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.