempt people to done their ice skates and so it is quiet and peaceful. A pheasant rooster walks with short jerks in the snow. A little further on a wide ditch where an ice hockey tournament is planned. The ingredients for a party are ready: lights are hanging in the trees, two fire pits are waiting for wood and a sound box in the trees is waiting for music. However, the kids have taken an advance on the party and are romping around with hockey sticks and all on the ice. I leave them behind and dive under the highway and the railway to the station, my end point for the day. A short stage, but long enough with so many impressions.

* Opinions differ on exactly how many Jews were deported and murdered. The guidebook mentions 107,000, of whom only 5,000 returned. Wikipedia lists between 104,000 and 110,000 Jews murdered as a number, but in another article 102,000. Ultimately, numbers don't matter. Because every number represents a person. Someone's brother, sister, nephew, niece, mother, father ...

Day 2: Diemen - Bussum, 28 km
The day starts well. On my way to Diemen I see four deer standing on a meadow hidden in the woods, their heads raised as they watch the intercity racing past. Then I lose sight of them and the train takes me further towards Diemen, where I pick up the Westerborkpad again. The center is undergoing major renovation. The street at the shopping center has been broken up and a joker has turned all the bicycles in the racks upside down. I hike out of Diemen and into Diemerforest along the Penforest. It is more a park than a forest, but the stately tree lined avenue that welcomes me there is beautiful. A tree artist has carved wooden arrows in low trunks that indicate an art route. I am not impressed. Childlike poems about woods and trees hang on a thatched wall. However, I agree with Joyce Kilmer who wrote "I think that I shall never see a poem, lovely as a tree". A little further I come across a yellow arrow from the NHWB hiking club. An orphaned arrow, left behind after a hike? I have no idea and don’t remove it. Not much further I meet the first hikers. They tell me that the NHWB is celebrating its 75-year anniversary and has therefore organized a hike from Weesp. I am headed straight towards that town and keep meeting hikers all the way. I cross the Amsterdam-Rhine Canal along the railway line, pass two first aiders who keep a watchful eye out and follow the trains to Weesp station. There I go under the station and at the front I come across arrows from the NHWB again. I follow the hikers to the center, where our paths diverge for a moment. I take a trip to the synagogue, where I am immediately reminded of the purpose of this trail: remember those who disappeared. In Weesp they do so with ‘tripping stones’. Small stones with a brass plaque bearing the names and information of Jews who have been deported. People for whom there is no grave that you can visit and who in this way have been given a place in their community again. There are 59 of them. Just past the synagogue I dive into the Sleutelalley. Right in front of No. 3’s green door there are three shiny stones in the street. “Hartog Goldstein lived here. Born 1870. Deportation 10.3.1943 from Westerbork. Murdered 13.3.1943 in Sobibor. ” A man of 73, who lived here with Samuel van der Hal of 62 and Rieka van der Hal-Denneboom of 71. Three people, disappeared, murdered. Subdued I hike on. The church is just going out and organ music flows past the houses. The Weesper Automaten Cabinet (Weesper Automaton Cabinet) brings a smile to my face again. Never knew such a thing existed. However, the museum is still closed and I continue my way past a small fort, bastion de Bakkerschans. This is named after a 1672 windmill that ground grain exclusively for local bakers. Shortly afterwards there is the Utrechtse Vecht, although I hardly see the water because of the many houseboats. When I do have an unobstructed view of the river, I shrug my shoulders. The Overijsselse Vecht is much more beautiful of course. Just before Muiden I meet hikers again and together we enter the fortified town. The former town hall attracts my attention. The old city seal of Muiden has been incorporated in the facade, which looks very nice. A few hundred meters further I get the long-awaited apple pie at Ome Ko. The café is full of hikers, but I make myself comfortable on the terrace. I enjoy the fresh air, the hesitant sun, the view of the harbor and Muidercastle. When I leave Muiden, I first pass the Muizenfortress, one of the defenses that make this town such an experience. The story goes that the name comes from the gray uniforms of the Dutch troops in mobilization time (1939-1940), but it seems to me that the name must be older. After all, the mobilization only lasted a short time. A little further than a grassy path. Nice and soft on my feet and I make short work of the steps. Moreover, I now have a beautiful view of Muidercastle from 1280. It looks like a wartime castle: thick walls, few windows, many embrasures. No graceful battlements or a beautiful walkway where noble ladies could stroll. Surprised I read that most of the castles were made of wood at that time. However, Floris V could afford to use bricks

I swing around the castle and climb the dike that gives me a view of the IJsselmeer (Lake IJssel). In a blue haze I see the island of Pampus, surrounded by sailing boats. Which is ironic, because it is precisely the shallowness at this fortress island built in 1870 that had ships wanting to enter the port of Amsterdam have to wait for high tide here. A little further on, another reminder of the war: I squeeze through the anti-tank rails to continue on my way. After I have walked through someone's backyard (part of the trail!), hikers meet me again at the bottom of the dyke. These are the long distances and the hikers look fresh and cheerful still. When the dike delivers me to Muiderberg, I  leave them behind for good. I don't get to see much of the village. A short piece of unpaved road through a park and a statue dedicated to peace soon leads me to the Jewish cemetery. Jews have perpetual burial rights and graves are only cleared in very exceptional circumstances. When entering the cemetery you can immediately see that it’s very old. On the right, the graves have almost disappeared into a forest and are somewhat overgrown. Some tombstones are held together with iron brackets. Many stones have two blessing hands, on others I see a water jug. One row is designated as Kohaniempath. People by the name of Cohen or some variation of it are often buried along the path. Cohen is Hebrew for priest and since a cemetery is unclean, a priest is prohibited from entering a cemetery. However, the paths themselves are not unclean and so a priest can still visit the grave of family. The gravel path takes me to a monument to Jews killed in the war. On a wall is a bowl of white stones. I let the names affect me for a moment, try to imagine them as people with a history, customs and idiosyncrasies. Then I grab a pebble and let Juda Gaarkeuken know that he has not been forgotten. The custom of placing stones on a grave probably dates back to the time when the Jews were a desert people. People were buried where they died and to mark the grave (and to prevent the deceased from being exhumed by scavengers) the grave was covered with stones. Nomads passing through replenished the stones out of respect for the dead. Many centuries later, the stones have mainly a symbolic value. They do not perish, like the flowers we are used to putting on a grave. It is a permanent sign that you have visited, that the deceased has been honored and not forgotten.

I leave the cemetery via the exit and it’s a good thing I did. Through the official entrance, two skullcapped men come in and for a moment I feel like an intruder with my guidebook and camera. It is starting to drizzle and I fear the rain will be persistent. Fortunately it’s not and just when I get to the most beautiful part of the trail, the sun breaks through. The Naardermeer (Naarder lake). A little piece of paradise in the Netherlands. Before I discovered hiking, I was a semi-serious bird watcher. Although I have now given my telescope to my parents for stargazing, I still enjoy everything that flies and sings. That's why I have my binoculars with me today. As I open and close one swing gate after another, I look around me. The Naardermeer itself is quite empty, but there are plenty of birds in the surrounding meadows. The sky is filled with geese, but they never fascinated me and I even dislike the aggressive Egyptian geese. I focus on a few pools and discover two pairs of shovelers, filtering the water with their wide beaks. Further back, the beauty of an egret is unmistakable: as if the sun had directed a special ray on the earth. The heron polishes its feathers, which bulge in the wind. Very nice. Eventually I walk on and end up at a house. In the garden house, some chairs have inviting cushions. I sit down for a while and soon get company from the resident trail angel. "Aunt Annie" is 87 and has lived here for 65 years. In the beginning without light, gas or water. "Nobody wanted to live here," she says, "but now I have one of the most beautiful places." Her husband worked for Natuurmonumenten ( a Dutch private organization dedicated to protecting nature) and dredged many ditches, by hand still. There was also a lot of manual work for her. When school classes come by, she shows them the washboard she used before the washing machine was invented. In good weather and when she feels like it, she prepares coffee and cake for the hikers who pass here. That cake should definitely be hidden under a tea towel. If she doesn't, the sparrows see their chance. She turns the cake over and indeed there are two big holes at the bottom, where the cheeky birds have pecked themselves through the plastic. When the next hikers arrive to listen to Aunt Annie's stories, I move on. It is only a short distance to Bussum, the end point for today. Just like the first stage, I am impressed. History feels a lot closer than before. I can't wait to continue.

