Nearing the end of my story about the war, after chapter 23, I cannot resist the temptation to leaf back through the previous chapters. I see the photos with text, dozens of pages with even more text, but still the question arises whether this is all I can remember of those five years. Is this really all there is?
A day later, I realise that it gives a fairly accurate overview of the family’s history, but that many details of events are still missing. I am far from finished; this book simply has to continue. And there must also be text about the liberation and the period that followed. If I believe there is more to tell, I simply have to do so.
Take the radio, for example. What was the situation like in 1944? And television? Were newspapers still being published? Can the situation back then be compared to today’s? With our means of mass communication. Radio, television, computers, smartphones. With news and music all day long, even more news and even more music. Across five, six, ten channels. Giving you a front-row seat to every event that takes place in our seemingly ever-shrinking world.
News provision
Was there still a form of news provision in those last months of the war? A question that can be answered with both yes and no. I know that newspapers were still being published, albeit in mini format. But owning a radio had been banned by the occupying forces for at least three or four years, and television did not yet exist. I am not sure about the wired radio network, a phenomenon of that time that had been discontinued years ago. If it was still working, you could only listen to the German-controlled stations Hilversum 1 and 2.
But there were other sources of news. Small newspapers with the latest news were regularly distributed illegally. There were also people who secretly listened to English stations and Radio Orange on a hidden radio. In this way, the news eventually reached all corners of the country.
At home, we were fairly well informed about the progress of the fight against the Germans. To keep track of things, my eldest brother had hung a large map on a wall in the hall. On it, he kept track of the situation on the various war fronts with flags and coloured ribbon.
I wrote in the introduction to this chapter that that was all there was to it. No, of course that was not all. What is hardly mentioned in this story, for example, and is also difficult to put into words, was the uncertainty about the outcome of the war. This was not least due to the ever-present rumours. The sudden reports that it was almost over. Or that it would take years, and all the variations between those two.
And in everyday life at that time, the war went on and on, gnawing away at morale bit by bit. This was exacerbated by the gradual deterioration in living conditions.
Another factor was the fear of being arrested in a raid. Left and right, men were being arrested to work in Germany, or people were being arrested in retaliation for illegal activities.
I can still remember that my brother had created a hiding place in Scheldestraat between the floor and the ceiling of the flat below us. In older houses, built before 1940 ( , I mean), this was possible because there was an open space of about 30 to 40 cm between them. Through a hatch in the floor, hidden under the carpet, he could disappear if necessary.
Once, it really looked like this hiding place would have to be used. A group of German soldiers arrived in armoured cars with a lot of noise and gunfire in Scheldestraat. The vehicles stopped in the middle of the street and a number of soldiers prepared to enter a few houses. However, it did not come to that because, after a command, they all got back into their vehicles and left after firing a few shots into the air. Thus, this incident ended without incident.
The final stretch
In April, it became clear that liberation was only a matter of weeks away. The Russians were at the gates of Berlin and the Americans and British were advancing rapidly through Germany without encountering much resistance. Not even from the population there. The continuous bombing of the major German cities had affected the morale of the citizens to such an extent that most of them were apathetically awaiting the end of the war.
At Westerscheldeplein, German soldiers had set up a machine gun post and dug foxholes. It was as if serious fighting was still expected at this location, but no one believed that would happen.
Liberated
And then suddenly the news came that the war was over.
After a number of false reports at the end of April, the news spread rapidly on the evening of 4 May.
Incidentally, I only heard about it the next morning because I was already in bed asleep. That first day of liberation on Saturday 5 May did not show itself from its best side. The weather was gloomy, there was no sun, and there was no sign of a festive mood. I think this was because there was still insufficient certainty that it was all really true.
I walked into town at around eleven o’clock. Looking back, I am still surprised that I did that. A skinny twelve-year-old boy walking into the city centre out of curiosity, with no trams running. On the way, I saw few signs of a festive mood. Here and there, a hesitant red, white and blue flag, men from the BS (Internal Armed Forces) walking or driving around with serious expressions on their faces. At the Weteringplantsoen, where a group of men had been shot in retaliation a few months earlier, it was a little busier and people had laid flowers.
As there was no activity to be seen in the direction of the Munt either, I walked back home.
Everyone was waiting anxiously for the arrival of the liberators.
Waiting for the liberators
“When are they coming?”
“They say tomorrow, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I heard they’re Canadians.”
“Canadians? Did they fight too?”
And so the tension rose.
They’re coming tomorrow!
The Canadians are coming.
It was only when the Canadians arrived a few days later, on 8 May, that the celebrations really got underway. I don’t really know how to describe something so amazing. The happiness, emotion and joy everyone felt.
The day began with a clear blue sky. And sunshine, of course, which made for pleasant temperatures. I got up early so as not to miss anything and walked to the intersection of Scheldestraat and Churchilllaan at around half past eight. It was already crowded with people and there was an atmosphere of excited anticipation for the things that were about to happen.
I don’t remember how late it was when the first liberators arrived in a packed jeep. To everyone’s cheers, they drove slowly past towards the Apollo Hall. It was the beginning of an endless stream of vehicles. Trucks, jeeps, tracked carriers, tanks and motorcycles came from the direction of Duivendrecht, over the Berlage Bridge, along Amstellaan and Noorder Amstellaan and then further into the city. I think it started around ten in the morning and the grand procession continued throughout the day. All the streets and squares they passed were lined with cheering Amsterdammers, who tried to hitch a ride on one of the vehicles. At one point, a woman walked into the central park and picked three or four flowers from the blooming rhododendrons. She gave them to the drivers of a couple of passing jeeps, one of which immediately made room for her to ride along. Her example was followed by other people, and within a few minutes, the newly blooming rhododendrons on Noorder Amstellaan had been stripped bare.
All in all, the arrival was an event that was, in a word, unforgettable. Together with a group of other boys, I walked to Duivendrecht in the afternoon so that I could ride along too. What a day! With all those hundreds of thousands of enthusiastic people, who never tired of cheering the liberators.
And it continued the next day too.
We were liberated. Now everything would be better.
Getting better
In the years that followed, that improvement proved to be much more difficult than anyone had hoped. So much had been destroyed, so much had to be rebuilt.
It ultimately took five years to return to the pre-war level of prosperity.