Liberation

The first British tanks rolled into the city on the tenth of September 1944. The city was ready for the victorious arrival of our liberators and they received a tumultuous welcome. Everywhere flags were flying. They were hoisted on public buildings and draped along every house front. Everyone was overjoyed, there was cheering and shouting. “Welcome Tommy”. The British soldiers were overwhelmed with armfuls of flowers and offers of beer and wine. Many citizens had saved a bottle or two for this very occasion. Children and adults alike clambered on top of the tanks and festooned them with flags and flowers to ride in triumph through the town with the celebrated troops. We begged the soldiers for their autographs. I had one of my own snapshots signed “Robert Taylor”.

Those first days were heady, emotional days, but they had their dark side too. Amidst all the feasting and rejoicing, there was recrimination and reprisals were taken out on those who had been friendly or collaborated with the Germans. One incident I shall never forget. It was a chilling, cruel spectacle. A jeering crowd stood around an open lorry. On the back of the lorry were chairs in which sat a group of women who had been rounded up and had their heads shaved. They were ashen faced and trembling. The sight made me feel sick and my mother and I quickly walked away. Further on we came to a house that was being vandalized and destroyed. All the furniture and contents of the house were being thrown out the windows and came crashing to the pavement below. The occupants of the house had fled. In our own street the same thing happened to a family whose daughter was engaged to a German army officer. The parents and the girl had managed to escape through their back garden and found refuge at a sympathetic neighbour's house. It was a sad reflection of humanity to see, amidst so much happiness and celebration, the resentment and hatred that had been festering.

Among the first advancing troops were many Canadian soldiers. They were a very wild bunch, roaming the streets totally drunk. I remember seeing two Canadian soldiers swaying side to side down the street, draped in a Belgian flag, guzzling from bottles of spirits and with more bottles stuffed in their pockets. Another time I was caught in the crossfire of two groups of soldiers fighting and shooting at each other across the street. The Canadians soon became notorious among the girls and were regarded as bad men to be avoided at all costs. The gallant British were more in favour. Later, when the jitterbugging, gum chewing Yanks arrived, they were popular with the girls too.

A big civic Liberation Celebration was organized in the city and the streets were decked with flags, flowers and coloured lights. Fireworks were lit at night and there was dancing in the streets. A long victory march took place with contingents of all the different troops. Military bands played and so did my brothers' school band. It was the first time we had seen Lieven and Georges play in a public performance. We had grown accustomed to the German military marches, but now we heard our own familiar national tunes and anthems. We also heard “It’s A Long Way To Tipperary”, and other British songs. The crowd was wild with joy and cheered on and on. It was a day never to be forgotten and the anniversary of Liberation Day has been celebrated ever since.

After a while the elation began to die down and the pattern of life returned to normal, but now there was a feeling of freedom in the air. It was as if a heavy burden had been lifted from our shoulders. We felt free to laugh and enjoy life again. Food supplies from overseas began to arrive including long forgotten luxuries like chocolate, oranges and bananas. Soon we were eating white bread again. The hustle and bustle of everyday life from before the war returned.

The war was not quite over yet. There was still heavy fighting happening in Arnhem and in the Ardennes. The Germans made a last desperate stand to hold on to a part of Belgium in the east. We lived in fear of the dreaded V2 Flying Bombs which the Germans were still launching at the advancing Allied troops.

Soon however, the Germans were defeated and peace was restored. When it was declared that the war was over and Hitler was dead, church bells rang across the town and countryside. Again there was celebration, but nothing like the exuberance of our initial liberation. I cannot remember how I celebrated Victory Day very clearly, but I will never forget my first sight of a British soldier.

D-Day

Soon after this was June 6th 1944, and the first Allied troops landed on the beaches of Normandy. D-Day had arrived at last. One cannot understate the enormous impact this event had on the people of Belgium. The history books have well documented the desperate battles that raged as the Allied forces pushed the Germans back to Berlin. We waited impatiently for a victorious outcome for our liberators. At first the news trickled through of the heavy battles and slow advance of the American and British forces. Later we noticed German troop convoys in retreat and began to realize the Nazi defeat was imminent. Buildings they had occupied were abandoned; the equipment and furnishings were left behind. Looters moved in and took everything they could lay their hands on. Unfortunately sometimes they arrived too soon and if they were caught stealing by German troops they were shot on sight.

We did not expect our city to be taken by the advancing Allied troops without a struggle. We braced ourselves for a siege. We were prepared if necessary to seek refuge in the reinforced foundations of a nearby unfinished University Hospital building that had been started before the war began. It was just a concrete skeleton structure but was solid and we hoped it would provide the protection we needed from gunfire. Thankfully our city was spared from much heavy fighting and damage. Some bridges were blown up at strategic points to cover the enemy’s retreat. There was however one night of fierce gunfire. We gathered in the hospital that night, but it would have been better to stay home. The loud ear-piercing sound of the gunfire was amplified by the bare concrete structure. Then there was a direct hit on the hospital. It was a deafening explosion and it tore a hole in the thick concrete in the upper section of the building. We thought for a moment we were going to die. The next morning we learned that the Allied Forces had broken through and there was little resistance left from the fleeing Germans.

Devotion And Adventure

In the spring of 1944 we knew that something was about to happen at last. For us the war had been a stalemate until now. Battles had been fought in far away places, Africa, Russia and so on, too far away for us to concern ourselves with. We wanted things to change here in Belgium so we could get out of the static situation we had been living in for four years. A new excitement took hold of people in anticipation of the approaching and long-awaited liberation from the hated Nazi oppression. Rumours were circulating; messages were broadcast from London to secretly operated wireless radio receivers. Leaflets were dropped from British planes to keep us informed and telling us to be ready.

At the same time there was an upsurge in religious devotion. With the new hope came a fervour for prayer to invoke heaven’s intercession for our cause. Churches were full. Peace masses were offered and Novenas were held. In the Belgian countryside there are numerous roadside chapels. During May, the month of the Holy Virgin, the chapels were decorated with wild flowers and many candles were lit. Every evening a crowd would gather round the chapels, rosary beads entwined around their fingers, to recite the rosary prayers. At the end of the gathering hymns were sung. Even for the skeptics among us, the open display of hope and faith had an uplifting effect. It was a typical expression of a simple Flemish tradition.