Day 3: Bussum - Baarn, 32 km
Daylight saving time. It takes some getting used to. Now that there are also engineering works , I only start the third stage in Bussum around 9.45. After only a few blocks, I arrive at the 1931 synagogue. Above the entrance two stone tables with Hebrew text and on the large wooden door knobs is a beautiful depiction of a menorah. The seven-armed candlestick is one of the oldest symbols of Judaism and depicts the burning bush Moses saw on Mount Sinai. After the synagogue there’s a fairly long way to the next historical point on the route: the Jewish cemetery. As soon as I step through the gate, the atmosphere changes. The air feels old here. It’s a cemetery that can figure in an exciting book: crooked, broken stones, gnarled trees an moss underneath my feet. One of the tombs is designed as a piece of Gothic church, with pointed lines. Apparently the cemetery is not only a monument, on a freshly dug grave there are colorful flowers. A corner near the end of the cemetery has been reserved for Jewish graves. Here I also find the monument in memory of the victims of the shoa. For the first time, it strikes me that the graves have a strange years, with numbers over 5.000. According to the Jewish calendar, the world was created in the year 3761 BC. It seems to me a very precise indication of something that cannot be known, only believed, but it makes me curious to learn more. This whole trail is a learning experience and I am guided by my questions. After taking a look around, I head back to the exit. It is only outside on the street that the traffic noises resumes again, which I had not been aware of for all this time. So strange.Almost parallel to the way in, I go back to the railway. I pass the house of the Polak family. Isaäc, Catherina, their daughters Greetje and Fia. The guidebook contains parts of their story: the daughters involved in the resistance, the family arrested in 1944 and deported. Isaäc was murdered, Greetje survived Bergen-Belsen and Tröbitz, but died in 1946 after all. Only Fia, who experienced the liberation in Auschwitz, and her mother survived. There is now a barber shop in their house. Nothing reminds me of the family that lived here. No, I prefer Weesp with its tripping stones. I wonder I should know the name Tröbitz, if it’s one of those names that can be used without further explanation, the name alone enough to evoke disgust. It turns out to be a village in the German state of Brandenburg. Only 771 inhabitants. It is also where the Germans left a train with 2,500 prisoners on 23 April 1945. The intention was to take prisoners from Bergen-Belsen to another concentration camp, but after ten days of milling about between the front lines, the train stranded in Tröbitz. At that time 550 prisoners had already died. The Lost Transport. Such madness.

Finally, at the end of another long street, the heather gleams. Nature! Even before I enter the heath, I meet hikers. Hiking sports club De Weijde Blick has organized a hike from 's Graveland. When I ignore the arrows and follow the red-blue markers I am called after. I'm headed the wrong way! No, I’m not. I thank the considerate hikers, but continue on the Westerborkpad. Or not? According to the directions, the trail should go through the heath and be poorly visible. I am hiking on a wide sandy path. Hmm… something isn't right here. Looking at the map, I find out that I took the wrong turn at the beginning, where two paths diverge. Fortunately the distances are short here, on a cycle path I hike a few hundred meters to the right and pick up the trail again. The sun is breaking through and it is wonderful tohike here now. I enjoy the sound of the skylark chattering high in the air. My jacket gets taken off, but I am keeping my trouser legs on in view of the Jewish cemeteries that follow today. I don't know why, but walking around there in shorts rubs me the wrong way. After I have crossed the heath, I enter Hilversum. Just before the station the trail makes another loop around the house of the Philips family. Six people. Jacob and Betsy, their children Meijer, Suze, Jeannette and Beppie. Gone. Murdered. Here, too, nothing reminds you of their presence. Only a paragraph in the guidebook and on the Internet are they commemorated. Beppie was four years old. I hike on, full of thoughts, under the station. On the other side, I come across an intriguing picture. Two hands protecting a mosquito. The image calls for tolerance and especially reminds me of that famous statement by Gandhi. “Do you think you are too small to make a difference? Try sleeping with a mosquito. ” I hike past the statue into the center. It’s Sunday and the shopping streets are pleasantly busy. A man beautifully plays a saxophone. I soon reach an old cemetery, which is now used as a city park. The few flat stones barely stand out in the tall grass. There are two monuments between the many works of art. One stone base contains a rough stone, which was taken from Mauthausen by Jewish resistance fighter Bill Minco. The Nieuwe Lyceum (a school) also commemorates in stone the students and former students who died in the war.After a short visit to the Jewish cemetery of Hilversum I start to recognize the area. I don't know why, until I realize that we once started a hike here with hiking club WS78. I hike along a busy road to the last monument of today. I expect another cemetery, but the statue that honors the Youth Alijah is in a park. These German youths between the ages of 15 and 17 had fled Germany or Austria without their parents. What courage was required for that alone! Here they were received by the alijah youth, young people preparing for emigration to Palestine. About 70% managed to survive the war by going into hiding. The names of those who were arrested are on the memorial. Now that I've had the last monument, the pants legs come off. I hike on cheerfully and soon I am back on the heath. Here I take a wrong turn again, but again I come out fine aided by the map. I did cut a corner, but I don't feel like going back. Above the heath I see no fewer than three types of aircraft: gliders circling on the thermals, a motor plane annoys me with its screeching sound and a bunch of hobbyists play with radio controlled devices. Nice to see. It is very busy on the heath, as if half of Hilversum has gone out. At a recreational lake, I simply lie down the sand to enjoy the sun. I intend to continue after half an hour, but with a good book it takes almost an hour. The afternoon starts to cool down a bit and I slowly set off again. The last part to Baarn is almost entirely through the forest and I am happy. Forest never gets old. A spotted woodpecker shows itself well and countless little birds chirp cheerfully. The pine scent is intoxicating, rich and full of promise. The sand feels good under my feet. The trail is now almost along the track and although I have occasionally lost the war marks, I trust that the path along the track is the right one. At a pedestrian bridge, the guidebook urges me to continue to the brick road, while there is also a nice sandy path to the station. I am stubborn and choose the sandy path until I pass by a statue. The extremely patriotic-looking statue honors the resistance heroes Gerard and Lodo van Hamel. Determined to discover more about them, I bridge the last few meters to Baarn station, which is my end point for today.

