Hella

A few years ago I watched a documentary on the writer Hella Haasse. It was an interview, held in her own appartment in the centre of Amsterdam. Watching this documentary I recognised the place, the view from her window. It was almost in the park that is my backyard, close to the city centre, and on my way into and home from work. I often walk past there on my way to the centre. From the day I saw that documentary I always looked up to that building as I cycled or walked past and thought of the lady in there.

Over the years I have read most of her books, I have enjoyed them, almost lived them, and they have come alive for me in other ways too. On a cycling holiday in the eastern part of the country I recognised the landscapes and houses she described in the Dutch historical novels, and I could see the world she created in them. I could just imagine running into one of the characters.

Watching her on television she always struck me as a very sensible, kind person. The kind of person you would like to get to know. She seemed like a person with a strong opinion, a sense of humour and great compassion, which is what you find in her books as well. An intelligent woman.

When I read that she had died it was a shock. She was 93, I knew she was frail, but still. Knowing that she is no longer in that building at the entrance to the park is a sad thought, and it will be a while before I don't look up anymore.