There were also cynics. Some joker composed a satirical prayer to Hitler, despite the risk of retaliation if discovered to be the creator of such an insult. The prayer was published and ran like this:

Hitler’s Paternoster

In the name of the Fuhrer and of Himmler and of Goebbels,

Great Fuhrer who art in Germany,

Herr and master in your Reich,

You will be done in Holland, in Belgium and in France,

But in England you stand no chance,

You steal our daily bread and punish us,

As we shall punish you in return,

Hitler source of our misery,

You villain why don’t you perish,

Go to hell, Amen

As related earlier, our cat had met the fate of many others and had probably ended up in a rabbit stew. With barely enough to feed ourselves it was perhaps for the best that we did not need to feed her too. But we were sorry to lose her. That summer however, with revived hope for the future, we decided to adopt a newborn kitten that was offered to my mother. A friend of hers who worked at the laundry had a litter of four from her cat and she was desperate to find homes for them. One evening we set off to collect the kitten, which meant a tram ride across town. The lady’s brother-in-law next door had a bakery and we were pleasantly surprised with a gift of a small bag of flour and were also offered refreshments. We spent such a nice time chatting that we forgot to watch the clock and consequently missed the last tram home. Curfew time was 10 PM. We knew there was hardly enough time to reach home but we decided to try and make it on foot. Daylight was no problem because we were on double summertime and it was light until 11 PM. It was a beautiful balmy summer evening and the walk through town taking short cuts through the park, over bridges and along the river, was very pleasant. Pussy was safely tucked inside my coat. As we reached about halfway the streets became deserted as the clock struck 10. It became eerie walking through the empty streets, expecting to run into a German patrol at the turn of any corner. We managed to avoid this till we approached the railway viaduct we had to pass. From a distance of fifty yards we heard a shout, “Achtung!”, and a rifle was pointed menacingly at us. We froze and quaked in our shoes. A young German army guard beckoned us to come near. We tried to explain in halting German the reason for our still being about in the street. We showed him the kitten which he kindly stroked. He was friendly enough but still he decided to take us along to the guardhouse to be questioned by the officer in charge. We were very nervous, especially when my mother’s bag was inspected and the bag of flour was suspiciously examined. It was as if they thought it was explosive and its purpose was to blow up a railway bridge. With our limited knowledge of the German language we tried in vain to explain how we came into possession of the flour. But the officer was finally satisfied it was flour and to our great relief he let us go. We thought our troubles were over and continued on the last lap home which would only take another ten minutes. We were running across a field parallel to the road when a couple of soldiers began shouting “Achtung! Achtung!” Once again we went through the same procedure of explanations and again they must have thought us harmless and let us go.

We were relieved when we finally reached home and welcomed our kitten to her new home with a saucer full of precious skimmed milk. We considered naming her “Achtung” or “Fritz” but she was the first cat we named “Marouf”.

Bombardment

By the spring of 1944 the bombing raids over Germany by the Allied Forces became a regular exercise. We could hear the roar of the heavily bomb-laden aircraft flying overhead, they were in formations of hundreds. They just droned on and on. It was a frightening sound as it was a menace you could not see. They usually came at night hidden by low clouds to protect them from anti-aircraft attack. Now and again a stray bomb would land somewhere near causing death and destruction. However the real danger from bombing attacks over Belgium came after Easter 1944 as the Allied Forces were preparing for D Day. Railway depots, bridges and other strategic locations were the targets but sometimes things went wrong and bombs would land off course in residential neighbourhoods and kill civilians.

One such raid was aimed at a nearby railway complex on Easter Monday 1944. I remember it so vividly because I have never felt so afraid in my life. It had been a beautiful spring day and we had been on an enjoyable visit to friends in a nearby village. We returned home late and had just retired to bed when all of a sudden the sky lit up as clear as daylight. We got out of bed, opened the window and looked out. There were hundreds of bright flares floating down from the sky above. We just thought how pretty they looked, like a fireworks display. Then we became aware of the aircraft flying overhead. Without warning, the first powerful explosion made the earth shudder and a blinding flash rendered us almost paralyzed with fright. I don’t know how we managed to descend the stairs but we got no further than the hallway when all hell let loose. It was raining bombs in a continuous thundering succession. The entire house was shaking, the windows rattling and the blinding flashes of light came with each explosion. Each time a bomb hit the earth the impact felt like a punch to my heart. I was frozen numb with sheer terror. We were in our nightclothes and in bare feet. As we stood in a corner of the house, my mother prayed out loud, calling for protection from all the saints in heaven. I held my arms wrapped tightly around her, partly to comfort her and also to support myself upright as my legs shook uncontrollably. The bombing only lasted about fifteen minutes, but it seemed like hours. When it was over there was an eerie silence for several seconds. Then we heard the voices of our neighbours as they came out of their houses into the street. Everyone was in a state of shock. Some people were numb, some were talking excitedly about the experience, and many of them were crying.

We looked around for damage. Miraculously there were only broken windows, no one was harmed, but there were plenty of shattered nerves. Our immediate neighbourhood had been spared. The nearest bombs had fallen about a half a mile away on a trail behind our housing estate. They had missed the factory they were aiming for and had left huge craters in the fields nearby. There had been a direct hit on a small pub in a nearby village, killing the landlord and his wife. Fortunately the customers had all left at the first sound of the attack. The bombers just missed the Don Bosco Seminary School for boys as they flew along their departing route. We could hardly believe we had not been hit as the bombs had sounded so close, as if we were in the middle of it all.

The next day we found out that most of the damage had been on the other side of the river Schelde in the village where we had visited our friends the previous day. Many homes were flattened and there were numerous casualties, however our friends escaped with just broken windows, cracked walls and shattered roof tiles. Among the dead was an entire family. The daughter had been a friend of mine who sat at the same bench as me in the factory where I worked.

