71. Mad Tuesday (“Dolle Dinsdag”)

Next month, on the 4^th of May, people in The Netherlands will be commemorating the 80^th anniversary of the end of World War II. I remember that war very well. I was 9 years old when it ended.

I was reminded of those five terrible years, when an old friend from Sydney sent me a book last year, titled “A Bridge Too Far: The true story of the Battle of Arnhem”, which was first published in 1974. My friend, John, had read it and had immediately thought of me, knowing that I would be interested. I read all 536 pages

It is a book which gives a very detailed account of “Operation Market-Garden”, which took place in September 1944, when an entire airborne army of British, American, Polish and Dutch troops dropped behind the German lines in Holland, to try to capture several bridges over the river Rhine. This offensive caused many thousands of casualties and sadly ended in failure. The book describes the bad decisions which were made by those in power, the sacrifices made by thousands of young people and the senselessness and horror of it all.  

I mention this book because in it reference is made to “Dolle Dinsdag” (Mad Tuesday), which was a day I will never forget, even though it was more than 80 years ago.

On Dolle Dinsdag, 5 September 1944, people in our village were celebrating, because they believed that the Germans had been defeated and that the Allied forces were about to arrive. Many people, including my parents and grandparents, were gathered in the street outside their houses, waiting for the liberators to arrive. Dutch and Orange flags appeared out of nowhere and some people were even dancing in the street. I remember being very happy myself, convinced that something wonderful was happening.

The celebrations had started after news bulletins had been received (on illegal radios) from London, which reported that the Dutch city of Breda, on the border with Belgium, had already been liberated. Even many of the German soldiers believed these rumours about the imminent arrival of the Allied forces. They panicked, as did Dutch NSB (pro-German political party) members, and many fled to Germany. One person in our village was shot and killed by the withdrawing Germans, while he was displaying the Dutch flag.

Sadly, it soon became clear that the rumours were incorrect. The liberators had overextended themselves and had been stopped by the Germans in the south of the Netherlands. Our village was not be liberated until six months later.

Reprisals started almost immediately and, later in that same week, the Germans were back in our village. They had returned to conduct a large “razzia”, i.e. to block off parts of the village and to do house-to-house searches to look for young men in hiding. Local historians reported later that our GP, Dr de Bruyne (see post 54 “Opa Piet”), had rescued one of the young men who had been captured, by telling the German commanding officer that he had an infectious disease.

The “razzias” also happened in our street. The Germans searched not only for people in hiding, but also for radios, guns, pamphlets and other things forbidden by the Germans. Possession of illegal radios was an offence that was punishable by execution, Luckily, my father was not at home, and we did not have any unauthorised items in our house, so the soldiers left our house empty-handed.

My father did, however, have a hiding place. The local carpenter had built it in an area between the ground floor and the floor above. It was clever but I think it would probably not have been very difficult for the Germans to discover it. He also spent many nights in a hideout, on a farm outside our village, with many other people in hiding (so-called “onderduikers”). There were thousands of them throughout the country. They included Jews, stranded pilots, resistance fighters and men trying to avoid deportation to Germany. My fatherd did not go to the farm every night, because he did not like the drinking and squabbling that took place. He also did not like leaving my mother behind on her own, with five young children, so some nights he slept at home.

On 17 September, 1944, 30,000 railway workers throughout Nederland went on strike. All the trains stopped running. I’ve read that the departure of the last train transport was from the concentration camp Westerbork in Nederland to the extermination camp, Auschwitz. This was the train whose passengers included Anne Frank and her family.

With no more trains, the supply of food stopped. A dreadful winter of hunger and cold followed. A winter so very cold that ships were stuck in ice in the frozen rivers. People from the cities began to walk to the countryside, with handcarts, wheelbarrows and bicycles, to find food. My father was one of them. He would take his bike out to try to get food from the farms and I can still remember one occasion, when he came back with a bag of very small potatoes. Many desperate people were forced to exchange whatever possessions they had for food. I remember eating flower bulbs and sugar beets. It made me vomit.

Once I was sent, on my own, to a farm at the edge of our village, where I was given a meal. I remember that it had snowed, and that the snow had stuck to the bottom of my clogs.  (We no longer had shoes). I had to stop often to remove the snow before I could walk on. The wind was fierce and icy and I had newspaper between my coat and my singlets, as insulation to try to stay warm. The food I was given at the farm was wholesome, bread and milk, but my stomach could not always handle this.

I remember the emergency kitchen (“gaarkeuken”) located further down our street. In exchange for a coupon, my parents could obtain a pan of soup for the family. The only soup which I can remember seemed to be more like hot water, with only a few isolated pieces of carrot in it.

Heating in the houses also disappeared, with no electricity, no coal and no gas, and people wore their coats inside their homes to keep warm. Any trees we had in the garden had probably been cut down earlier in the war  and sawn into small pieces. Some of our bed frames were also cut up for firewood. Towards the end we all just slept on mattresses on the floor.

Candles, tea-warmers and bicycle lights were used to provide light inside the houses. I can remember a bicycle frame complete with pedals in our living room. I can’t remember who did the pedalling. We also had a miniature stove (“noodkacheltje”), fed by small pieces of wood, in our kitchen.

We survived, but only just. A week before the liberation, a ceasefire had been arranged with the Germans. Large Allied aircraft flew over and dropped food packets at close-by Valkenburg airport. The parcels included flour, butter, cheese, bacon and chocolate, as well as other things. I can’t remember seeing these airdrops, but soon thereafter we began to receive white bread, beautiful large slices. It was a welcome and complete change from what we had been used to.

I was sleeping over at my grandparent’s house next door when, one night, the street erupted in singing and dancing. I was in the bedroom upstairs and could look out onto the street. There were people everywhere. This was the day the Germans capitulated. I remember dancing up and down, realising that the nightmare was over for my parents and grandparents.

On 5 May the Germans capitulated and on 7 May 1945 the Allied forces entered Amsterdam.

It is good that, even after 80 years, the end of the Second World War in The Netherlands is still remembered and commemorated on the 4^th of May. Sadly, terrible large wars still continue in the world today, and, unfortunately, 80 years from now, old people will again feel the need to write stories about the horror of it and about the young lives lost or ruined forever.

I savour my freedom in Australia, and I am happy to live here in peace. I wish everyone else could feel the same.

O.P.

P.S. On Sunday 11 May we’ll talk about Tai Chi and my memories of the Malaysian town of Ipoh.