Mrs. J. thought she was from Mars, her house was a mini planet full of fuzzy inhabitants

Mrs. J. told the seller of the homeless newspaper that she was from Mars. He is standing in his red vest at the sliding doors of the supermarket on the Sierplein in Amsterdam Slotervaart, her home is around the corner.

The salesman thought she was joking, but Mrs. J. was serious, her bright blue eyes looking at him intently. She was the only surviving Martian, having landed on Earth by chance. The seller, who hails from the Horn of Africa himself, was not sure what to say to this.

He had known her for years. Once he had seen the thin old woman, who was always smartly dressed, who perfumed herself rather lavishly and took care of her appearance, toiling with a heavy shopping bag and offered his help. Mrs. J. was shocked when he spoke to her and fled with her cargo.

When he offered it again the next time, she had agreed. The seller accompanied the bag to her home, which is located on the fourth floor of an outdated apartment complex on Tutein Noltheniusstraat.

When she reached the top, she thanked him for his help and handed him some coins. She waited to open her front door until he was downstairs again, no one was allowed to see or enter her home.

Fake flowers

Mrs. J. went to the supermarket twice a week. She usually bought the same thing: wholemeal bread, cheese, milk, fruit, porridge, prepackaged soup and several bottles of mineral water. “Never meat or fish or vegetables or other stuff for hot food,” says the homeless newspaper seller.

Sometimes she didn’t want to go straight home and crossed the busy road, where a now defunct toy store was located. While he waited outside with her groceries, she walked over to the toy animal shelf and paid for a teddy bear.

The people at the toy store didn’t have to pack the teddy bear, it was for her. She seemed to be talking to the bear, in a made-up language. She bought fake flowers with bendable stems from a nearby home goods store. The homeless newspaper seller thought it was strange but asked no questions, also because Mrs. J. spoke Dutch with a heavy Eastern European accent, which made it difficult for him to understand her.

It was just as strange that Mrs. J. stopped every few steps in the street and then turned abruptly to see if she was being followed. She explained that she was being watched. The homeless newspaper seller had to be wary, too, now that they knew she had an ally.

He had to wait in front of the apartment complex. She looked up to see if anyone was on her balcony, if the always-closed curtains hadn’t moved in her absence. He had to be quiet because she heard all kinds of things too, unknown sounds from distant galaxies.

Although she herself thought she came from Mars, Mrs J.’s Dutch passport states that she was born on June 20, 1931 in the Polish city of Poznan. Her parents, I learn from Team Uitvaarten of the municipality of Amsterdam, came from the Czech Republic and seem to have become adrift during the Second World War.

At the time of the Polish People’s Republic, she is said to have worked as a senior official in a ministry. In the 1980s, after Lech Wałęsa’s trade union Solidarność was banned, Mrs. J. fled west with the help of a Dutch man, Mr. De P. They married but had no children; she was also in her fifties when the marriage took place.

Mrs J. was also married in Poland, the Funeral Team does not know to whom or whether children may have resulted from this marriage. In any case, investigations with the help of the Polish consulate have not revealed anything.

Mrs J. lived with Mr De P. for more than ten years, at another address in Amsterdam. It is unclear what prompted her flight and how the two met. Mr. De P. cannot tell because he passed away in 1999, after which Mrs. J. moved to Tutein Noltheniusstraat.

A relative of Mr. De P. says that he worked for the railways and traveled a lot on international trains. “Maybe she accosted him during one of the services.” Mr. De P. was rather introverted, says the family member. “He shielded himself from the outside world, just like her.”

Rumors circulated within the family that Mrs. J. and her parents were deported from the Czech Republic to a concentration camp in Poland during the war. “He seems to have told something similar to his brother,” said the relative.

Lock

I walk up the steep stairs in the apartment complex on Tutein Noltheniusstraat. Mrs J.’s door is damaged. The police had to make a lot of effort to get in, beams had been installed on the inside.

I knock on the door of the neighbours, Mrs. El Maach opens the door. A young lady, she came to live here ten years ago. She tried to get acquainted with her neighbor, to strike up a conversation. “That didn’t work out well, she was very skittish.”