Day 4: Baarn - Amersfoort-Schothorst, 20 km
From the station hall of Baarn I run into the first war memorial, the wreaths of 4 May (Remembrance Day) still fresh. I soon swap the streets for a cycle path between the meadows and the railway, with the Amersfoort church tower proudly on the horizon. Every now and then a few drops fall and the wind makes it a fairly chilly day, but when the sun is shining you would truly believe it is May.  Groups of school children are on a treasure hunt and a lapwing only betrays its position by the sound it makes. There is a small stretch across a dike and then I enter Amersfoort via an industrial area. A few blocks away there is a cemetery on the left side of the road. However, this is a ‘normal’ one and so I pass it by. A little further on I see a Hebrew text above a door and behind that wall I suspect the Jewish cemetery indicated in the booklet. I ring the bell at No. 126, because the cemetery can only be reached through a fence door to the backyard. The stones are on freshly mowed grass, an oasis of peace and tranquility in the bustle of the city. Against the back wall is a monument to 55 unknown Jewish victims from camp Amersfoort. The bodies come from a mass grave on the Leusderheide. I share the grass for a while with the jackdaws who look for caterpillars here and then hand in the key. As I hike on, the sound of the city returns as if a soap bubble has burst. The trail continues, straight through Amersfoort station, which I have never seen from the back. At the front, the trail does not go in the direction of the city center, but in a fairly straight line towards Amersfoort concentration camp.I approach the camp through the woods. It is quiet, only the birds are chirping. Then I come to a staircase, which I descend to the Stone Man. A huge, impressive figure. Emaciated, fist clenched in impotent rage. But also powerful and challenging. It seems fitting that this statue was made by someone who survived the camp, Frits Sieger. It stands at the end of the shooting range excavated by prisoners, on the spot where several mass graves with executed prisoners were discovered after the war. Now the image rises from a wreath of flowers, a silent tribute. It feels good to be alone here, without people around me. As if it should be. There is nothing else but this for a moment. Reflecting on the past. Respect for the people who gave their lives here. More than 35,000 people stayed in this concentration camp for a shorter or longer period between 1941 and 1945. The few hundred Jews were in the minority, the population was diverse and consisted of resistance fighters, people in hiding, hostages, political prisoners, anti-socials, Jehovah's witnesses, Russians. Each persecuted for different reasons, and all we can do for them now is remember them. I hike towards the camp between the high banks. On both sides pictures of now adult war children, telling what they have experienced. For them, the end of the war was not the liberation they so hoped for. “I used to flee, beg, even steal; I didn't know what a normal life was,” says Abraham Lewkovich's photo. Tova Rotem also had a hard time. “After the liberation, I passed from one address to another as a parcel. I had nothing, no home, no family. Nobody wanted me.” A single photo shows years of suffering in a tired look, a downcast glance. Yet there is also hope, in a powerful looking. A future. “I have two children, five grandchildren and one great-grandchild,” says another. “We are a large, close-knit family. That's my revenge on the Germans.” And so it is.At the start of the shooting range, it is only a few steps to the watchtower, which marks the entrance to the museum. A large group of school children have just arrived and three guides are debating whether an umbrella is needed on the tour. I slip past them and come across a number of display cases with poignant remnants of camp life. A miniature chess set, an improvised rosary, smuggled hosts. Life went on, even within these barbed wire walls. Polizeiliches Durchgangslager Amersfoort was a transit camp, where, among others, people who wanted to withdraw from the ‘Arbeitseinsatz’ (forced labor)  were prepared for deployment to Germany after all. It was also a penal and labor camp. Especially the Jews had to do work under difficult circumstances. Due to its isolated location camp executioners, former guards from Dachau, were not restrained in their cruelty.Via the back of the museum I arrive at the place where the bunker cells were. Stones draw lines across the ground, showing how small the cells were. One man managed to escape by chipping away the concrete around a bar with a spoon. From there, the path goes in a semicircle to the ‘Rose Garden’, a separate part of the roll call site where prisoners were sentenced to stand still for up to 48 hours or were abused. By imagining that the tips of the barbed wire were thorns of roses, the torment became more mentally manageable for the prisoners, according to the explanation. I let it sink in. How much inner strength can a person have? That people, under the harshest circumstances, still hoped, searched for light. You cannot stand here without being moved, sympathizing. You don't want to be able to imagine some things, but B. Nijenhuis' poem 'Sunday evening roll call' brings tears to my eyes, but unfortunately I am unable to translate is so the same power remains in the words. Now iron columns wrapped in barbed wire have taken the place of the prisoners. A few are free of the gray-tipped steel, there the green of roses twists upwards. Still without flowers. I'm sure they will come.I complete my tour of the camp. Past the watchtower, past the students who quietly listen to their guide’s explanation. The Westerborkpad turns right here, back to Amersfoort, but I can't say goodbye to this place yet. Not until I salute the 101 Soviet POWs who died here. Bunnies dart from my feet when I walk towards the monument. It’s in the forest, where those who survived the first atrocities were still mowed down. The Germans wanted to use the Russians to show how underdeveloped this Asian breed was. Upon arrival, a film crew was present to record propaganda material. The Germans threw bread to the starving Russians, expecting them to fight for it. However, the soldiers distributed the bread fairly and with discipline. It must have been impressive, but it turned out to be a futile act of defiance. After 24 Russians died of starvation, disease and abuse, the remaining 77 were executed. The smooth stone mirrors the wreaths placed in front of it a little over a week ago. In my mind it suits the Soviet spirit, proud and hard.When I am about to leave the camp behind I pass one last monument: the border beech. Prisoners saw this 200-year-old beech tree, a symbol of freedom, as they entered the camp. In 2000, the already seriously ill tree was knocked over by a van. The thick trunk is decaying on the roadside. First the tree died, now the wood dies, slowly, in black and browns. A slow stream of life that has come to a standstill and congealed. I am attracted by the shapes in the wood, a work of art on the square centimeter. No painter can match this. It is a long trek to Amersfoort. It takes a short time to traverse the center. I have just been there and therefore pay little attention to the beautiful houses, the canals and the people who happily shop. It seems a bit unreal to me, the journey back to the now. Only the Koppelpoort from 1425 makes me stop and enjoy the sight. How many times have I come here by train, enjoying this beautiful structure? Yet this gate also exudes the atmosphere of war, battle and suffering, with its wheel turners and the wooden extension above the water gate, from which red-hot pitch could be thrown down. Fortunately that was longer ago and I don't know those stories. I have gained enough stories for one day.

Day 5: Amersfoort-Schothorst - Harderwijk, 39 km
It's cold and it's raining. I could stay at home, but hiking is a wonderful addiction and I need a shot. Without changing trains I reach the starting point for today: Amersfoort-Schothorst.  Covered by a poncho, I leave the city behind, although new buildings are looming on the horizon. There are mainly meadows, with and without cows, and the first corn plants are sticking their heads above the black earth. After an hour I reach Nijkerk. Here I turn on my MP3 player, on which I downloaded the stories from the Westerbork Listening Trail in advance. Stories from witnesses, neighbors, nieces and nephews, about the life and events of that time. Such as the suicide of the butcher couple Bram and Saar in 1941. Jews who were not even religious, even sold pork. Yet they received a summons to appear at the town hall. They didn't dare, they were afraid of losing their good lifestyle. Rather than waiting for the inevitable, they chose their own path. By listening to the voices of people who knew them, who still remember hearing the news and felt ‘this isn’t right’, the deceased are given a heart and a face. They are no longer anonymous names, but people you can sympathize with.Impressive is also the story of mayor Zwaantinus Bruins Slot, told by his daughter. A young man of great integrity, who from the beginning did everything he could to protect ‘his’ Jews. Did not fire any Jewish officials, refused to hang signs ‘Forbidden for Jews’ and kept the Jews within his congregation by letting them work on the river De Laak. His daughter Jo van der Hooning - Bruins Slot remembers how they kept saying goodbye, expecting that father would not return when he was called to explain himself yet again. But he kept getting away with it. At the end of March 1943, the Jews of Nijkerk had to report to Camp Vught. His daughter reads his diary entries. “For my part, I promised that as soon as the war was over, I would pick them up again, wherever they were, in Germany or Poland. I mean it and I would like to believe it. ” While the stories are poignant, I find that it doesn't work for me, the sound clips on my MP3. Traffic rushes past, losing words in the rustle of tires on wet asphalt and engine roar. Even the rustle of my poncho is too much. My attention is divided and I want to listen to these stories carefully, in silence. Finding a quieter place is difficult. Thetrail takes you right through the village, there is no escaping the traffic. I decide to save the stories for later, at home where I can listen in appropriate silence. On a street corner is the Jewish monument of Nijkerk. Colored stones together form a Star of David, supporting a scroll marked with the names of the victims. The stone cries three tears. Two hold a key to the former synagogue, the third is empty, symbolizing the hole left by the disappearance of these people.

I leave Nijkerk on a piece of former railway line. The route becomes a bit greener and more and more trees appear along the road. Then, much to my pleasure, a sandy path. A little later there is even a narrow forest path that meanders through the fresh foliage. When I sit on a bench to pick some grit out of my shoe, I notice that it has become dry. Now that I can take off my plastic poncho, I hear birds again. Countless young woodpeckers squeak for food, hidden in the sheltering wood. There is a heathland with an empty sheepfold and a tree full of wild knitted patterns, from which birds can pull threads to cover their nests. When I hike along a meadow, some lapwings fly up. Apparently they consider me a threat to their offspring, because soon they are taking turns dive bombing my head. I suppress the urge to duck, they never get very close and are harmless. It's quite amusing to see those big birds (at least from this close up) come up to you and turn away just before they crash on my hair. Fortunately, the pasture is not long and soon they return to their nests, surely convinced they have chased me off.

I slowly approached Putten. A village in a macabre row. Lidice, Distomon, Maillé, Oradour-sur-Glane. Villages where the Nazis struck hard, in retaliation for attacks. I had already read some of it, but it hadn't sunk in yet. During the raid of 1 and 2 October 1944, 659 men were deported from this village. 71 were released or jumped from the train to Neuengamme. Only 48 of the 588 men who arrived at this concentration camp returned. On the edge of the village there’s a statue of a widow. Still young, with downcast eyes. Her face is turned to the Oude Kerk (Old Church), from where the men were taken away. Next to the Memorial Court is a small building, a Memorial Room, with information about the tragedy that took place here. Religious Putten was a seat of resistance, because by faith injustice had to be fought. The rifle failed, and with it the assassination attempt. The Nazis survived and decided to set an example. After the men were taken away, 110 houses were burned to the ground. The flames could be seen as far as Ermelo. In the Memorial Room the suffering becomes palpable. Notes thrown from the train by the men. Photos. Stories. Fewer and fewer people from Putten remained, many succumbed to hard work on a meager ration. The pastor in Germany, who made sure that the dead were buried with respect. And then that wall, with far too many names. It is only a small building, but here then, it is finally, completely quiet.