The ordeal of the attack had left us all nervous wrecks. Each time we heard an aeroplane after that we were all panic-stricken. There were numerous air raids in preparation for the liberation campaign but never again did they come so close. I marvel at the endurance of Londoners who had to put up with unrelenting air raids from dusk till dawn during Hitler’s savage assault on Britain in the summer of 1940.

Preoccupations : Food And Warmth

We faced a bitter winter. 1941-1942 was a particularly arctic cold period and worse still the war took on a new intensity. Our newspapers were censored by the Germans and were filled with stories of successful German military campaigns around the world. This news and our private troubles made our already low morale even lower. All we wished for was an end to the war, an end to the food shortages and to be freed from the oppressive presence of the enemy. By then it was clear to the population that there was an evil, menacing element hiding behind the outwardly civilized and disciplined German force. Particularly the SS troops and the Gestapo were feared as stories of their atrocities circulated among the Belgian people. However the full truth of the atrocities perpetrated by the Nazis was not fully understood until it was exposed at the end of the war.

As winter approached, a hard frost set in and it was bitterly cold. Fuel was almost unobtainable and the scanty monthly ration we were allocated was hardly sufficient to provide heat for one week. We had to be very sparing with our supply, saving as much as we could for the weekends when my brothers came home. We kept out coats on in the house to keep warm when we returned from work and went to bed immediately after our evening meal. As in every emergency, again we found an answer to the problem. With friends, we set up a rotation to spend evenings in each others' homes on alternate nights and thus to share the warmth of one family’s fuel ration. This also alleviated the dullness of our lives. The gatherings were cosy and enjoyable. We played cards and games, and exchanged stories. We started hobbies. People discovered dormant talents they did not know they had. With so many commodities in short supply, all kinds of materials were put to good use. Old clothing was unpicked and new garments sown from them. Old knitwear was unraveled and knitted up anew. Nothing was wasted; everything possible was made use of. We still had my father’s old khaki greatcoat; it was unpicked, and the parts washed and dyed chocolate brown and turned into a fashionable warm coat with a pale blue lined hood. It was one of the best coats I ever had.

We became very inventive and resourceful and all sorts of objects were made with amazing ingenuity. For example, at the paper factory where I worked, we could buy reels of cellophane paper strips. From this we crocheted attractive and durable handbags and shopping bags. They came in all colours and sizes. Soon they were so popular we could not make enough of them. We sold them for a small profit which provided very welcome pocket money. Sometimes a lucky finder would come into possession of a silk parachute, found hidden or buried somewhere. They made lovely garments and sold for a lot of money. If someone got near to a crashed or shot-down aeroplane they could procure a piece of aluminum or Perspex from the wreckage. This was used to make rings, bracelets, medallions and so on. These became collector’s items in the years after the war. These combined activities brought some light relief to the community. The only thing our hospitality to one another could not provide, apart from warmth and an occasional drink of “Ersatz Coffee”, was something to eat. No one could spare even a crumb. It became customary for visitors to bring their own refreshments. On rare occasions, if someone did have a windfall of some extras to share out, this was indeed a special treat.

To supplement our meagre coal ration we used to go to the factory where I worked. There were heaps of ashes piled up high outside the furnaces. In the bitter cold it took us several hours to collect maybe a bucketful of ashes. We mixed the ashes with our coal to make it go a bit further. Whenever a stick of wood could be found to provide a bit of warmth, it was taken. There were nightly wood chopping raids by gangs of men who slinked out in the night with chainsaws and axes. Nothing was sacred. There must have been some beautiful trees felled, even in public parks. Entire trees were dragged, pulled, rolled and transported home somehow. The resulting fire logs were sold on the black market. If you were caught there was a heavy prison sentence.

The severe winters we endured during these years were compensated by glorious summers. I remember endless days of blue skies and warm sunshine. Everything seemed brighter then. The food situation improved during the summer months. The fields yielded potatoes and vegetables in abundance. There was plenty of fresh fruit, apples, pears, plums, cherries and so on. If freezers had existed then they would have been filled to capacity to see us through the winter months. In those days we preserved food the old fashioned way. Green beans were salted in crock pots. Peas were dried. Jam making was difficult as there was no sugar and using saccharine was not very successful. Our rationed bread was made from a mixture of grains, some of which was normally used as animal feed. We also used ground horse chestnuts or conkers, which gave the bread a bitter taste. It was an awful, heavy, sticky doughy texture which did not properly dry when baked. When you cut it with a knife it stuck to the blade. The ration ran to only four slices each per day. We would cut it the night before consumption to give it a chance to dry out. The bread was so indigestible and heavy we would get terrible stomach cramps after eating it. Some people developed stomach ulcers which may have been caused by the poor diet.

Sometimes the lengths people went to in search of food were almost bizarre. People with pets learned to keep them indoors. Cats were used for a stew that some people said was indistinguishable from rabbit stew. Dogs gradually disappeared from the streets and my mother was convinced that our local butcher sold “dog sausages” on the black market. After the war was over she could never bring herself to buy anything from his shop again. She detested the man.

We are all products of the age in which we live. Today’s generation who have been raised in a time of affluence and have been well fed can not understand what it is like to be in a perpetual state of unsatisfied hunger. They have never come home from work to walk into an icy cold house and have no fuel to light a fire. They have never had to climb into an ice cold bed and lay awake for hours unable to sleep as they shiver with a cold back and freezing feet. The hardships we had to endure left a lasting impression that conditioned us for the rest of our lives. It was a hard schooling. I could never again tolerate waste of any kind. I can barely throw away a crust of bread. Whenever there is a threat of economic decline I know my experience with shortages will prove useful. I wonder sometimes if the younger generation will have to learn these hard lessons.

Bereavement

Things got worse at home. My father became very ill and could not work any more. The medical care he received was inadequate due to the lack of available medicines. Any medicines available were taken by the Germans. My father was in great pain and the only pain-relieving drug the doctor could give him was aspirin. Eventually he had to be taken to hospital and he was diagnosed with a disease that required surgery and medication that was not available. Penicillin was still not in use. There was nothing the doctors could do but make empty promises and explanations. The nursing nuns however were devoted and kind as my father lay dying in the Municipal Hospital. My father died like thousands of others due to lack of proper medicine during the German occupation, another victim of the war.

