Tag Archives: Remembrance Day

We Remember Them

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We Remember Them

I was about five years old when my parents told me what had happened to our country, the Netherlands, when I was a baby.

“Bad soldiers came from another country.” they said, “They came breaking God’s rules. They lied to us, and they stole things, they hurt people. There were so many of them, all with big guns, that they chased away all our good soldiers and our good policemen.”

I nodded. I had already seen lots of those enemy soldiers with their guns on the streets and had heard about them stealing bicycles and radios from people’s houses.

“But now they are also starting to steal men—daddies, uncles, big brothers, even young grandpas,” my mom said. “They are locking them into train boxcars and taking them to their own country to work like slaves on farms, and in mines and in factories.”

“If you see an army truck on our street, with soldiers going into houses, you come right home. Don’t shout, just come home and once you are inside, tell us about it. Then daddy can hide.”

I remember times my dad crawled into a space below the floor in a back room, and my mom closed the trap door. Then we rolled the carpet back over it and with both of us pushing, moved the heavy sideboard back into place. I brushed out the tracks on the carpet, so it looked as if nothing had been moved.

Pinning on a poppy in preparation for Remembrance Day, I remember the day Canadian soldiers freed my city. I wrote the memory years ago and read it during a talk at a Remembrance Chapel at the local Christian School. I repeat it here in honour of those who gave their lives in war so that my countrymen and I might live in peace.

I squirmed and squeezed my thin seven-year-old body through the jostling crowd until I conquered a spot on the curb. The bright sunshine warmed my face, arms and bare knees as I squinted into the light. I clutched my little paper flag, the Dutch red, white and blue, ready to wave, ready to shout and ready to sing a welcome to our rescuers. It was Tuesday, May 8, 1945.

The approaching rumble of a column of Canadian army trucks started the crowd up the road cheering and singing. The noise grew louder as huge, dull green trucks blocked out the sun. Shouting, laughing soldiers waved their machine guns from the backs of the trucks. The applause and cheers of the delirious crowd lining the street nearly drowned out the singing of Wilhelmus, the Dutch national anthem.

Young soldiers whistled at the tall blonde girl jumping up and down behind me. Her homemade rose petal perfume fought the stink of the diesel exhaust fumes and the stench of close-pressed sweating bodies—bodies and clothing that had not been touched by soap for years. Camouflaged tanks grumbled past, pulling long-snouted artillery. Their thunderous booming had kept me awake for several nights. Now the cannons were sniffing the air, eager to rout the enemy from the next city.

The cheers died down suddenly as a column of prisoners of war in grey-green uniforms shuffled past. The Luger pistol holsters flapped empty on their brown leather belts. They walked with their fingers laced on top of their heads. Armed Canadian soldiers walked alongside them.

The crowd silently watched the infantry prisoners go by, but then began to boo and hiss as a small column of Gestapo officers came into view. Finally! No more strutting. No more haughty looks. No more death-dealing commands. Their once-feared black uniforms glistened with the slime of saliva as people rushed from the curb to spit on them.

The last trucks in the parade rolled past. I cheered myself hoarse and waved my little flag until a soldier snatched it out of my hand and waved it high as his truck rumbled on down the road. I tasted the salt of tears, not for the loss of the flag, but for the joy of knowing the Peace Bringers had arrived and the enemy would never make me afraid again.

Today, again, I Remember Them.

Remembrance Day Special: Hansje Cheers the Rescuers

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Chapter 12 Childhood Memoir The Misadventures of Hansje
Hansje Cheers the Rescuers

“Hansje!” Papa shouted, “Come on. The liberators are coming. Let’s go and see them. Today is our liberation day!” Hansje was only seven years old, and he had no idea what liberators were, but Papa sounded happy and excited, so he grabbed his jacket and ran to where Papa was waiting by the door.

Papa handed him a little Dutch flag with red, white, and blue stripes and said, “Today we can wave our flag again. The good soldiers are coming, and the bad ones are all running away.” Hansje waved his flag and saw that lots of houses had big flags on poles sticking out of windows and fastened to the roof. He had never, ever seen a single Dutch flag. Now he saw hundreds of them!

When they got to the big, central street, people were crowding along the curb. The bells in the huge St. Vitus church behind them were constantly ringing and ringing. Everywhere Hansje looked, people were laughing and smiling.

Papa was tall, so he could see easily from the sidewalk, but he pushed Hansje into the crowd to get to the front. Hansje squirmed and squeezed his thin body through the jostling crowd until he got a spot on the curb. The bright sunshine warmed his face, arms, and knees as he squinted into the light. He clutched his little flag, ready to wave, ready to shout, ready to sing a welcome to his rescuers.

