The Son and Heir

PRAISE FOR THE SON AND HEIR “The Son and Heir is a chronicle that reads like a compelling novel. It can measure itself with the greatest books in the world.” —Pieter Waterdrinker, De Telegraaf (5 stars) “This is an astonishing book! Once you start reading, you can’t put it down.” —Maarten ‘t Hart, bestselling author of A Flight of Curlews and Bearers of Bad Tidings “This is One Hundred Years of Solitude from the Low Countries; this is Europe’s grief. This is Turgenev.” —David van Reybrouck, De Correspondent “A book to make every writer envious and every reader grateful.” —Chris van der Heijden, De Groene Amsterdammer Text copyright © 2014 Alexander Münninghoff Translation copyright © 2020 by Kristen Gehrman All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Previously published as De Stamhouder by Prometheus Amsterdam in the Netherlands in 2014. Translated from Dutch by Kristen Gehrman. First published in English by Amazon Crossing in 2020. Published by Amazon Crossing, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Crossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542004558 (hardcover) ISBN-10: 1542004551 (hardcover) ISBN-13: 9781542004541 (paperback) ISBN-10: 1542004543 (paperback) Cover design by Jarrod Taylor Cover photography courtesy of the author’s archives First edition For Ellen and Wera CONTENTS The Münninghoffs: A Twentieth-Century Family AUTHOR’S NOTE I was born... PART 1 ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO PART 2 TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR TWENTY-FIVE TWENTY-SIX TWENTY-SEVEN TWENTY-EIGHT TWENTY-NINE THIRTY THIRTY-ONE THIRTY-TWO THIRTY-THREE THIRTY-FOUR THIRTY-FIVE PART 3 THIRTY-SIX THIRTY-SEVEN THIRTY-EIGHT THIRTY-NINE FORTY FORTY-ONE FORTY-TWO FORTY-THREE FORTY-FOUR ABOUT THE AUTHOR ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR The Münninghoffs: A Twentieth-Century Family AUTHOR’S NOTE While writing this memoir, I’ve changed many of the figures’ names, though the events and occurrences are as I recall them. I was born on April 13, 1944, in Posen, an old Polish city that for centuries had been called Poznań. But when I was born, during a bombardment that seemed to herald the end of time, Posen was a German city, a logistical junction from which Hitler had sent his Nazi troops into the Soviet Union in three waves of attack just one year before. It was a miserable adventure, and Posen paid dearly: gruesome mutilations, the wounded crying out in agony in the barbaric field hospitals, piles of dead loaded onto carts and dumped into trenches. And the endless lines of refugees who only wanted one thing: to get out. My family was part of that drama. And that is what this book is about. It’s about the consequences of the war. It’s about a sly grandfather who became—in the most remarkable ways —one of the richest people in Latvia, but who, two days before the war broke out, was forced to leave everything behind and flee to the Netherlands with his Russian wife and four children. It’s about a naive father who, out of idealism against the Soviets, went to the eastern front wearing the uniform of the SS, only to be destroyed when he returned to the Netherlands. It’s about a mother who, after getting divorced, fled to Germany and was no longer allowed to be my mother. And it’s about me, the grandson, the son, and heir. The Hague, January 2014 Alexander Münninghoff PART 1 THE SMOKING ROOM ONE My first encounter with the secrets that would dominate my life was a discovery I made one lost afternoon in the attic of our house in Voorburg. Behind a few tightly sealed boxes, tucked away beneath a thick hedge of heavy winter coats hung up in mothballs, I found another box way in the back that—strangely enough in hindsight—turned out to be openable. Inside, along with some shirts, pants, and other odds and ends, was a helmet. Jet black and menacingly shiny, it had a black-white-and-red emblem on one side and two bright white lightning bolts on the other. Instinctively, I knew the thing represented a secret. I put it on and skipped downstairs to the smoking room, where the whole family was having drinks before dinner and waiting for the Old Boss to start the daily canasta ritual. It was 1948, and I was four years old. The helmet came down over my eyes, but if I tipped my head back, as if peeping out of the slit of a bunker, I could just make out what was going on in front of me. The first person to see me was my mother, Wera. She didn’t say a word, but I could tell by the look on her face that I had done something bad. She seemed about to jump up and grab me, but then was overcome with an air of resignation and slouched into the corner of the sofa. The rest of the family, gathered around the table sipping drinks, reacted more strongly. Almost in unison, Omi and Aunt Trees threw their hands over their mouths, and Xeno, my uncle, pointed his finger at me. Guus and Aunt Titty looked at each other and then glared at me, their eyes round as saucers. The only one to let out a chuckle was Dr. Van Tilburg, family physician and friend. The Old Boss broke the silence. “Frans! Didn’t I tell you to throw that junk away?” he barked at my father in that raspy, whispery voice that scared everyone to death. My father had been sitting with his back to the doorway and only saw me after standing up and turning around. “Bully, take that thing off right now. Where in the world have you been playing? Give it to me!” my father commanded loudly. “Damn it, Wera, can’t you keep a better eye on him? Sorry, Father, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet. I’ll get rid of it right now.” And true to his word, he snatched the helmet from my head and bolted out of the room and up the stairs. A few seconds later, we heard the attic door slam shut. “Come here, boy,” Grandpa said. When my father left the room, it was as if a weight had been lifted from the family’s shoulders. Everyone became immersed in acting as if nothing had happened—everyone except my mother, that is, who stared silently into space. Naturally, Dr. Van Tilburg was ready with a joke, at which Omi, Aunt Trees, and Aunt Titty laughed long and hard. They shuffled the cards loudly for canasta, the Catholic version of bridge. Frau Kochmann, our fantastic family cook, whom we’d brought with us from das Baltikum, was informed over the in-house telephone that dinner could be served at six thirty and that Dr. Van Tilburg would be joining us. That gave them enough time for another drink and a few practice rounds before the real game after dinner, when there’d be money on the table. I went over and sat on Grandpa’s knee like I always did. Oftentimes, he’d open the big Andrees Handatlas in front of me, and together we would study the map of Europe. Never the Americas, though he did have some good business contacts there, or Africa or Asia, but always Europe. The atlas, which had been printed in Leipzig in 1926, only showed the borders from before the Second World War. These were Grandpa’s borders, the borders in which he had built up his tremendous wealth in humble Latvia, where, through blind luck or fate, he had found his wife and fortune. I loved the Old Boss, and I was the only one in the house who wasn’t afraid of him. The fondness was mutual: Grandpa’s strict face would soften at the sight of me. His dark eyes, always scrutinizing the world around him with mild suspicion, would drop their guard and take on a merry twinkle whenever I was around, and that made me feel better. Usually, he would stand up from his massive oak desk in the smoking room where he had been working, pick me up, twirl me around a couple of times, and set me on his knee. I would reach for the gold watch hanging from his breast pocket on a little gold chain, open it, wind it, and ask him what time it was. He would always report it down to the exact second. After, we’d head over to the big oak bookcase, slide open the glass doors, and start our atlas ritual. Those moments always gave me the feeling that I played an important role in Grandpa’s life, that I offered him distraction from his countless business troubles. And I think that was true. In any case, I was an object worthy of constant attention in Grandpa’s eyes. He took every opportunity to explain to me how important I was, not only to the family, but to him personally. I was the heir to the family name. I didn’t really understand what that meant at the time, but I had already realized that being the only grandchild of a rich grandfather wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “No more nosing around in the attic, you naughty boy,” Grandpa said.

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