He died on September 1st 1941. He was not yet forty years old. It had been a particularly harrowing period for our family. My mother was weary with anxiety, left a widow at forty with two young boys of ten and twelve years of age at a time when life was very hard for the entire country. I was just sixteen and did not fully realize the extent of the catastrophe this loss meant for the family. In those difficult times it was impossible for my mother to support us all. My contribution to the family income was negligible. She was obliged to place my two brothers in a boarding school, adding much to her grief. It was an establishment run by the Civic Authorities, a home for fatherless, motherless or orphaned boys. It was good home where the children were very well looked after and received a good education up to the age of eighteen. Some were taught a trade, so when they were ready to leave the school, they were well equipped to go out into the world to earn a living. They were allowed to come home at weekends. They wore smart navy blue suits and a beret with the school badge. They had a warm serge wool cape for winter. Discipline was fairly strict and run on military lines. The school also had a brass band, famous throughout the land. Before the war they played their instruments in parades, in processions and other public engagements. Wherever they appeared, spectators would flock to see and hear them, they were very popular. Now their performances were confined to private occasions, prize-giving days in schools and so on. Before long my brothers were both enlisted in the band; Lieven played the French horn, Georges played the clarinet.

We had been a close and happy family and, all of a sudden, our lives were ripped apart. My father had died, my brothers were away from home and now there were just two of us left, my mother and I. We were all unhappy, my brothers took a long time to settle down in the school and only the weekly home visits made the parting bearable. The only relief my mother got from the situation was the knowledge that her sons were adequately fed at the school. It was a big enough worry to feed just the two of us and our diet consisted of the bare essentials. If there were any extras or special treats, they were carefully saved for the weekend “reunions”. We all went to visit my maternal grandmother every week who was residing at a convent home. She was very happy and cheerful and still very active despite her advancing age. She had many friends among the bedridden and infirm old ladies. She did small jobs and errands for them and in return they would give her little treats such as an apple or a much coveted sweet which she always saved for us. Her locker was a treasure trove; she would take us up to her room and always produced something for us to take home. The only thing we could ever please her with were mints. She loved mints, we could still obtain those and we took her some regularly.

My mother took a job in a laundry, it was hard work and her health began to suffer. I had been employed as a home help by the same woman all this time. Shortly after my father’s death, the family was moving to a suburb of Brussels. I was offered to move with them as a live-in domestic helper. The opportunity held a lot of advantages for a better living standard, especially having adequate food as the family were prosperous and able to buy black market provisions. It was a tempting proposition, the pay was not generous but this was outweighed by the other benefits. I was to have a comfortable bed-sitting room and once a month I would have my fare home paid to spend a weekend with my family. Despite our apprehension and yet another parting and the loneliness it would mean for my mother, she thought it would be a good solution and I was persuaded to go. I lasted exactly two weeks. I was so unhappy and homesick it made me ill. I could not eat or sleep and walked around red-eyed from crying all day. Every evening I wrote to my mother, and I felt guilt-ridden for having left her on her own. I just could not stand the thought of us all being split up. My employer was a very kind hearted woman. She could not bear to see me so unhappy and she arranged for my return home. Then I found another job at a cellophane paper company.

Resistance

Not until the liberation did it become known to the majority of people how many of their neighbours and acquaintances were involved with the resistance and other underground movements. For obvious reasons it had to be kept a closely guarded secret. Lives depended on it and there was a lot of suspicion among the different Flemish groups that had been political rivals.

The hunting down of Jews was intensifying. Many found temporary refuge in “Safe Houses” but had to keep moving on for fear of capture. There was a network of people who helped the Jews in great secrecy. One night in 1942 we had a visit from a woman we had not seen for a long time. By this time my mother was a widow, my brothers were in a boarding school and my mother and I were alone. This woman friend trusted us and asked if we would give shelter for one night to a seventeen year old Jewish boy who was on the run from the Germans. He had fled from his home in Holland to Antwerp. His family had been captured and deported to concentration camps. He was being moved along a route to what was hoped would be eventual freedom. My mother agreed to help but was fearful as she knew that detection could bring dire consequences. We were assured that there was very little risk involved if we adhered strictly to instructions. It was mid-winter and bitterly cold, but we were not to provide any heating in a curtain drawn room, so as not to arouse the neighbour’s curiosity.

The lady would bring the boy the next evening, just before the curfew time of ten PM. It would be pitch dark and he would go directly up to the bedroom and stay there until the following evening, when he would be collected and moved to the next “Safe House”. He would be instructed to keep very quiet and not show himself at the window or do anything to arouse suspicion. When the appointed time passed by the next day and no one showed up, we wondered what happened. We waited up well into the night, even though we knew no one would come after curfew. We waited the next evening and nothing happened. No one came. Almost two years later when we saw the woman friend again, she told us she never made contact with the boy and never knew what had become of him. On this occasion she had come to ask us to hide a revolver. There were no bullets. My mother said she was afraid and would not allow the gun in the house. However when the woman suggested she could bury it in the garden my mother agreed. We wrapped the gun in a waterproof cover and sealed it in a tin box. We dug a deep hole in the garden and buried it.

Later, when all was heady excitement at the liberation of our city, many neighbours revealed themselves to be members of the resistance and joined forces with the Allies to drive out the Germans. My father’s buddy, who had been his companion on the fateful flight to France, proved to have been an active underground agent. My mother dug up the revolver and gave it to him among much emotion at the memory of my father. I doubt that the weapon was much use without ammunition, but he was very proud to posses it. I cannot remember if the lady returned to collect the gun or what my mother would have said in explanation.

Collaboration

One of the first decrees the Germans laid down was “No fraternizing of the occupying troops with the civilian population”. All public gatherings such as festivals, public dances and so on were banned. Public holidays could no longer be celebrated. The only entertainment still available was the cinemas, which were of course a great source of propaganda for German films. The romantic and adventure films were very good however. They provided a welcome escape in the dark, warm atmosphere of the cinema halls to help us forget, temporarily, the grim realities of war.

