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.