The Empty Suitcase

In mid-December 2013, I boarded a plane for the Netherlands, taking with me not much more than an empty suitcase. At Amsterdam airport, I collected my hire car and headed north-east. I don’t remember much of the journey, only that I was lost in thought as well as in location. My plane had been delayed, so it was dark when I finally reached my destination. A tall, bespectacled man opened the door. He held out his hand. ‘Good to finally meet you,’ he said. ‘How are you?'

My eyes welled up, and before I could help myself, the tears rolled down my cheeks. He took my hand and gently led me into the hall. ‘Come in…’

I have a vague memory of coffee and homemade apple pie, and muttering apologetically. ‘My mother died last week…’ ‘Acute leukaemia…’ I wiped my face with my sleeve. ‘She hadn’t been well for a long time, but not with anything that would have taken her life. Then this. So sudden. Just nine days…’

He had a long, white beard, which he stroked as though deep in thought. ‘Dying is part of living,’ he said. ‘It happens to all of us sooner or later.’

I felt his eyes on me for a moment, then he continued: ‘I was a child when my grandfather died. He’d spent his final weeks lying in his box bed. Its doors opened onto the kitchen, where family life continued, breakfast was served, and prayers were said before evening meals. One evening, as we sat eating our bacon and beans, my father heard the rattle in his father’s breathing and simply said: ‘He’s gone’. We prayed, and then life went on. It was our way then, and it still is.’

Perhaps it was his matter-of-fact telling of the story, but I found it strangely comforting. I took another bite of the apple pie, smiled gratefully at his wife, and started asking the questions I had prepared. Before long, he brought out a stack of books – five navy-blue hardback volumes, each one A4-sized, and about an inch thick. An A-Z of Baptist families in the rural district of Groningen from 1586 to 1811. Browsing the pages, I spotted several familiar names.

‘My mum…’ 

It was difficult to speak of her, but I pushed through. 

‘Mum’s family tree is full of Abrahams, and Simons, and Jacobs. For years, rumour had it that there was Jewish blood in the family. Mum always wanted to find out but didn’t know where to start. Then she became ill, and I happened to have some time on my hands. I stumbled across it. Googled a few family names, and there it was. I’d never heard of Swiss Anabaptists. Had no idea they were the forerunners of the Amish. Or that some of them were my ancestors. Mum was so excited!’

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘it’s quite the story.’

I turned a few more pages until I found it. 

‘Hindrik Kraai is mum’s great-great grandfather,’ I said. ‘He’s the fork in the family tree. He was illegitimate and so was given his mother’s family name. I sometimes wonder what it might otherwise have been.’

I remember a strange thought as my finger traced the name on the page. All these people had once been real. They'd laughed, worked, married, argued, buried their loved ones and somehow carried on. Just as we do.

Mum was one of them now.

She'd become an ancestor. To me, to my children, and one day to those who come after us. Another name in the family tree.

‘Kraai is an old local name,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘Have you found any others?’

‘So far, I found the Kratzer family, the Frutigers and the Meijers. But three of my four grandparents came from Sappemeer, so who knows?’

‘Not all the Swiss settled,’ he said, ‘but many did. The Baptist community is close-knit, so I’m sure you’ll find more.’ He smiled. ‘Is that why you want the books?’

I looked at the copy on my lap. Inside were names and places, details of who lived and died, where they were from and what had brought them here. There were wills and inventories, and thousands of tiny stories. On their own, none was earth-shattering. Yet together they told the story of a community. Was that why I wanted the books?

‘I’m not sure,’ I said, and meant it. I flicked through a few more pages.

‘So, you’ll have them?’

***

Days later, I walked onto the plane. There was the usual bustle of finding your seat and space for your hand luggage.

‘Would you like some help with your case?’ said a voice behind me.

Before I knew it, the man had taken it from my hands. 

‘Goodness,’ he said, as he heaved it in the overhead locker, ‘what on earth is in there?’

Something precious, I thought, as I smiled and thanked him.

***