One more time I turn on my MP3 for the story about the mayor of Putten, Klinkenberg. How different from the silent power of the Nijkerk mayor. A NSB, a Jew hunter. In the woods and farmlands around Putten, fanatically searching for everything Jewish and anti-German. Someone who sowed suspicion. Only in the last year of the war did he break with the NSB and oppose the Germans. I don't believe for a moment that the man actually repented, but suspect that he was trying to save himself. Still, it raises an interesting question. Can anything good come from cowardice? The story, the contrast between the mayors of Nijkerk and Putten, illustrates how great the influence of courage, but also of hatred can be. Yet I have my doubts about this fragment. It ends with the old voice of Evert Hamstra. The voice-over makes it appear as if his reprimand from the mayor had something to do with his tireless search for the Jews, the link is clearly made. But no, the guy had called the mayor a drunkard. Nothing serious happens.
 
After Putten I decide to continue to Harderwijk. It's still early and I have time. Shortly after crossing the railway, I arrive at De Vanenburg Castle. It is not a real castle, rather a large country house behind a graceful fence. Conferences are now held there and given the many security cameras that monitor the parking lot, it’s not used cars that are parked here. During the war there was a labor camp here, of workers who had to reclaim part of the Zuiderzee. David Brandon's letters to his wife show that the workers were relatively well off. Plenty of food, fresh rooms and the work was even paid. Yet it was a false sense of security, ‘well off’ is a misleading term when your life is no longer your own. In October 1942 the workers were taken to Germany. David Brandon did not return.

After this there’s forest and I am happy again. A beautiful brook meanders along the feet of stately beech trees and the only thing that disfigures the photo is a dead tree about two fists across that spans the water. I look, I wonder. How heavy can a tree be? I slip and slide down until my feet just don't touch the water. In fits and starts I manage to turn the wooden body around its axis, until the brook is unharmed again. This makes the photo much more beautiful. Satisfied, I continue my way. At the Groevenbeekse Heide I am sent to the cycle path, but parallel is a sandy path, with a view of the heath. I walk in and out of Ermelo. Just before Harderwijk I see two other hikers in the distance. They turn right, just like I'm about to do. Could it be? When I have caught up with them, it appears that the older ladies are also hiking the Westerborkpad. Just a bit, from Putten to here. They do not hike the path in sequence, but pick a stretch here and there. I can tell them that Amsterdam is definitely worth hiking someday and that the route is well way marked. But they are clearly not in the mood for a chat, because at the next traffic light they try to get rid of me. Pity. I give them their space and hike on. Lost in thought, I pass the Jewish cemetery. The various hiding places that I passed today also go unnoticed. Because of the rain, and because the trail is so well way marked, I left the booklet in my backpack today. Is that bad? I decide that I have seen enough cemeteries after the first stages and will not go back. A little while later I am back at the familiar Harderwijk station.

Day 6: Harderwijk - Nunspeet, 39 km
Now the route has arrived in my own backyard, the journey is a breeze. That is why I take the first steps in Harderwijk on Saturday morning at 6.45 am. I glimpse the water and the windmills in the distance and cross the sleepy center where dark shops and empty terraces await visitors. I do not pay close attention and pass the house of the Härtz family. Abraham and Grietje, with their daughter Jetje. In 1942 Abraham had to report to the Jewish Labor Camp 't Wijde Gat in Staphorst, from where he was shortly later transferred to Westerbork and deported to Auschwitz. Grietje and Jetje went into hiding, but moved in with their in-laws in Harderwijk due to a looming raid. A short time later the whole family was arrested. None of them survived the war. Although I've been on the trail for a while now and have read and heard more than a few stories already, it remains unimaginable that people can be harmed like that. I know that a total of six million Jews were murdered, but hiking this trail, that abstract figure slowly takes on a face. People with names, hopes and dreams. People who loved or were sad, who could make you laugh or cry with music. Unique people and every disappearance is a loss. Like the audio clip about the arrest of the Philips family. They were in hiding, but their protector misspoke publicly. A girl next door talks about the shame she still feels, the powerlessness of not being able to do anything to prevent the deportation. After all these years, the pain is still audible in her voice. A little later I pass the old synagogue and there they are among the other murdered Harderwijkers: seven names Härtz and the three Philipsen on the memorial stone, from which a bite has been taken as a symbol that the world is incomplete without them.

Harderwijk is bigger than I thought and it takes a while before I leave the city behind. Then I cross the track and the highway and suddenly find myself in a completely different world. Home. The Veluwe. The woods and heather and sand that I never get tired of. It smells so good! I swap the cycle path for sand. In the distance a little rabbit is hopping and as I get closer I see that it must be a baby. Instead of fleeing, it presses itself into the sand. What good camouflage is that brown coat. I manage to take a few pictures, but one step forward and the animal decides to flee anyway. From the forest I arrive in the Hulsthorster Zand, a beautiful area. The sun is shining, the sand lights up, the reddish grass billows in the wind. As I’m strolling to the viewpoint, I see countless tracks in the sand. Deer and roe deer. Apparently on the way to the new wildlife viaduct that has opened here. The hiking trails have been diverted for it, only a little fortunately. I take a break at the viewpoint. I cannot pass by so much beauty without stopping to admire it. Fifteen minutes and a banana later, the wind starts to get very chilly and continue on. I pass the "Monument du souvenir", a work of art where you can strike coins with a spell in them. Sadly, miscreants have thrown the tabs of beer cans into the device, leaving it useless. After the sand, the route soon crosses the railway again and I arrive in the outskirts of Nunspeet, meadows with beautifully blooming flower edges. A bit further there is another forest, nice and muddy. A little later I am in Nunspeet. Here I pass the viewpoint of the Veluwe transferium first and of course I have to go up the lookout tower. There is a public toilet in the building at the foot of the tower, which is always useful. With its 30 meters, the tower only just rises above the surrounding trees, I would have loved it being 20 meters higher still. The panel on which the villages in the area are listed was clearly not vandal-proof and is completely destroyed. Fortunately I know the area and that church must be 't Harde. Zwolle is clearly recognizable by its IJssel tower, the high office of the ABN-AMRO and the two pipes of the IJssel power station. Once down I go in a fairly straight line towards Vierhouten. The tracks which have kept me company for almost the entire journey is now far behind, but it is worth it. After Vierhouten I turn around, to go back via a different route. And that route leads past the Hidden Village, one of the most wonderful hiding stories I know of.

 In the middle of a dense forest were nine semi-underground huts. Between February 1943 and October 1944, around 80 to 100 people lived in it, Jews, Allied pilots, but also a deserted German soldier. The camp was discovered in October 1944 when two hunting SS men saw a boy fetching water crossing a firebreak. Most of the people in hiding were able to escape, eight were shot. I cannot imagine what an undertaking that must have been, supplying such a large camp with food, water, the medical care that was undoubtedly needed. What heroes, that aunt Cor and grandpa Bakker and lawyer Von Baumhauer from Vierhouten. And all those others who have contributed. The original "Pas-opkamp" (watch out-camp) has disappeared, but three huts have been faithfully recreated. Some daylight enters between the wooden posts, but it is still very dark. A sturdy table in a corner, bedsteads against the back wall. It is a small space, only in the middle can you stand upright. And the box beds are tight, lying stretched out is impossible. Hundred men in nine huts? That's about 11 men in a hut of what, four by five meters? Of course there was more freedom of movement than in an attic room or a basement, but still. You’d have to make do. And it remains an unnatural, forced life. A life on the fringes, because others hate you. How unimaginable that is. And how lucky I am that I have never experienced such hatred.

After the camp I walk through the forest back to Vierhouten. According to the guidebook, this route is easily accessible for wheelchair users and no alternative is indicated on the map, but I have my doubts about that. On the way there was loose sand and mud, now a narrow forest path. Maybe I underestimate wheelchair users, but this doesn't seem like an easy undertaking. But soon I come to an asphalt road that leads right through the forest all the way back to Nunspeet, my end point for today.