At another meeting, Mrs. J. said she had to lock the windows when she left the house or they would climb in in a heartbeat. ‘I thought that was strange because we are quite high here,’ says Mrs El Maach.

Mrs. J. claimed that someone was hiding in one of the storage sheds in the attic above them. Mrs. El Maach went to investigate. “I didn’t see or hear anything.”

One day she came home from work to find Mrs. J halfway up the stairs. She had a backpack on and trudged up with difficulty. Mrs. El Maach wanted to take the backpack from her, but it barely weighed anything: it contained a teddy bear.

Mrs. El Maach thought it irresponsible that the old woman had to go up and down so many stairs. She explained that as an older person she is entitled to a ground floor apartment. Mrs. J. absolutely did not want to move, she was devoted to the mysterious house where no one ever came.

The floor in the stairwell is mopped every other week, the cleaner hangs the front door mats over the balustrade. When she came home at the end of the day, Mrs. El Maach, as a courtesy, also put Mrs. J.’s mat in its place.

She decided not to do that anymore when she saw her neighbor, who never went on holiday and only went out for groceries, less and less often. “It could take a few days, but when that mat was back in place I knew she was alive.”

Mrs. El Maach spoke to an employee of the housing association, who came to inspect the porch because of a leak. “I said: I see her going out less and less, maybe she needs something to worry about.” The employee would report it.

In October, Mrs. El Maach had to go abroad for a week for work. When she returned she smelled a foul smell that seemed to come from her neighbor’s house. She thought it was trash at first. “Maybe she was sick and left her garbage bag in the house too long.” The doormat hung over the balustrade. Concerned, she knocked, but there was no response. “Then I called the police.”

Mr. Tulu van tweehoog has lived in the complex for thirty years. He says that Mrs. J. gave a friendly greeting when she had just moved in. Mr. Tulu’s children were still young, she asked if they were doing well in school.

Mrs. J. said that her husband had passed away and that she had no other family. Mr. Tulu said she could always call on him if there was a need. In the summer, Mr. Tulu went to Turkey with his family. Concerned, Mrs. J. asked how long he would be gone. “I’m glad you’re back, I feel safe with you,” she said when he returned.

Mr. Tulu thought it was sad that she was always indoors. She didn’t have a car, not even a bicycle. “I never saw her walking or sitting on a bench anywhere,” he says. He asked her to coffee, she politely declined.

She climbed the stairs with increasing difficulty. She nodded when Mr. Tulu asked if he would lift her shopping bag. Countless times Mr. Tulu has gone up the stairs with that bag. He expected her to offer him a cup of tea or a glass of water. It never happened, her door remained closed to him too. “Once I said, ma’am, you really don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Mr. Tulu felt “a little offended” when he noticed that the homeless newspaper seller was now carrying her messages upstairs. From that moment on, their scarce contact dwindled.

Science fiction

On October 20, agents entered the home. Mrs. J. had been lying in the hallway for about four weeks, an autopsy would later reveal. She still looked pretty good, as if she had indeed not been an Earthling. She was identified from the photo in her passport.

At the beginning of November I am there with two people from Team Funerals, who find that there is sufficient balance in the bank account to pay for the funeral.

I feel like an intruder, this is what Mrs. J. wanted to hide from everyone: a house full of teddy bears, good-natured residents of her mini-planet. In every room, even in the kitchen, where unwashed dishes pile up, they grin at me. The furniture where the teddy bears sit, hang or stand is decorated with artificial flowers.

Besides teddy bears, there are many books in the house, mostly science fiction. In the living room, next to a cluttered desk, one of the books has been given a prominent place: a bound edition of Stranger in a Strange Land (1961) by Robert Heinlein.

Stranger in a Strange Land is about the last inhabitant of Mars who is taken away by a spaceship after World War III and ends up on Earth. Feeling like a stranger, the Martian speaks a language no one understands and establishes a secret denomination that only invitees can join.

On November 8 at 10 am I read the poem I wrote for Mrs J. in the chapel at the Sint Barbara cemetery. I will play the adagio from the first piano sonata by the Polish composer Szymanowski and Somewhere Down the Crazy River by Robbie Robertson, who was inspired by Mrs J.’s favorite book when writing that song.