He overheard two men behind him as they talked happily about the day. “It’s Tuesday, May the 8th, 1945. Today is a day we’ll never forget!”

Hansje heard the rumble of heavy army trucks up the street, and he heard the crowd there begin to cheer and sing. The noise grew louder until huge dusty green trucks blocked out the sun. Shouting, laughing soldiers waved their machine guns from the backs of the trucks. The applause and cheers of the crowd around Hansje nearly drowned out the rest of the crowd’s loud singing of the Dutch national anthem.

Then tanks rumbled by them, pulling long-snouted cannons. Their thunderous booming had kept Hansje awake a few nights ago. Now those cannons seemed to be sniffing the air, eager to chase away the bad soldiers from the next city.

Suddenly the cheers died down as a column of prisoners, bad soldiers in their grey-green uniforms, shuffled past. Their pistol holsters flapped empty on their brown leather belts. They held their now-empty hands high or laced their fingers on top of their heads. Good soldiers, each with his machine gun ready to shoot, walked alongside them.

The crowd around Hansje stood silently watching the prisoners go by, but then they began to boo and hiss as a small group of the bad soldiers’ officers came closer. Finally! No more proud strutting. No more snooty looks. No more angry shouting.

When Hansje saw them in their black officers’ uniforms, he felt a twinge of fear. He had heard bad soldiers in black uniforms shout, “Shoot them! Shoot them dead!” And he had heard the guns shooting. But now nobody was afraid of them. Instead, people in the crowd rushed out and spat on them so much that their black uniforms were all slimy and yucky.

The last truck in the parade rolled closer. Hansje cheered himself hoarse and waved his little flag at the good soldiers until one reached down, grabbed it, and waved it high as his truck rumbled on down the street. Hansje tasted the salt of tears, not because he lost his little flag, but for happiness at knowing the rescuers had arrived and that the bad soldiers would never make him afraid again.

As he turned to look for Papa, he realized he now knew what liberators were. And he knew exactly what he would thank God for in his bedtime prayer that night.

 

Remembrance Day Special: My Vivid Childhood Memory of War

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This Friday is November 11, Remembrance Day.
The news of the suffering in Ukraine, reminded me of growing up as a child in enemy-occupied Holland during the 2nd World War. The events in this story took place in Hilversum during the bitterly cold winter of 1943—’44. My father, mother, little sister, and I tried to stay out of sight of the soldiers who terrified us. It would be another sixteen months before good Canadian soldiers came to chase away the bad ones.

Chapter 4, Hansje Gathers Firewood
When Hansje was almost six years old, he wished that he was older because he wanted to do things that big people did. His Papa and Mama were always talking about how they needed to find more food because their family was always hungry. And now that it was cold, they needed to find more firewood to burn in the heater.

Hansje, the Scavenger
Hansje always kept his eyes open when he wandered around the streets of his neighbourhood to see if he could find something valuable that didn’t belong to anybody. One day he found three nails, a screw, and a long piece of string, so he brought them home to give to his parents. Another day he found an empty bottle.

His Mama and Papa were happy when he brought things like that home because they couldn’t buy nails or string in stores anymore since the stores were empty. Hansje was happy too because when he brought useful things home, it made him feel like a grown-up and not just a little kid.

One day, Hansje did something that made his Mama very happy. It was very cold, and they had only a little bit of wood and coal to burn in their heater to make the house warm and to cook their little bit of food. But that day, when Hansje came home from playing outside, all his pockets were full of small pieces of firewood, and his arms were so full he had to kick the door until Mama opened it. Wow! She was so glad to see all that firewood! “We’re going to be warm tonight!” she said happily. “Where did you get this firewood?” she asked.

“Oh, I found it on the street,” Hansje said, not looking her in the eye. But that was only partly true. He did pick it up from the street, but he hadn’t really found it. Instead, to get that wood, he had done a very dangerous thing. If his Mama had known how he got all that firewood, she would have made him promise never to do it again.

Hansje Does Something Dangerous
But she didn’t know, so the next day, Hansje took a cloth sack, folded it up flat and stuck it into his belt. He was only five, almost six years old, but he felt much bigger since he was doing something important for his whole family. He walked down the block to a certain street corner and hid behind a hedge with three other boys. The other boys were six and seven years old and told little Hansje to sit really still while they waited.

Finally, Hansje could hear the rumble of a large truck driving down the street towards the corner. One enemy soldier was driving, and one was sitting beside him, holding his big gun. The back of the truck was full of—you guessed it—small pieces of firewood! And sitting on top of the pile was a prisoner with a chain on his leg. The chain was fastened to the truck, so he couldn’t jump off and run away. He was a good man from the city where Hansje lived. But the enemy soldiers had taken him as a prisoner and made him work for them.