We found our own way around the problem of closed dancehalls. It was difficult in towns to start up clandestine meetings, but in the outlying villages around, where there were not so many German patrols, we soon had several halls and even barns where we could have our weekly dancing sessions. Those places were very popular and always packed out. As the word got around, youngsters came from far and wide. There was a strict lookout system at the door for any potential German patrol raid. The blackout regulations helped the secret dances. With no lights showing outside there was not much evidence of the fun going on inside, except for the noise of the band playing. We did enjoy those country hops. The very fact that we were in some sort of tense anticipation of a possible raid somehow added to our youthful excited enjoyment.

Cafes and restaurants could continue business, some of which were patronized by the Germans and, inevitably, fraternizing did take place at these premises.

A lot has been said about collaboration with the enemy, but as in every case, some of it was grossly exaggerated. Was it collaborating when some people had to take jobs working for the Germans when other work was unobtainable? Some people got unwittingly involved in many instances, quite uninterested in the political aspect of it all. They just wanted to work and earn a living, which was hard enough under the circumstances. Of course there were those who became too friendly to the occupying forces, but others used their position of close contact to obtain useful information to pass on to the growing underground movement.

The young adolescents were particularly vulnerable to the indoctrination of Nazism. This was much in evidence in Flanders. Established Flemish organizations were infiltrated by Nazi sympathizers. They tried to persuade the Flemish youth that they too were of “Pure Germanic origin”. Soon a lot of Flemish youth movements were completely controlled by the Nazis. They started to wear swastika badges and emblems on their uniforms and marched through the streets, emulating the familiar goosestep. They held parades and gave the “Hiel Hitler” salute. They sang the German tunes, set to Flemish lyrics.

The Germans had one virtue in their favour. Their regiments always looked smart and the soldiers were well disciplined when seen in public. Even when they went swimming, it was in military style, marching and singing, wearing swimming trunks, rolled up towels under their arms. This example of smartness and discipline impressed some people; however the novelty soon wore off. As more of the true face of Nazism was revealed, people became more disillusioned and disgusted with those who collaborated. The enthusiasm died and a lot of the new Nazi uniforms disappeared from the streets. After the first upsurge of sympathy, the balance was restored and most citizens remained loyal to their country.

Young girls were not generally pestered with the attention of German soldiers. In all the four years of occupation, only once was I approached in a public park by a soldier who asked if he could walk with me. I just ignored him and he walked away.

Young children are usually quick to invent ways of poking fun and of course the Germans were a favourite target, they could also get away with more than adults. I remember my young brothers singing, to the tune of one of the more popular German marching songs:

Oh kliene schildersjongen,

Wat zijde gy toch begonnen,

Met uw vleigmachines en bommen,

Zielde gy nooit in Engeland kommen

Oh little German painterman,

Do you realize what you began,

All your bombs and flying machines,

Will never bring England to her knees.

Smuggling

The smuggling of food became a big industry, and indeed many made a fortune out of it during the war. A “Food Control Commission” was set up. It was a combined organization of the Germans, the Belgian State Police and civilian officials. They could turn up anywhere and inspect what people were carrying and any smuggled food was confiscated. In some cases, if it involved large amounts, or butter and meat, they would be fined or even imprisoned. A lot of this smuggling took place by road on bicycles. There were always patrols out on the highways to catch anyone attempting it. We had some relatives living in the country and regularly, myself and a cousin used to cycle to this village to get a sack of potatoes and a large loaf of farm bread. Butter or meat we could not afford at black market prices. We always kept a sharp lookout for any cyclists on the horizon who might be “Control Men” and once or twice we had to hide behind a hedgerow to avoid being caught.

In time our bicycle tyres wore out. New ones were unobtainable and the old ones had been repaired so often, there were more patches than tyre. We had to abandon the cycling trips and revert to taking the country tram. There was an intersection where we had to change trams. At this point the Control Men would wait, with a good vantage point to intercept the travelers. Soon the people got wise to this and found a way to avoid them. Along the tramline ran a dry ditch. With the co-operation of the tram driver, who would slow down before he reached the terminal, people would throw their goods in the ditch, jump off and make their way to a roadside café. There they would wait until the “All Clear” was brought that the Control Men were gone. However, they too soon got wise to what was going on and they changed tactics. They waited in the dry ditch. One day my cousin and I threw our sack of potatoes in the ditch and jumped almost straight into the officials' arms. We ran for it, they chased us; we got away, just in the nick of time, catching the connecting tram just as it pulled out. But we lost our precious potatoes.

It became more and more difficult to get food from the countryside. Farmers, seeing the opportunity to make fat profits, began to sell direct to the big black marketers in bulk, rather than to the poor individual who came for a few pounds of potatoes and a loaf of bread. These transactions took place in the dead of night. Lorries drove to the farms to pick up the goods and secret centres were set up where one could go and buy at astronomical prices. Not everyone got to know where these places were, for fear of being reported. Small farmhouses were often used for this purpose, a way for some poor farmers to make a bit of profit. Accidentally we came across such a place, deep in the middle of large fields, you could see for miles around the flat countryside. Just this little solitary farmhouse surrounded by ploughed fields. From this vantage point it was easy to spot any unwelcome party approaching. The little place was well organized, with secret hiding places for all the produce. One back room had an ingenious contraption in the open chimney where butter and meat were hidden. There were two sons who kept watch, one at the front, one at the back of the house. One day when a party of us had just purchased our requirements, one of the sons gave the alarm. Two state policemen were slowly cycling towards the little farmhouse. Pandemonium broke out, with people scattering all over the place to find somewhere to hide their goods. My cousin and I ran to the outside toilet and hid in there. The policemen just calmly cycled past, quite unaware of the big catch they had just missed.

