Ode to Bet van Beeren | Dear Bet van Beeren

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Dear Bet van Beeren,

During a vacation in Normandy, one of my best friends and I read to each other in an orchard the love letters of poets Ingrid Jonker and André Brink. The best thing about those letters were not even so much the words these poets wrote to each other, but mostly the form that compelled them both to have an infinite confidence that the addressee was somewhere in the world, thinking of the other, longing for the other. That there were two chances a day to make contact; the two times the mailman (with or without a letter) came pedaling by.

The letters from the two lovers were a sincere and often only attempt at contact. They were not meant for other eyes; in fact, they were secret. Although I passionately love the letter form it now feels strange to write you a letter. Because: 1. You've been dead for years (read: 1967); 2. This letter can reach anyone but you, thus eliminating intimacy.

To honor you, to pay tribute to you, I now let go, as you have done all your life, every form and expectation, this letter that does not want to become a letter. I will try simply to tell about you.

So, for the people reading this; if you do not yet know the Amsterdam native Bet van Beeren, I hope you will never not know her after today. Bet van Beeren was the manageress of café 't Mandje on the Zeedijk. It was 1927, almost a hundred years ago, homosexuality was considered offensive to say the least. But in front of café 't Mandje people could dance with someone of their own sex during (then still) Queen's Day without anyone being surprised, thanks to the fearlessness of Bet van Beeren.
 

She didn't care about conventions or rules, wasn't afraid of anyone. With her personality and her café, she ensured the sexual liberation of many Amsterdammers. Or, as artist Albert Mol said about the dance parties at 't Mandje: "It wasn't allowed anywhere, it was never allowed, it was always forbidden... And that was very nice with Bet, because with Bet it was allowed and could be done and nobody thought it was strange. That was Bet's influence”.
 

Now still there is dancing, flirting, kissing, fighting in front of and in 't Mandje - which has been preserved entirely in Bet van Beeren's style with the characteristic cut ties on the ceiling -. On weekdays, on weekends, but especially during gay pride. Women sing along loudly on the sidewalk in front of the café that they want to feel the rain on their skin because no one else can do it for them. They flirt there with other women, start and end romances or affairs, make out just like a hundred years ago in the Waterpoortsteeg. The biggest difference is that now gays are generally accepted. Or at least in café 't Mandje, thanks in no small part to someone like Bet. An even bigger difference is that Bet van Beeren herself is no longer behind the bar. And even though Bet had been dead for fifteen years before I was born, everyone still talks about her. Bet is, I can rightly write here, an icon.
 

A very nice little book about Bet van Beeren has been written, compiled by Tibbe Bosch. In it, all kinds of figures from Bets' life come forward to talk about her. There are so many wonderful anecdotes to recount that I heartily recommend the booklet entitled Queen of the Seafront. While reading it, I took a screenshot of just about every page to send it to that same friend from vacation in Normandy. We wanted to be friends with someone like Bet. We wondered if we knew anyone who is like Bet. The answer is easy to guess.
 

The story goes that during World War II the Zeedijk was (except for searches) forbidden territory for the Wehrmacht, because of the many temptations to which the soldiers would be exposed there. Thus, many things could easily take place in secret in Bet's café. The story goes that Bet had people in hiding. During a raid they managed to escape in the nick of time. When the Germans came in, Bet pretended the lights were broken. The hiders fled out on the side of the Geldersekade and Bet van Beeren had the presence of mind to make the Hitler salute. “Heil Hitler” she said to the soldiers to distract them. That worked. The hiders were not caught for that reason, there were no more searches, and Bet van Beeren was even given schnapps.
 

The story goes that Bet van Beeren had a Simplex motorcycle on which she took beautiful women. They fell for her by the bushes. One day she rode into a bakery on her motorcycle. She and her co-driver crashed among the loaves of bread. Bet stood up and shouted, “tell me what the damage is.”
 

If you want to know more about Bet van Beeren: go have a beer at 't Mandje. The pub, which according to Google is the second gay pub in the world ever, breathes her soul. Bet hosted the most diverse delightful Amsterdam figures there; local residents, artists, ministers, celebrities, Major Bosshardt, pimps, sex workers, drunks, neighborhood lunatics; their stories stay alive on the Zeedijk. Bet van Beeren herself lived (read: drank) so hard that she died early. Just before she died and left the café via stretcher, she said, “Bye Mand, I'll never see you again.”
 

I would say the same to Bet now: "Bye Bet, we'll never see you again. Thanks to someone like you, Amsterdam is Amsterdam."
 

Let's forever toast to Bet, her fearlessness, emancipation and a life as wild and free as possible. To Bet. To Amsterdam. To an icon.

x Maartje Carrot