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.