Day 7: Nunspeet - 't Harde, 31 km
While it poured yesterday, today is a bright day. When I arrive in 't Harde, I enjoy the sun for a moment… before I realize I got off a station too early. Let’s just wait for the next train, which delivers me to Nunspeet half an hour later. From the station I stroll into the village, through an empty shopping street where a shop window full of colorful hats catches my eye. Does such a thing still exist? Of course, this is the Veluwe and very religious. Hats are mandatory for women on Sundays. A little further on, the first ladies walk to the church in gloomy colors, with hats. Today's first monument stands at City Hall, commemorating the liberation of Nunspeet by Lord Strathcona's Horse (Royal Canadians). I think it's a strange name and on the internet Lord Strathcona appears to be born Donald Smith. This is one of the few things that are common about the man, as he was responsible for a transcontinental railroad across Canada at a time when the country was completely unexplored. It’s a story of perseverance and heroism, and it seems appropriate to me that a brave army unit should bear his name, but how he got his new name remains untold. A little further in a park a second monument. This time a list of names with dates behind them. Strangely enough, you can read a lot from those dates, as if the entire course of the war was summarized on this one pillar. Three people died in May 1940 and one in February 1942. The raid, the short fight and the surrender, with brave people in underground resistance. At the end of 1944 two people were executed and in March 1945 another five. From the ages I gather that there was a father and son among the dead. I wonder what could have been the reason they were chosen to die. Retaliation after an act of resistance? Found people in hiding? The internet remains silent. Four people are remembered for having died in concentration camps. And four Nunspeters died in the Dutch East Indies, from 1942 to 1949. I still find it ironic that after everything the Netherlands itself went through during the war, while the war criminals were still being tried in Nuremberg, we in the Dutch East Indies are begrudged a different people their independence. Of course there is more to it, but the contradiction of it never ceases to amaze me.Nunspeet is so green that the transition to the forest does not feel like a major change. In a parking lot, cars drive back and forth and dogs are loaded and unloaded. One man has a boxer with him, which strolls happily around him. I watch him with admiration, because struggling with two crutches, he walks slowly but determinedly into the forest. The path is wide and park-like. When I cross a road, on the left there’s an inconspicuous house among the trees. Wiltsangh 29. Several people who were deported to camp Westerbork were advised to jump out of the train three kilometers past Nunspeet. There they were received by the then residents of this house and further transferred to hiding places by the resistance. The names of the residents are not mentioned and I think that's a shame. After all, they are heroes, indispensable links in the road to freedom for people who had little hope. In my mind I take my cap off to them. Respect! Eventually I come to a wide drifting sand area, the Zoom, which was once so large that it threatened Nunspeet itself. Now the sand has to be helped, behind a barbed wire fence the plain has been cleared in the hope that the drifting sand will return. At first sight, the area becomes twice as large. To the left of the path, the sand is already impressive, lit by a warm sun and with a beautiful Dutch cloudy sky above. The way markings on this stretch are less. Although I don't get lost with the help of the guidebook, I have to read carefully to find my way around. Still a bit further I regularly see markings again and they take me quickly and reliably to 't Harde. Two weeks ago I also went here, with the Ko-Kalf hike and yet everything looks different now. Walking is never boring.I do not turn to the station, but turn left for the loop to Elburg. Shortly before I turn to castle Zwaluwenburg, I hike a short distance straight ahead, as the guidebook advises. There is a small monument to Theodore H. Bachenheimer, a Jew judging by the star-shaped monument. But above all an allied soldier, who managed to survive for some time in hiding. He escaped after his first arrest, but he didn't get time for a second escape. On October 22, the Germans managed to capture him again. That evening a truck from the Wehrmacht stopped in 't Harde around 9 pm. Local residents heard two shots and found Theodore H. Bachenheimer's body the next day. A memorial was erected shortly after the war at the place where he was shot. When it was found out after the mid-1980's that he was a Jew, the memorial was changed to a Star of David. I am pleased that the memorial is being cared for with careful attention. It may seem like a small gesture to adjust the way of remembering him after all these years, but it shows that this is a unique individual. It is a sign of reverence and respect and I admire both the man himself and those who also paid tribute to him in this way. While the church is going out and the hats are heading home, I hike towards the castle. First I pass by the herbal gardens of A. Vogel, but to be honest, I don't really care. Plants and flowers in neat rows. I also ignore the barefoot path, I want to hike on. A few bends further there is the castle, which looks more like a large country house. Or a student house, with those bicycles and old car in front of it. At the foot of the steps a cat meows to be let in. I understand you are not allowed to make a cat flap in such a monumental door, but as a cat lover I find the noise as difficult to bear as a crying child. Quickly onwards then. I rest for a while on the balustrade of a bridge and eat a banana. The water looks brown and lifeless, only the countless little flies above it provide some life. I enter Elburg via a reasonably green route. That’s a beautiful town. A real fortified city, of which the moat, walls and towers are still intact. In addition, Elburg is known for its pavements inlaid with cobbles and indeed I come across beautiful mosaics in front of countless houses. The Westerborkpad twists and turns until I've seen just about every beautiful street. One is so full of flowering plants that it looks like a living garden. The Jewish cemetery is located outside the city wall, a small walled courtyard full of crooked stones. At the beginning of the 19th century, the Jewish community was not very large, with about twenty families, and none of the Jews deported during the war returned. Their 21 names are on a memorial plaque on the outer wall. A little further a monument to a more recent accident. I do not want to call it a disaster, as it probably is for those involved. But nowadays the word is used too often and I dislike it. In 1994, the De Lofstem choir was on its way to Germany when the bus crashed. Seven members were killed, 39 were injured. A silver music bar with seven notes lies in the grass. This also makes me think about the present. How fleeting everything is. It could all be over in a second. After another tour of Elburg I take an ice cream and continue my way. 't Harde is not far anymore.

Day 8: 't Harde - Zwolle, 29 km
This time when I get off at 't Harde it’s not a mistake. I dive under the viaduct, cross a carpool place and hike into a forest path. There is a small heathland, where numerous small trees have sprung up and my hands are itching to rip them up from the ground, root and all, as I regularly do as a volunteer for the Forestry Commission. Without maintenance, all nature would turn into forests and although I love forests, that is a bit too much. At a junction I take a wrong turn, but it is such a nice, winding path in the forest that I keep hiking to see where I end up. That turns out to be a wide sandy path and the absence of the red-blue square confirms my suspicion that I shouldn't be here. Back then, with directions in hand I turn into the dirt path towards the highway. After turning left twice, I am on a familiar sandy path. The path out of the forest is too well hidden, but I'm sure: I was just here. After a few more winding forest paths, I arrive at an asphalt road. Just when I think I can follow it to 't Loo, I am again sent into the forest, this time through private property. It is very beautiful and although I have explored this area quite well by bike, I have not been here before. There is a deer park with cute fallow deer. The male gets so close to the fence that I can almost touch his antlers. It is still covered with soft hair and skin. It is not until the rutting season that the skin will dry and itch, causing the deer to clean its antlers against saplings. After that, the antlers are an impressive melee weapon. After 't Loo I pass the Fantasy Garden, a beautiful garden with many Japanese elements, including a meters-high pagoda. On to Wezep, where the trail leads across the beautiful Wezepsche heath. Again I get lost for a while, because while the guidebook says that I have to go straight ahead, I am at a T-junction. I decide to turn left and by the time I figure out I should have turned right, I don't feel like going back. I'll pick up the trail further on. In the meantime, this path is not bad either, although I do have to make a detour through the forest to avoid two Scottish Highlanders. Normally very quiet animals, but these two guys are engaged in a game of wrestling. They keep their heads low and bang their horns together. This time I am taking the often-given advice to keep my distance seriously.When I get closer to Hattem, I enter really familiar territory, the beautiful Molecaten estate. I can draw the trail in my head. In Hattem it makes a loop along the Jewish cemetery. However, a sign at the entrance says it’s  a general cemetery and there is no Jewish graves to be seen. There is a sign from the war graves foundation, although I also do not see a honor field. I do eventually discover one well-known white shape among the family graves. Sargeant J.P.S. Austin. I wonder who he is and why he is buried here so alone. Usually soldiers are reburied in a historically significant sites among hundreds of their brethren or in their homeland. Perhaps it is because he was shot in Hattem, together with five resistance fighters on 4 April 1945. Just before the liberation! Still, the war graves foundation board pleases me, because even though the young man lies here alone, he has not been forgotten. I wander in between the graves to the older part of the burial ground. Here are people with names that sound familiar. Daendels, Bentick. Noblemen, who played a role in history and whose names are still associated with buildings and castles. Then I see a small wooden gate in a hedge. It leads to a hedged patch of grass, where the Jewish graves are located, at the edge of the General Cemetery and separated from it by the green hedge. There is a second gate to the dike, so you do not have to cross the ‘normal’ cemetery to get there. There are few graves, less than twenty. One of them is unusually wide, there is the Bakker couple, with text on their tombstone: “They died fatally after a troubled struggle for salvation”.It's one of the most tragic stories I've come across in this guidebook. Abraham van Gelder and Elisabeth van Gelder-Bakker. A Jewish couple who ran a textile business in Hattem. During the war they went into hiding, the couple in a cabin on the Molecaten estate, their children at a different address. Elisabeth in particular - despite many warnings - could not resist visiting her children at their hiding places. In doing so, she endangered the lives of everyone involved. In the end, the resistance saw no option but to kill the couple, which happened on 22 April 1944. When I read this, I don't just feel sorry for that foolish woman, forced into a situation she was so totally unfit for. It is the resistance fighters who have my greatest sympathy. Determined to protect innocent people and then having to make such a decision! There always seemed to be such a clear line in World War II, between right and wrong, especially compared to the current wars, where politics seems more important than the welfare of the civilian population. The ‘liberators’ today are committing as many crimes as those they fight, it seems. This event makes it clear that I am quite wrong. It's not easy, not black and white. This is so gray it almost turns black again. I hope that those who have passed and carried out this sentence will be at peace with themselves. Or is this one of those things that surrounds all the good they did with an edge of sorrow?

