Stories

What can we still remember from our early years? In which year do your first memories begin?
I have discussed this with peers. What they still remember from their childhood. For most of them, the beginning of their fourth year seemed to be the limit of their preserved memories. My experience is no different, although I often find it difficult to determine in which year certain events took place.

Know what you’re getting into if you ever want to record your childhood memories. After the first chapter, I feel like I’m working on a huge puzzle. The beginning was simple; I could recall the first three or four stories from chapter 1 almost without thinking. Then another one came to mind, and as I searched further, more came to me that almost automatically fell into place. It was the image of a carefree time, and with that I unwittingly conjure up a false image. Let me try to explain what I mean.

The war, which is central to this book, began on 10 May 1940 with a surprise attack by our eastern neighbours. Without any warning, the Germans invaded our country in the early hours of that day with superior air and ground forces.

The weather was fine that Friday, it had been fine for several days and the Whitsun weekend was just around the corner. You can imagine that everyone had already made plans to go out, to the beach, to the woods, to play sports. To enjoy themselves without a care in the world.

It must have been a strange time, those first months after the capitulation. On the one hand, there was grief for the fallen and outrage at the destruction of the centre of Rotterdam, while on the other hand, the population was advised by the government and the boards of organisations and associations to behave in an orderly manner and resume their daily lives. These and similar messages were published by various newspapers, and only a few dared to raise their voices at the time. But the official line was ‘just carry on as usual’.

I ended the previous chapter with our departure from Amsterdam and the first signs of resistance against the German occupiers. Although I do not know the exact date, I can still figure out approximately when we left. I have a clue.
It must have been a few months after the capitulation on 15 May. I remember well that during the last weeks of the first year at school, we were allowed to do all kinds of jobs for the teacher, such as covering books and sharpening pencils. Together with the boy who sat next to me, I was allowed to sort the letters from the reading board and tie them together in small bundles with elastic bands. It was a responsible task that we carried out with great diligence and pride.

There are not many photos of my father to show in this story. The reason for this is that they disappeared during the war. After his arrest by the SD, they were confiscated and probably stored in the Gestapo archives.
The photographs in this chapter were given to me by the son of one of his brothers, and there were also some copies of old newspaper photographs.

Going into hiding but still functioning more or less normally for the outside world, how do you do that? Good question. In any case, never stay at one address for too long. At some point, neighbours will become curious and if, for example, the children do not go to school, it will raise questions.

Eerbeek is a village in Gelderland. It borders the Veluwe National Park with the Onzalige Bossen and the Imbos. The place is known as a tourist attraction and there are a few large paper factories. The number of inhabitants is approximately ten thousand.
There are dozens of such places in the Veluwe, but Eerbeek occupies a special place in this story. We spent three fairly long periods there, in the house of a remarkable woman who played an important role in our lives.

Appelscha, Eerbeek, Apeldoorn, Epse, Deventer, Barchem, Deventer, like in a geography lesson from the past, the places pass me by in a long line. Epse cannot be left out, and Deventer certainly not.
Deventer, when did we actually go there for the first time? I don’t remember. In any case, it was after we had been to Appelscha and Eerbeek. If I remember correctly, we lived in Apeldoorn for a few months after Eerbeek. I don’t remember much about our stay there. The house, a detached house, was part of a row of villas in a quiet street. I remember how every morning a group of pigeons would start cooing like mad.

Not much remains in Amsterdam of the pre-war Jewish quarter, an area where more than fifty thousand people lived, half of whom were of Jewish descent. Most of it has changed beyond recognition, demolished, but the layout of the neighbourhood has been largely preserved, and as a result, the main streets still lead to Jonas Daniël Meijerplein. The Portuguese synagogue on one side of this square and the building of the High German synagogue, which houses the Jewish Historical Museum, are reminders of times gone by. Between these two buildings stands the Dokwerker, a statue by Mari Andriessen. It was placed there as a symbol of the mass protest in 1941, the February strike, and the reaction to it in the rest of the Netherlands.