Not all farmers were out to make money. Many simple country folk were still kind and generous. There was one incident I will never forget. On one of our usual rounds in search of a willing farmer to sell us some potatoes or bread, we came to a door and knocked. Someone called “Come in”. As we opened the door, a touching sight met our eyes. For a moment it was like looking at a painting from the old Flemish Masters who depicted country life. It was a room with low wooden ceiling beams and a large rustic table in the middle. Around it sat about a dozen children and farmhands. At each end obviously the farmer and his wife were presiding over a communal mid-day meal, consisting of an enormous bowl of boiled potatoes and a large kettle of meat stew. When we timidly apologized for interrupting their meal, we were immediately heartily invited to come in and join them at the table. This was real Flemish country hospitality. We had not enjoyed such a meal for ages.

By then my father had become a very sick man and could not work. Things were becoming desperate at home. The farmer and his wife asked us questions and when they heard our predicament, we were given some potatoes, a large brown farm loaf as big as a cartwheel and a dozen eggs “for my sick father”. They would not take any money. Pleased and grateful as we were, for the first time, I felt like a beggar.

Rabbits And Potato Peelings

My father resumed his old job as master plumber and for a while life seemed to go on as before, except that the drastic measures of the German administration began to make themselves felt. A curfew was imposed from 10.00 pm to 6.00 am. Our rationing of food was reduced to the bare minimum. Black marketeering became rife, but was severely punished. There was plenty of hoarding. People who had money bought whatever was available. It was revealed when the war was over that some never went short or without anything, while others had to survive as best they could, by resourcefulness or other means. But there was a lot of hardship, malnutrition and starvation.

My father in his job as a plumber was often working in other people’s houses. On one occasion he had to attend to the boiler pipes in a cellar. In a corner was a large area with stacked provisions, covered over with a tarpaulin. He could not resist having a peek and discovered a rich hoard of every imaginable foodstuff. There were sacks of flour, packets of sugar, tins of coffee, cans of cooking oil, preserves of all kinds. It was like a warehouse. My father was an honest man but hard times make people sometimes dishonest and the temptation was too much. He did not want to steal to the extent of being greedy and risk being caught and losing his job. He contented himself with just filling his lunch box with flour, and he did this for about three days. A little bit of flour from each sack was not noticeable, but for us it was a feast of home baked bread. Another time he worked for a butcher, a private job in his spare time. As payment he asked for a piece of salted beef. The butcher was generous and father came home with a huge portion as well as a string of pork sausages thrown in. My father exclaimed that evening: “We are eating better now than we did before the war”.

It is amazing how quickly people can adjust to adversity and become inventive and resourceful when the need arises. Everyone’s mind was concentrating on food, just because it was in such short supply. Gardens were dug and became vegetable and potato patches. Practically everyone started to keep chickens and rabbits, even when space was limited. Where possible even a goat was kept to provide milk. The population of rabbits must have increased five-fold. My poor brothers had the daily task of scouring the fields and meadows for fresh green grass and clover to feed the rabbits. I think most people lost their taste for the succulent “Bunny stew” after a war-long diet of it. The result of this immense rabbit population produced an enormous amount of rabbit skins. They were put to good use. In winter we sported warm fur coats and they made cozy bed covers. Women invented the most ingenious recipes, with the most unlikely ingredients. Nothing was wasted. My mother made potato cakes from potato peelings, washed and minced and flavoured with herbs and seasoning. They made very tasty cakes. She also dried peelings, and then they were diced and put through a sieve. This produced a flour substance, used for thickening soups and sauces. Coffee and tea became non-existent. To brew a hot drink to resemble coffee, barley grains were roasted like coffee beans and ground. At first the taste was bitter but soon we became accustomed to it. Sugar was substituted by saccharin.

There was not much queuing at the shops, the rations were so meagre, and there was hardly anything to queue for. Occasionally though, if a big catch of herring had arrived or there was some skimmed milk available, long queues would form. The fishermen would risk their lives when they went out in their fishing boats into the heavily mined sea and many perished when they hit the mines.

Sixteen Days

In the meantime, many changes took place. The occupation of the whole of Belgium, Holland and France was swift and bloodless. Apart from a few blown up bridges here and there, resistance had crumpled after King Leopold’s capitulation and the Dutch Royal family’s flight to Canada. The tanks rolled into the cities, along the same roads that shortly before had been the scene of a fleeing population. The goose-stepping German regiments were marching through our streets, singing their rousing military songs. Their smart grey uniforms and new gleaming hardware, compared with the crumpled khaki outfits and antiquated weaponry we had been accustomed to from our side, made us stand by the roadside, silently watching in awe. Most citizens felt crushed and defeated. What chance did we stand against such a show of strength and efficiency? There was not much confidence left around. People were too stunned to put up any resistance to the rules and restrictions that were immediately imposed upon us. That came later, gradually, as the people were able to recover from the impact and organize themselves.

For the time being, everybody tried to resume a normal life again. Going back to work, schools re-opened. That previous Easter, I had left school at the end of term and started work in a small knitting workshop. They made socks for soldiers. When I went back one morning, I found the place locked and empty. Many businesses had to close and so followed a lot of unemployment. It was essential that I found a job, to help my mother support the family during my father’s absence. For young girls like me there was always a demand for mother’s help or other domestic work. This had now the added advantage that it would include meals. The pay was poor, but the food was more important. I soon found work near home with a young family. I helped to look after two little boys aged one and two years old. The lady was very kind. From the milk she managed to get from a farm, she gave me a glassful to drink every day, saying I needed it at my age.

It was exactly sixteen days since the day he left, when one afternoon my father pulled his bicycle through the back garden gate, looking weary, dirty, thick stubble on his chin and a shadow of himself. He must have lost about two stone (twenty-eight pounds) in weight. Also his friend had returned. I cannot describe how my mother reacted at the sight of him. Her relief and happiness at having him back home was a traumatic experience for all of us.

