The silver cigarette case

Eight weeks after my father arrived home from Indonesia, my grandfather died.  It was like he’d been waiting, waiting, for his youngest son to return.  December 1948 was cold then; at the Tiboel Siegenbeekstraat in Leiden, the whole family came to greet the paratrooper home from the tropics.  That year, Theo Stijnman’s Christmas present to my Dad was particularly poignant. He’d transcribed every one of my father’s letters home, in long-hand, into notebooks. It got even colder in January 1950. The family farewelled the patriarch on Sunday 12 February in a southwesterly gale.

The original brieven were shared across family.  Frans wrote many of them to his sister Leny and her husband Jan Witte, just a few minutes walk from his father at the Tiboel.  Frans must have had a soft spot for her boys; in his letters he often asked after them, especially Jan and Theo, the two eldest. Dad was the Oom Frans who had often been in their company, especially in those messy and lean war years. An uncle who paid attention. 

Dad had been away in Indonesia for three years.  During that time, his father, brothers and sisters set up a collective to send him newspapers and magazines.  The Kranten-Fonds was managed by Jan Witte, the husband of Dad’s eldest sister.  Every week a swatch of newspapers would arrive at barracks with news of the homeland.  Catholic version, of course.  Dad writes of the pleasure the newspapers afforded, as well as the disturbing realisation that the “police action” to restore law and order in the colony was controversial at home. 

Long story short, there is still money in the fund after he returns.   I don’t know whose idea it is to provide a legacy gift. Something light, something permanent?

Frans’ initials, FS for Frans Stijnman, are engraved on the outside of a silver cigarette-case.

Silver cigarette case, engraved with initials

Inside is engraved: Frans Kranten-Fonds 3-10-46 – 08-12-49. 

Fast-forward many years.  Migration propels Dad forward in a determined direction to the undulations of the Waikato and its pastures. Occasionally he looks over his shoulder; behind him the familiar Dutch landscape alters, physically and socially.  His sister Leny and her husband Jan Witte have nine children; he has lost track of birthdays,  misses the valleys and peaks in their lives. Jan Witte is the recipient of a gold medal in the Order of Oranje Nassau for his service for ex-political prisoners, the newspaper clipping a treasure in a letter.  All I know at this time is that this uncle’s incarceration (for hiding a Jew) greatly impacted my Dad’s formation as a man of egalitarian principles and Christian forgiveness. In 1980, Jan passes away, leaving a cool breeze over Dad’s past.  By this time I have left home, have three children, have my own geography to move through. 

And one day Jan Witte (the eldest son) and his wife Coby make a trip to New Zealand.  This trip I cannot recall. The case returns to the Netherlands.

At our 14 December 2025 gathering of the Stijnmans as part of the launch of my book, Frank Witte presented the case back to me on behalf of his brother, Jan.  For me, that was both a surprise and an emotional moment. I understood that Dad would have treasured this because it represents so many things about his family.  It is both humbling and rewarding that my cousins chose to return it to me. That so many of the Witte clan joined me and other family members on that day in Leiden is memorable.  I feel Dad with me too. 

Standing (l.to r.) Marcella van Gool, partner of Frank Witte (standing beside her), Bernardine Vester, Marjoke Steenbekkers-Witte, Wil Witte, Chris Witte, Coby (wife of Jan), Boyd (son of Chris and Cora). Sitting (l.to r) Martijn, (son of Jan and Coby), Resie (wife of Wil), Jan Witte, Cora (wife of Chris).

A note inside the silver cigarette case records a transfer in 2006, but does not say who wrote the note. Tokens cement relationships.  I now know that Dad presented it back to my cousin Jan.  I have looked through the old photo albums to find a record of that visit.  Unsuccessfully. 

The sentimental value of the cigarette case remains.  It opens with a satisfying, sophisticated click.  Immediately I am five or six years old.  The cigarettes array like soldiers. Dad’s tremor is slight as he selects, snaps the case shut and tap-taps on the lid. He’s going to an important meeting. 

The cigarette case is showing it’s age; I will take it for a professional clean and rejuvenation.