I hike to Hattem along the dike with a view of the IJssel and the so familiar chimneys of the power plant, near my house. When I walk to the center, another hiker greets me with “Hello colleague!”. However, she holds up a booklet of the Maarten van Rossumpad, while I show her my guidebook of the Westerborkpad. I enter the old center through the Daendelspoortje. It is named after one of Hattem's most famous sons, Herman Willem Daendels, who escaped through this gate with his lover after he had taken her. In the center of Hattem it’s quite busy, but the town is small and I soon find myself in front of the impressive dike gate from the 14th century. On the outside of the gate, against a remnant of the city wall, a plaque commemorates the liberation by three men of the Canadian Scottish Regiment. The copper plate mirrors in such a way that I have to make an effort not to see myself in it when I take a picture. Only when I look back at the pictures at home do I see one of the neighbors peeking out from behind her curtain in the gold-colored reflection to see what is going on.
I was actually planning to deviate from the trail at this point. The Gelderse dike is not at all nice to walk on. A parallel road at the bottom of the dike, along a busy traffic road. When you cross the ferry, you can hike on the dike on the other side, beautifully to Zwolle. But I decide to keep going  and pass a war memorial with six names that I would never have seen otherwise. The bottom of the new railway bridge is also quite beautiful. I didn't know the old bridges were blown up in May 1940, but it makes sense. It’s also tragic, however, that as a result a final refugee transport with 791 Jews from Westerbork could not reach the ship that would take them from Zeeuws Vlaanderen to England. After wandering for several weeks, they returned to camp Westerbork. I cross the river via the old IJssel bridge. I look out on the floodplains at the Engelse Werk, a park, and see two egrets, my favorite birds in terms of elegance. Under the bridge to Spoolde, a few very luxurious country houses and the Katerveersluizen, beautiful locks from the early 19th century that connected Zwolle to the IJssel. There is one last stop before I reach the station. When the Jewish labor camps in the Netherlands were closed on 2 and 3 October 1942, family members of the forced laborers were also brought to Westerbork as part of ‘family reunification’. The families gathered in the gymnasium at the Veerallee gymnasium. Ten days after their departure from Zwolle, most of them were murdered in Auschwitz. An impressive rose tree now stands in the garden of this former school. In all the years that I have been living in Zwolle, I had never seen it. And that is exactly why I walk this path. To regain awareness of our history and the freedom we enjoy. A few blocks away is my end point for today. Zwolle, my home, which I now see with different eyes.

Day 9: Zwolle - Meppel, 33 km
This time I can go to the start of the stage by bike, which is a luxury. Of course it is still early and the streets are quiet. This time I also have stickers of way marks with me, because I maintain the section of Westerborkpad that follows today. Only I didn't think about petrol and when I see how dirty the lamp posts are, I realize that you do need it. I decide to make a mental note of where to put stickers and to come back later. Zwolle has one of the largest Liberation festivals in the region and celebrates it with, among other things, tiles designed by artists. There are funny ones, such as the words ‘I am lying at your feet’ and ‘I let myself be walked over’. Other voices are more thoughtful, asking very directly ‘How much freedom do you tolerate?’ And the ambiguous ‘Freedom obligated/obliges’ (same word in Dutch). After I passed the beautiful Sassenpoort, I walk past the synagogue from 1899, which survived the war almost unscathed, but subsequently fell into disrepair. In the Ter Pelkwijkpark is Zwolle's war memorial, which calls for commemoration and not to stand still. The rising sun creates a beautiful halo around the head of a kneeling man. It depicts a man standing up again after being depressed by so much suffering. From there I dive into the Zwolle neighborhoods. My goal is a house on the P.C. Hooftstraat. During the liberation, the neighbors' surprise was vast when as many as 14 people out of hiding appeared. Nico and Ati Noordhof have rightly been recognized by Yad Vashem as "Righteous among the Nations".I looked dreaded to the next stretch. This is not going to be fun. The beginning is still nice, oil mill De Passiebloem, the former village of Berkum (now a suburb of Zwolle) and the Vecht. Then I enter the Marslanden, an industrial estate that has expanded considerably in recent years. And still there is construction ongoing. It's pretty hot and I'm starting to sweat. A few buzzards still populate the industrial estate, but otherwise it’s quite boring and lifeless. Finally I can leave the road for a cycle path and a little later a grassy path between the meadows. In the distance I can already see the water tower of Lichtmis, which Hennie van der Most has turned into a revolving restaurant. The bridal suite at the very top, of which the roof can be opened and you can see the stars from your bed, is said to be very beautiful. I prefer to watch the many hares on the path and in the grass. Too bad they run from me. At the intersection at Lichtmis I lose my way for a while. I have to come back here soon to add an extra arrow. I am slowly strolling towards Staphorst. First there’s a wooded area, where the labor camp 't Wiede Gat was. Apart from a crooked sign in the parking lot, there’s nothing to remind us of the camp. A tour through the forest brings me back to the track, from where I hike into Staphorst. Again, a monument with far too many names on it. Men who had to work and were taken away, the women were happy to go into hiding and survived. At the market I have a lunch break and take off my shoes to pick out all the gravel. I brought a book, because otherwise I can't sit still for five minutes straight. Now I rest and enjoy. Just when I think about getting going again, people start pouring in from all sides. First a few, then more and more. Of course, it’s Sunday and the church is calling. The amount of people amazes me. They keep coming, I didn't even know this many people lived in Staphorst. There are several women in traditional garb and it’s a beautiful sight. Some women wear blue caps, others black. The colorful cloths and black skirts complete it. One woman is carrying something like a purse, but as she passes me I see that it is a silver-studded Bible or hymnal on a short silver chain. Golden ear-irons also come along. It is a spectacular sight, but I am careful not to take pictures. These people are on their way to church, they’re not a tourist attraction. Still, I feel a little uncomfortable when I have to squeeze past them in shorts to continue the trail, which passes right in front of the church entrance.Just before I enter Meppel, I see a sign pointing towards a war memorial. I don't know how far it is from the trail, but I am curious and have plenty of time. So I don't cross the canal just yet and go under the bridge in search of the promised monument. It's further than I thought, but I don't feel like going back. One more turn, I promise myself. There it is, a simple monument with five names. People who were murdered on this spot on the dawn of freedom, 4 April 1945, in retaliation for a railway sabotage between Zwolle and Meppel. A soldier has stuck his gold insignia, still pinned to the original plastic plate, in a crack between the stones. It pleases me that this tribute can just remain here, that no one has pocketed it for their own gain. So different from the story I recently saw at the BBC, where copper thieves also steal plaques with names of war dead. Names that are often not recorded anywhere else and are therefore lost to family and future generations. I hope the insignia will remain there for a long time to come. Those are my thoughts while walking to Meppel station. On the way home and the next leg.