When the dramatic story of his travel adventures unfolded, we could hardly comprehend the perils he had faced, sleeping in the open and hiding in ditches. If they were lucky, maybe a barn with some hay had sheltered them. Food and drink had been the biggest problem. With so many thousands of fleeing people, the generosity of most inhabitants of farms and houses in places they had passed through had worn thin and often doors were not opened or were slammed shut. My father felt very bitter about that, particularly when sometimes even a drink of water was refused. He said the most help they got was from all the different armies. On the way out, from the Allies, small groups of regiments that straggled behind in the retreat. On the way back, it was the German army who were the “Good Samaritans”. They had got as far as Le Havre, but they were too late. Many troops as well as civilians were left behind on the beaches. It was a scene of complete chaos; the soldiers were taken prisoner by the advancing German troops and the civilians made their weary way back home. It had taken my father three bicycles to make the journey. His own was soon destroyed, shot up by machine-gunning from the air, while he had a lucky escape by diving into a ditch full of water. He found another bike by the roadside, which was in turn “found” by someone else. He then actually stole one that was leaning against a farm gate. He was also given a pair of strong army boots by a Canadian soldier, and plenty of sour loaves of bread, covered in mould, from a German army cook.

They survived, but my father was never the same man again. This experience had taken its toll and had done irreparable damage to his health, of which the consequence would become apparent very soon.

Exodus

[Today would have been Lydia's 85th birthday. We remember her with love. Meanwhile, back in 1940, the plan to flee to the coast is not universally welcomed...]

Neither wife was enthusiastic at the idea. My mother pleaded with my father to abandon the crazy plan. And crazy it was. There were four adults, thirteen children and one small dog. How we ever managed to gather this pathetic collection together in a short space of time, lock up our homes and go, I shall never understand. All of a sudden my father was in a desperate hurry to leave, in case we had left it too late. Already it was rumored that the lifting of Dunkirk had ceased because of the constant bombardments and we would have to go further along the French coast, where it was still possible to operate.

Our transport consisted of two bicycles, laden down with every conceivable bit of our belongings, even clattering pots and pans. A pram: in it a baby of a few months old and one toddler who could barely walk. The other young ones just straggled behind, holding hands with the older children. My young brother was in charge of the dog on a leash. We, the older children carried bags with all the food and drink we could muster together. On the handle of the pram hung wet nappies to dry, washed at the last minute. We must have looked a most bizarre group of travellers. I guess we had walked about half way to the main highway when the baby started to cry. The mother was distressed and insisted we all stop, so she could feed the baby.

Our little dog had never run very far from home, after going a little further the poor wretch was probably tired, hot and thirsty and had a fit, foaming at the mouth and rolling his eyes. My little brother had hysterics, upset at seeing his pet like this.

The mothers began to argue with their husbands, protesting that this whole undertaking was just too ludicrous. After a while everyone calmed down and the journey was resumed. We reached the highway and I will never forget the sight that met our eyes. As far as the eye could see, up and down the straight wide roadway, one long stretch of vehicles of every description; cars and Lorries, handcarts, horse carts, bikes, prams and so on, were moving along. Weary pedestrians were trudging past, laden down like pack horses, rolled up blankets on their backs, carrying packets and battered suitcases, children on their shoulders. We just stood there, watching open-mouthed and silent. It looked like the exodus of Egypt, the whole of the population was fleeing, or so it seemed. Some had come from as far as Holland. We were just another small group who tagged on to the endless stream of refugees.

It was a beautiful sunny spring day. The month of May had been unusually lovely and warm, with cloudless blue skies. The fields were a fresh fragrant green. The avenue of strong tall trees in a straight line, bordering both sides of the highway, like guarding sentinels, were bursting with budding new leaves. The bright beginning of a new season was in sharp contrast with the dejected gloom of the fleeing multitude.

Before the construction of the now modern concrete motorways, these tree lined, cobbled highways, a typical landscape of the lowlands made an ideal setting for beautiful country walks and bicycle rides. I had enjoyed many such outings in the past. The atmosphere was different now, grim and unreal.

We had barely walked a mile when all of a sudden all hell was let loose. A formation of German fighter planes was heard to approach. Panic ensued; people were running hither and thither, diving into the dry ditches and down embankments on either side of the road, trying to hide in bushes. Children were screaming as mothers threw themselves on top of them for protection. It was bedlam.

When the planes screamed overhead with sudden bursts of firing, a deadly silence came over the dispersed crowd, frozen with fear. For a full five minutes after the danger had passed, nobody dared to move. We were in such a state of shock at our first encounter with the violence of war. The children were white faced, crying and shaking. I was sick. The mothers could not utter a word, unable to cope with the situation.

The Belgians do not posses the virtue of the British: to keep a “Stiff Upper Lip”. They are inclined to give full vent to their inner feelings and emotions. Reaction set in with the men too and my father conceded it was an absolute madness to continue what had been an insane impulsive action. Many other groups decided to return to the safety of their homes after this adventure. And so we made our way back, to the great relief of our mothers. Our poor dog never really recovered from the ordeal. He remained neurotic and had occasional fits. Not long after we had to have him put to sleep. To replace him, we got a cat instead. Later, this pet too met with a sad end.

Despite the admission that it had been a mistake to try and flee with the whole family, my father still felt and thought it was his duty to make for England and join the Allied Forces like a true patriot, to fight and free us from the evils of Nazi domination. There was an intense family consultation and discussion, and in the end it was agreed my father and his friend would set off alone on their bikes. Without the hindrance and responsibility of their families they thought it would be easier to avoid danger and stand a better chance to make it to the coast. That very same day, after very emotional farewells and reassurances that all would soon be well and right again, the two men departed.

During the following two weeks I saw my mother age about ten years. She could not eat or sleep with worry about the fate of her husband, with no hope or means of hearing any news about him.

Preparing To Flee

The whole nation was constantly tuned into the radio broadcasts, still under control of the Belgian Government. We were kept informed and up to date as far as that was possible. We learned there was fierce fighting to defend the Albert Canal, but it soon became evident which side had the upper hand. The Allied Armies had to retreat. The King of Belgium, Leopold, capitulated. Realizing the hopelessness of the situation, he chose to lay down arms, rather than to extend the misery and bloodshed of his people. Some thought him to be a coward and a traitor. Others admired his kind of courage: to be honest in admitting he had no way of resisting the onslaught of the Nazi might.

The British government ordered a complete retreat and organized the lifting of Dunkirk. The Dutch, Belgian and French governments were hurriedly shipped or flown to London. All men of military age, from eighteen years old upward were urged to head for Dunkirk, where a fleet of every conceivable vessel was ceaselessly sailing back and forth, taking civilians and soldiers alike to safety.