Hansje and his friends scrunched down further into the hedge so the bad soldiers in the cab of the truck wouldn’t see them. His heart pounded with excitement. He prayed silently that God would help him, although he wondered if God would be okay with helping him do something sneaky.

As the big truck slowly drove by, Hansje and his friends crept out of their hiding place. They ran right close behind the truck so the bad soldiers in the cab couldn’t see them, not even in the truck mirrors. As soon as the truck began to turn the corner, the prisoner started throwing armloads of firewood off the back of the truck.

The boys picked up every scrap of wood that the prisoner threw off the truck. They could only do it by that corner because the street was so narrow that the driver had to be very careful how he drove and didn’t have time to look in the rearview mirrors.

What Hansje and those other boys did was, of course, a very dangerous thing to do. What if one of the bad soldiers had looked in the rearview mirrors and had seen some boys picking up firewood from the street? They would have stopped the truck, jumped out, yelled at the boys, and shot their guns to make them drop the firewood. Also, the prisoner would get into big trouble.

Hansje Makes His Mama Happy
The boys knew this, so as soon as they had stuffed all the firewood into their bags, they quickly ran away home, and the prisoner just sat there looking as if nothing had happened as the truck kept driving away.

When Hansje got home, his Mama was very happy with the bag of wood. That made Hansje happy too, and he felt even more like a grown-up.  Hansje never told his Mama how he got that wood. Good thing too, or she would have been worried.

That night in his bedtime prayer Hansje thanked God for helping him get firewood, and he prayed that God would soon send good soldiers to chase the bad ones away.

The story in this blog post is chapter 4 of the memoir of my first twelve years of life. This book of true stories for children is called The Misadventures of Hansje, the Boy who Kept his Guardian Angel Busy.

Reasons for Me to Remember

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The Tears
I was chatting with an old guy who when he mentioned he had served in the military service.
“I have a soft spot in my heart for the Canadian military” I said. “It was Canadian soldiers who liberated the Dutch city of Hilversum where I was born and grew up during the war. I was seven years old when the tanks rumbled down our main street. I was there to greet them.”
“Is that so?” he replied, “My father was a paratrooper in the Netherlands; I was eight years old.”
Tears stung my eyes and I choked up. I wanted to say, “Thank you for being without your Dad during those years.” But I couldn’t get past a muffled, “Thank you.”

Those Canadian soldiers rolling into town in their tanks and trucks were the best thing that had happened to me in my young life.

The Razzia
As a five-year-old, I was playing in the street in front of our house, when I saw German army trucks pull into both ends of our street and soldiers pounding on doors with their rifle butts, dragging men out to load them on the trucks. I ran into the house shouting “A razzia!” (A raid!) My dad and mom immediately ran to the back room, dragged a heavy dresser away from the wall, and folded back the carpet. Dad lifted the trapdoor and slid down under the floor, crawling into a tunnel that led to a neighbour’s house.

Mom and I replaced the trap door, rolled back the carpet and pushed the dresser back in place. I rubbed away the tracks the dresser had made on the carpet. Then I ran to the dining room and took away Dad’s plate and cutlery, and moved his shoes from the front door mat to the closet. Mom ran upstairs to take Dad’s pillow from the bed, and put all his clothing into a big box in the back of the closet. Fortunately, this time, the trucks filled up and left before they came to our house, so Mom and I dragged the dresser back again and lifted the trapdoor so Dad could come out of his hidey hole.

The Firewood
During the winter that I was six years old, I scavenged for pieces of coal, firewood, or anything that would burn. For quite a while I was very lucky. Every day a large German army truck would drive down a neighboring street. Two armed soldiers sat in the cab and a man sat on the back of the truck with his leg chained to a bolt. He was sitting on a huge load of small wooden blocks. I didn’t know it at that time but these blocks were used to make wood gas to run truck engines.

Four of us boys used to wait at a certain corner, hiding in the hedges along the road. When the truck began to turn the corner, the prisoner on the back of the truck would shovel as many blocks off the back end of the truck as he could, while we rushed out from our hedges and within seconds picked up every piece, shoving them into the gunny sacks we carried and ran away. When the truck had fully turned the corner, everything the soldiers saw in the rear view mirrors was normal. My Mom was always happy to see the wood I had found. I didn’t want to worry her, so I never told her where I found it.

The Freedom
When those Canadian soldiers arrived, our lives changed. No more danger of men being dragged off to work as slaves in mines or factories. No more hunger. No more cold houses. I thanked God for those soldiers then, and I thank God for them now.

May God bless all the men and women who are dedicated to fight evil, combat crime, rescue the perishing, and bring aid to the helpless.