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.