The exodus of refugees started. In our street everybody was outside, talking in little groups, discussing and debating whether to join the endless procession of fleeing citizens. Already some of the frightening tales of the horrors of war, some greatly exaggerated, were being relayed. Some stories were only too true. We could clearly hear the spasmodic rattle of machine guns of the swooping airplanes, strafing the column of refugees moving along the nearby highway.

Some people remained quite calm and philosophical, prepared to face whatever lay in store and chose the safety of their homes, rather than expose themselves to the obvious dangers that lay ahead if they too joined the long trek to the coast. A number of families decided to risk their luck and began packing some basic belongings.

To illustrate what often motivated some people to take such drastic action, to leave house and home and everything they owned behind, to venture into an escapade, not knowing what they might have to endure, needs some explaining.

Many had bitter memories of the First World War and they were scared for their families and themselves. As an example: my father's own experience, which we had often been told. His own father had been a blacksmith, employed by the City Council, when most transport was still horse- drawn and the town had its own smithies to shoe their horses. My father worked with him as an apprentice. He was seventeen. Under the German occupation of 1914-1918 at the time, the City administration was under German control and their foreman was a beastly type of German officer. One day he abused my grandfather so much that it provoked my father into striking the officer. As a result, the next day, two German military police came to the house to arrest him. My father had expected it and was prepared. He decided to make a run for it. He made for the attic and through a skylight, climbed onto the roof and ran precariously, the whole length of the row of houses along the rooftops and so temporarily escaped. He was caught and arrested in the end and sent to a labour camp in Germany for the remainder of the war, two long years. Although there were none of the atrocities that would take place in the coming war, his experiences were grim enough to fill him with dread and hatred for the Germans. By no means were we then fully aware of the extent of the evils of the Nazi regime, but my father, always a well informed and political man, had gleaned enough knowledge about the notorious SS troops and the Gestapo. He knew it would be far worse than it had been before and he wanted to get away. He persuaded a neighbour and friend with a large family of ten children to join forces as two families and take to the road.

The War Begins

When war was declared on the 3rd of September 1939, on Germany by France and England, it did not immediately affect us. The grown ups were uneasy and worried. We picked up bits of conversation: “Only twenty years ago and they are back again”-“Germany has been preparing for this war for years”. People were remembering their experiences from the Great War. The men’s card games at the corner pub became heated discussions, speculating on Hitler’s strength. They feared the mighty army of the Third Reich, which had proved itself invincible with swift victories in Austria, Poland and Czechoslovakia

Some people were fatalistic and convinced the tide could not be stemmed. We would be overrun, Britain and France could not hold up to it.

That was the opinion of the pessimists. The other camp argued fiercely that we had a strong defense. “What about the fortified Albert Canal?” “They will never get across that”. “And the Maginot Line in France is very strong”. They were the optimists, the hopefuls. One thing however they were all unanimously agreed on: The deep hatred they felt for the Fuhrer.

The mothers were more concerned with the basic needs in life, namely food. They discussed the shortages there had been in the previous war, fearing their families would go hungry. We children just listened to our elders. To us, war was something out of the history books, all glorified, a great adventure. Stories of heroism told at first hand by our fathers, heard from men who had been through it. Many were now invalids and victims of the awful gassing. There were stirring memories of solemn marches by these same men, brass bands playing, taking the salute at the monument of the “Unknown Soldier” on Armistice Day. Schoolchildren took part in these processions to pay tribute and honour to the men who had died “In Glory” for our country. Laying down our poppy wreaths at each soldier’s grave at the City’s War Cemetery.

An electrifying, expectant atmosphere developed. People were on edge, fearful, uncertain. You could feel something would happen, and then the blow struck. It was a tense, chaotic scene, almost bordering on panic. I remember my first shock of fright on that fateful day. I had never in my life seen my father to be scared, but, when the first wave of German fighter planes roared overhead, very low, swooping over the rooftops, he turned very white and shouted at us to dive under the kitchen table. That same afternoon, the whole family set about building a shelter in the garden. So did all the neighbours. Work was at a standstill, everybody was out on the streets, talking and wondering what was going to happen. But through all the fear and commotion the Belgians are a practical people and began to turn their minds to the immediate problem of survival, to secure a provision of food. The mad rush to the shops started, to buy sugar, flour, coffee, fats, in fact anything available. It was only a matter of a few hours before everything was sold out. Or so it would seem. There are always the opportunists; they could see the profits that could be made out of the situation. So they hoarded their stock and so the “Black Market” was born.

False Alarm

For us, the Belgians, the Second World War began in earnest on the 10th of May 1940. The Germans crossed our borders during the night and the population woke up that morning, stunned by the fast spreading news of the invasion.

There had been a previous alarm in 1938, before the signing of the famous Munich Pact, which had then lulled the country back in to a false sense of security. On that occasion there had been a general mobilization and a couple of tense weeks had followed. A pathetic army of soldiers was called up, among them my own father.

I was still at school, a fourteen-year-old girl; my two younger brothers were nine and seven.

The army unearthed all their left over stock from World War One. Rusty weaponry and helmets, mildewed old boots, crumpled moth eaten khaki greatcoats and assembled a ragged looking army of men. They were billeted in public buildings on bales of straw. Most schools were assigned to take in a certain number, but in order not to have to close the schools, they only occupied the assembly halls. My father landed in my brother’s school.

Needless to say, this arrangement caused disruption and distraction in the schools, particularly in the girls schools, where I, for one, just at an age when we first became conscious of the attraction to the opposite sex, tried to flirt with the glamour of the uniform.

In our innocence and excitement we overlooked the dismal spectacle they presented. I am sure the poor fellows got a boost to their morale from our youthful adoration. However our stern schoolmistresses soon put an end to all that nonsense and we were kept in our classrooms.

The crisis blew over. For us children there was almost a feeling of disappointment that there was not going to be a war after all. The adults heaved a sigh of relief and life resumed its normal pace - for a little while longer at least.