Day 10: Meppel - Hoogeveen, 27 km
In Meppel, an elderly man gets off the train with me. He sees my booklet of the Westerborkpad and holds up his color copies of the route. Bert from Ermelo and I decide to hike this stage together, which is great fun. It feels strange for a while to start on the Westerborkpad again. In between I hiked the Pieterpad and other organized hikes. I have to look again for the enthusiasm and dedication with which I first started this path. I assume that this will return automatically, at the first monument full of names. From the station we hike into the center, where we pass a few houses with beautiful Jugendstill tile decorations. Across the canal, which turns dark blue in the light of the morning twilight. It promises to be a beautiful sunrise, but because we are still in between buildings, we see the enviously beautiful sky behind dark flats. In the middle of Meppel there’s a chapel, on the spot where the synagogue stood until 1960. Sixteen panels under a green-bronze roof, 232 names. Like that of the Van de Rhoer family. For a while they managed to survive in Westerbork, thanks to Meppeler cook Dirk Massier, who gave Eduard a job in the camp kitchen. Although the job protected his family for a time, his parents, Joël and Berta, were deported to Sobibor in 1943. Eduard and his brother Jacques managed to escape from the camp and survived in hiding. Their parents did not return. At least as impressive as the monument itself are the stories on the accompanying website. Each lost life is described in detail, with pictures and anecdotes. More than just the names on the monument, it gives people a character, a face. I read, for example, that father Joël took care of his brothers and sisters from a young age and paid a teacher to come and teach them in Staphorst. He enjoyed the trust of all farmers in the area and did such good business that an envelope addressed to ‘Joel de Rieke, Meppel’ (Joel, the rich) was promptly delivered. Such a man we have lost.After a while we get outside of Meppel and I can still see that golden sunrise. We walk around a lake, where the steam comes off the water and then along the Hoogeveensche Vaart. It is probably no coincidence that the toll house is called "De Knijpe" (the pinch), although the rates are, by current standards, not too bad. One and a half cents for a dog cart, five cents for a horse, fifty cents for a flock of sheep or pigs ‘stronger than 50 at a time’. We leave the toll house behind and continue our way along the canal. Despite the sun rising above the horizon, it’s still very cold. A sharp wind is blowing and I pull the sleeves of my jacket over my chilling hands. Plants are covered with a white layer of frost and at the lock the water is barely visible due to the swirling steam above. After a kilometer or two we turn our backs on the canal and hike towards Koekange. It is a beautiful winding road between the meadows and the trees are covered in the most beautiful autumn colors. For now there are no more monuments on the route, but that doesn't stop us from looking around and enjoying ourselves. Bert in particular photographs a lot and because of the slightly slower pace we see things that we would otherwise certainly have passed by. Just before Echten we come across a barn sale, two beautiful barns with all kinds of gadgets, from bicycles, children's toys and books to a pedometer. A little further on, a peat hut has been recreated. To my surprise I see small windows with glass and a cozy curtain behind it. It is not in line with my idea that a peat hut is a thing of the past, pure poverty. Indeed, the conditions were bad, the huts were crawling with vermin and the inhabitants did not grow old. Still, peat huts were only banned in 1901 and it took a village like Jubbega until the 1960s before the last peat huts were demolished. After we turn a corner, we stop again, because no matter how small Echten is, it has 't Huus met de Belle. A former sheepfold has been converted into a rural shop-cum-information center, selling traditional products and all kinds of artworks by local artists. The fact that they have a toilet and serve coffee is a bonus. After a short break we continue to Huize Echten and a lovely forest path, the first today. Unfortunately the unpaved path  is only short and we get back on the road quite soon. A little further we are back at the Hoogeveensche Vaart. Bert would like to deviate from the trail here, to view a sand extraction lake on the other side. It is a lot quieter on this side of the canal and we only cross the water again at the Nieuwe Brugsluis. Then we walk back a bit, because we don't want to skip Nijstad 15. During the war, the Flokstra family first hid nine and eventually even 13 Jews at that farm. They stayed in an area four by five meters under the hay. I can't imagine it. Thirteen people in a room, slightly bigger than my bedroom? How do you manage? In March 1944, the Grüne Polizei raided. Someone must have betrayed them, because the Germans turned out to have detailed information. Despite this, the Germans did not find the people in hiding during the five-hour search. They threatened to come back the next day and if they didn't find the Jews by then, to set the place on fire. Flokstra left the choice of whether to flee or not to the Jews, but when that way wanted to go so as not to get the family into even greater trouble, he said, "God did not save us from the enemy today only to leave us tomorrow." The Jews stayed and survived the war. When we return to the lock we encounter missing way markings. We can still see exactly where the lampposts have been cleaned with benzene, so that the marking stick better, but we need the booklet to continue. We squeeze into Hoogeveen across a green strip behind a residential area. At the highway we exchange the canal for a winding path through a park and then walk into a residential area. There the missing stickers really pose a problem for us. The route description leads us to a cemetery, but we cannot discover the Jewish monument. There is, however, a monument to the liberators, who died far from home for our freedom, and Dutch soldiers and resistance fighters. How we should proceed from here is not really clear. The directions contain an intersection and a street name, but that doesn't feel right. We totally overlook what is drawn on the map: we have to go back, follow the street in the other direction. Finally we ask someone for directions to the synagogue and we get back on trail. Then we also pass the Jewish cemetery and the monument: a mother who saves her child from a gripping claw. I wish it were true. If only it were that easy. Again, a long list of 165 names, people and sorrows. A little further away is the former Jewish synagogue, which served as a Reformed church after 1948. A memorial stone bears a poem that impresses with today's experiences. Simple words, but striking. The last bit to the station goes through a shopping street. One restaurant strikes us in particular: Het Huis met de Duivegaten. The facade is a true dovecote, but to prevent pigeons from actually making use of it, ceramic specimens adorn the facade. Very strange. Shortly afterwards we reach the station and I say goodbye to Bert. It was very nice to have a company on a stage for once. You see more than alone and besides, it feels good to share thoughts and emotions, although the hardest part is yet to come.

Day 11: Hoogeveen - Beilen, 27 km
A good night's sleep and yet hitting the road early. Daylight saving time again. It is a pity that the sun is already up when I get off the train in Hoogeveen, but still. From the station I am quickly out of the hustle and bustle in the forest, although I still feel asphalt under my feet. At a field I crawl through the edge of the forest to admire the frosted grass and the white mist that weaves along the tree edge. I shuffle through the autumn leaves with my feet. Then I can go deeper into the forest. A few turns further I am standing at a monument. After a failed raid on a distribution office in Nieuw Schoonebeek, in which the NSB mayor was killed, the Grüne Polizei came to put things in order. A local NSB member provided them with a list of names. About thirty people were arrested. On a Saturday morning, three of them were ‘aired’. They walked outside and were immediately riddled with bullets: notary Johannes Mulder, teacher Adriaan Baas and esquire Marinus Willem Cronelis de Jonge. Another name on the list was chicken farmer Everhardus Dunkirk. The Jewish brothers Levie and Manus van der Wijk went into hiding with him. They too were caught and executed. The monument consists of five rusty figures. Men with a cross or a Star of David in the place of their hearts. Men with hats and clenched fists or relaxed, hands in their pockets. Only their shadows are left.After a while I get out of the forest. Along a country road is another monument, this in memory of the people who assisted French paratroopers during Operation Amherst, the code name of the Allies for the liberation of Drenthe province and were executed as reprisal. Nineteen people were killed by the Germans on 9 and 10 April, so shortly before the liberation on the 11th. How bitter. Entire families are on the monument. Fathers, sons and sons-in-law, the youngest, Gezinus Scholing, fourteen years old. Thinking about this monument, my thoughts turn to other places of war in the world. Every evening news is new about another attack, another car bomb, usually somewhere in the Middle East. Will there be a monument for those people in twenty or fifty years? Will they be remembered by anyone other than their immediate family? Or are there too many of them, is there no end to the violence and are they merged into an anonymous mass, a statistic? I cross the track that has kept me company since Amsterdam. Then, as I approach a ditch, I see a bright blue flash shooting away. It can’t be, can it? A kingfisher? Here? It has to be, but the animal quickly turns a corner and disappears. Shortly afterwards there is another narrow forest path, with deep mud trails. From there I zigzag between the farms to the Kremboong forest, created by the former owner of the Kremboong sugar factory on Java. The labor camp of the same name housed 240 Jewish forced laborers. A stranger wrote in his diary: “We learned to ‘model’ our beds, stand stiffly at attention when someone came in, and let the cook's screams slide over us. He was a loud barker, but not a bit of a biter, on the contrary, he later got to know himself as a sympathetic and compassionate person and that later, when the circumstances became difficult for us, the camp life remained bearable, we also owe to the flexibility with which he applied the strict regulations of the government ”. The forced laborers had to make the land suitable for agriculture and the work was hard. Initially there was plenty of food and the atmosphere was good. Later the food situation deteriorated and reports of raids in Amsterdam weighed on the mood. Like the other camps, this camp was also closed and the forced laborers removed.From the camp I continue and cross the Oude Diep. There I get to turn right, a narrow gravel path along a ditch. Back on the asphalt I hike against the wheelchair route, which has to look for an alternative to the heavy mud path which lies at my feet. Behind a row of trees I see a hill, the Blinkerd. A former garbage dump, where sheep now graze. After following a stream for a while, with beautiful chestnut trees, I climb the hill and enjoy the view. I do have to turn in the right direction, with my back to the rubbish dump, where the seagulls are screaming for the food and a chimney pipe spurts white clouds. I prefer to look at the forest, the blue sky, the fields. I soon descend again, to the asphalt road covered in shit. I turn a little too early and end up on the wheelchair route again, which joins again with the other trail at a ditch full of concrete stepping stones. Fun! Of course I have to get over that, while I still can. The reed is advancing and if there is no mowing, it will no longer be possible to take this path within a year. Shortly afterwards I walk into Wijster, a name I only vaguely know from the train hijacking in 1975. However, it appears that this village can also boast of the Rabobank, founded here in 1904. A second-hand safe was bought and then the third day € 830, - in cash was stored, the cashier could not sleep. The bank has grown into a fully-fledged company, but Wijster only has an ATM… that doesn't work. Once out of the village I hike along the track for a while again. I can already see Beilen's milk factory on the horizon. First there is a patch of grass, a cycle path and a suburb. Never knew that Beilen is so big. And then there is the station and this stage comes to an end. The next is the last, one I take plenty of time for. Then I reach camp Westerbork, from where so many have disappeared.

