I have no recollection that I played much with my siblings, Kees, Truus and Sense. I imagine they had their own friends as I had mine. Of course, they were 5 and 4 years older. All of us had organ lessons, but I was the only one who took lessons for over one year. My teacher was a spinster who also conducted a sewing school. She could hardly play a hymn herself and I made little progress. My mother noticed that, and as I showed some interest and talent, I was transferred to Cas Van Sweden, who was supposed to be ‘the’ music teacher in Winschoten. He played violin, but he couldn’t show me how to use the keyboard efficiently, since he didn’t play organ or piano. During my lessons he counted his money and said after I had finished my piece: once more, I still hear a few mistakes! I must have practiced though, for soon I was through my second instruction book, and after that you were on your own!

My brother Kees had mastered the psalms and sometimes played in the extension church in Blyham. People from that area, amongst them the van der Laans, came to the big church in Winschoten in the morning, but had a church service in their own village in the afternoon. Services were conducted in a restaurant which wasn’t heated during the week, thus the organ was always damp, occasioning the keys to stick. When Kees couldn’t play anymore, Rev. Berghuis came to my mother to ask if I had made enough progress to take over. “Oh yes,” said mother, ” Herman can play three psalm tunes, and if he can play those, he can play more with a bit of studying.”

I was eleven years old when I began to play in Blyham. It gave a spurt to my proficiency because now I had to practice. Since there was no phone in our house, I would go to the parsonage beside the big church on the Venne and ask which psalms I had to play the next Sunday. Although I was anxious to have a look inside the parsonage, Mevrouw Berghuis never let me in, I was dealt with on the doorstep. She was a friendly lady though…

As gasoline was rationed, there were few taxis in Winschoten. Thus when Rev. Berghuis, an elder, and the young organist had to conduct a service in Blyham on Sunday afternoons, we went by horse and buggy. The buggy was the one used for marriages and only seated two people. So, I would often sit beside the ‘koetsier’, the man who reined the horse. But in the winter, I usually sat inside the buggy, on the little flower pedestal which had a sharp ridge … oh, my bum would hurt so much when we arrived in Blyham. But I never told the dominee. The organ keys always stuck in the damp winter, and as I played with four fingers, I would use my thumb to lift the keys that stayed down. In the audience was the van der Laan family with their daughter Stiny. Little did I know that this blond-haired little girl would become my wife ten years later. We kept our coats on, for the restaurant was always cold … the stove didn’t work too well.

Once, after a communion service, I saw that the minister put the almost empty wine bottle behind the organ. I was anxious to know how this wine tasted and when the service was over, I quickly took the bottle behind the stage curtain and quickly took a sip. I felt so sinful and guilty afterwards … I drank the holy wine! I was surprised when Rev. Grafe said: Well, there’s only a bit of wine left in that bottle, I might as well finish it. With that he put the bottle to his mouth … it made me feel somewhat better!

I had never had a bike … but now I was tall enough to ride an adult bike. Before the war, my Dad had a lot of unemployed people working for him and since these labourers had to come from all over, the government supplied them with simple bikes. They didn’t have brakes … you simply stepped back on the pedals to make them stop. Many of these unemployed people were now working in Germany or elsewhere, and hundreds of these bikes lay on a heap in the work shed of the company. I could have my pick, said my father. The problem was that all the tires had disappeared, stolen or ‘organized’ by company people. I picked the smallest bike I could find, painted it red, and somehow found old tires for it. Forever they leaked and needed to be repaired. Thus I became the repair man in the family. On this bike I made many Sunday afternoon trips to Blyham.

I now also accompanied Mr. Battjes’ school choir on the organ. He couldn’t play himself, but somehow was able to make children sing, conducting with mighty arm movements. Again, he would push my anxiety level to the limit … I was so scared to make a mistake! But he was proud that his choir was now also accompanied by one of his pupils! When we learned a new song, he would write the music on a special blackboard and point out the notes with a stick. After endless drilling and repetition the first and second alto would finally feel secure enough. Despite all of this, I was always thrilled to hear the wonderfully harmonious singing.

Once I told Mr. Battjes: that note should be three beats, the choir doesn’t hold that note long enough. Wow did I ever get it! He would determine the length of the notes, who was I that I dared to criticize him. From then on, I kept quiet! We usually performed on the day after Christmas. It was customary to even have two services on that day, but the afternoon service did not need to be as strictly liturgical as all the other services of the year. Well … liturgical … the format of all worship service was exactly the same: votum, psalm, scripture reading (including the text used for the sermon), psalm, sermon, collection, psalm, benediction. The only hymns used were the 150 Genevan Psalms.