Day 12: Beilen - Westerbork, 15 km
Beilen is a well-known area. How often have I not been here, on my way to a trip or returning from a Drenthe four-day hiking event? But like today I have not seen Beilen before. The Beileroord mental health institution, with its many works of art. Nine Jewish patients were taken from here. One of them was Helene Grünebaum. She had worked for a wealthy Jewish family in Germany for years and together they fled to the Netherlands. The family traveled to the United States, but Helene was unable to come with them and was left behind. There is nothing here to remind you of them, not a picture, not a stone with names. As if they really have been erased. It’s bitter to see that there is an image in honor of a successful renovation. A little further on in Beilen, between the greenery of a children's playground and a dog off-leash field, is a small Jewish cemetery hidden behind a hedge. Beilen had a thriving Jewish community since the 18th century, with no fewer than 64 members in 1941. Here too, Mayor Wytema showed courage and refused to cooperate with the deportations. In 1942 he was fired for it. On Liberation Day he returned, fired the remaining aldermen and was hard on the purge. After the cemetery I leave the village and stroll along the main road towards the Orange Canal. Ships have not been sailing here since 1976, but during the war food, building materials and planes shot down in the vicinity were brought to camp Westerbork across this water.It is a kilometer further before I can turn to a forest, which is covered in lovely autumn colors. Difficult, all those leaves, if you are busy kaatsen (a traditional Dutch sport) and have not kept an eye on the ball. A family good-naturedly rakes through the fallen foliage, hoping to recover their ball. After a sloppy heather field and a field I am back at the railway line. Here was the station, from where the Jews who had been taken away from their homes had to walk to the camp, luggage and all. Sometimes, the same day even, they made the journey in the opposite direction. The station was demolished in 1960. Makes sense, but you wish something had been preserved, a monument to remember, a sign that people were here. After a short loop through the village I find myself on the track of the railway line, which as of November 1942 connected the camp to the main line. It is a beautiful path, through a forest full of graceful yellow-tipped larch trees. Still, I cannot escape history. Since Amsterdam I have read and heard so many stories, got to know so many names and fragments of people. It made a deep impression and that is why I cannot now hike through the forest as I normally do, carefree and enjoying my surroundings. It feels like shouting during the Remembrance Day, so wrong.

I pass the Remembrance Center. First on to the end. On the last 500 meters before I reach the camp, sleepers have been knocked into the ground on the right side of the road. Each sleeper reminds you of a transport. Monday, August 31, 1942. Auschwitz. 560 people. Friday, August 28, 1942. Auschwitz. 608 people. They stand along the forest like stiff soldiers. Strangely, they are not in date order and only some transports from 1942 are mentioned. In total there were 93. One hundred and two thousand people. Is there a road long enough to give each transport its own sleeper? Can we comprehend that or have we been made numb by those numbers? Imagine, that’s almost two Feyenoord soccer stadiums full of people. The Westerborkpad ends just before the entrance to the camp, with a picture of a transport held up by two sleepers. Men, each one. You can vaguely distinguish the Star of David on their clothing, their facial expression is one of wait and see and let's make the best of it. How much did they know? How much did they suspect? Who did they leave behind? Who did they hope to see again in Poland? And for whom is this photo all that remains?Through the barrier, along the barbed wire. A strange place, green and quiet. Low slopes indicate the place where barracks stood. Fragments of walls have been reconstructed. I try to imagine it here as an ant's nest, way too many people, mud penetrating everything, always noisy. Always fear. At penal barrack 67, where people like Anne Frank were staying, a survivor tells about her time there. She sounds apologetic, she stayed there at the same time as Anne Frank and didn't even know her! I am surprised. Does the emphasis placed on Anne Frank do justice to all those others who also suffered? She is well-known, perhaps the most famous victim, but aren’t there more people, each with their own story? This year, the past 336 km, I have heard many of these stories. Every history has made an impression and every victim deserves to be remembered, famous or not. I continue to the National Monument. I still think this is one of the most symbolic and moving monuments I know of. The sharply edged rails that rise to the sky as a permanent indictment of the suffering of the Boulevard des Misères (boulevard of misery – the platform). I don't stay long, it is difficult to bear. Back through the camp I pass the Monument of the 102,000 stones on the former roll call site. Stones with a plaque in the shape of a Star of David for the Jews or a flame for the Sinti and Roma who were also deported from Westerbork. The monument looks grim. Neglected. Buried under autumn leaves, black with blown earth, a hole where the memorial plaques have disappeared. It's a sad and shabby sight. A tent in the background promises maintenance. German and Dutch long-term unemployed are going to renovate the monument. I try to see beneath the fallen leaves, beyond the dirt and damage. Each stone represents one person. A man, a woman, a child. The height of the stones reflects their age, the length of everyone's story. Some are breathtakingly short. Photos have been placed between the stones. Children looking confidently into the camera, a bridal couple posing stiffly. As if the frightening amount of stones alone wasn't enough, the photos emphasize that these are people. Someone like 22-year-old Salo Carlebach, who did not want to let the 51 orphans of Camp Westerbork go alone when they were selected for the first transport to Auschwitz on 15 July 1942. He volunteered to accompany them and was killed in Auschwitz along with them.

Full of impressions I walk back to the Memorial Center, which should be open by now. But my watch is still on summertime and I arrive too early. A little later I can go in after all and explore the center. An exhibition full of suitcases. A student who took her biology books because she would be poor after the war and would not be able to afford them anymore. A suitcase full of medicines and warm clothing. A replica barrack, with bunk beds and laundry in between. The farewell notes to family, thrown off the train at the last minute, in wich hope and despair alternate. There is also a theater performance based on the diary of Klaartje de Zwarte-Walvisch. She kept a diary in camp Vught, but shortly after arriving in camp Westerbork she was already deported to Auschwitz. Actress Angie Cotrotsos embodies her and delivers a monologue based on her diary. It's an intense experience. First of all there’s that shock to see a living person with a Star of David on her lapel. And then there is what she says and how. Anger, hope and despair alternate as she talks about cruel bullying, illness, jokes and music. It is as if Klaartje is with us again and we feel her anger about what has been done to her. When it's over, it take us a while to realize it. We have to recover from all impressions and emotions, before the well-deserved applause sounds.I have hiked many trails before, but none that has made such a profound impression as this one. From the start at the Hollandse Schouwburg in Amsterdam to the end at the National Monument in Camp Westerbork, this path brings history to life. We take it for granted that the Holocaust will not be forgotten, that we will continue to remember, but with the survivors and witnesses disappearing one by one from among our midst, a trail like this is needed. Just remembering is not enough. Being quiet on 4 May is not enough. We have to feel why we are silent and for whom. For Helene Grünebaum, for Salo Carlebach, for Klaartje de Zwarte-Walvisch and for 102,000 others. Every person a brother, a sister, a father, a mother, an aunt, an uncle, a friend, a neighbor, a classmate ...