Children usually are not interested in world politics. When I was 8 years old I didn’t know Hitler was planning to conquer all of Europe. Of course, I had seen pictures of this beastly man, but only thought he was funny with his mustache and straight hair.

On May 5, early in the morning our neighbour, Mr. Van Bergen, a member of the Van Bergen family who owned the Carillon Works in the neighbouring village Heiligerlee, returned from Nieuwe Schans, where he had taught gymnastics class the previous night. Dutch troops had commandeered his little car and he had walked all night to reach his home. He stood in the middle of the Acacialaan and called out: people, war has broken out, the Germans are at the border. He must have said this gleefully, for he was a German sympathizer. Soon the street was filled with people, many of them in their pajamas.

My mother woke me and pulled me down in a kneeling position. Kneeling beside my bed, she prayed God to help the Dutch soldiers and for protection. No sooner had she finished her fervent prayer – I did not understand why tears were streaming down her cheeks – there was a big bang! My father shouted: they have blown up the bridge over the canal. Many windows were shattered, but our house suffered only one broken window. At 11 o’clock that same morning, German soldiers already marched on the other side of the canal, on their way inland. It was a sight to behold! New uniforms, new cars, new small tanks, not yet battle-wearied. A proud army. They made quite an impression on us and they certainly didn’t look like monsters or devils.

During the first years of the war, things changed little for me. I continued to go to school and play street-soccer after school. Every Sunday we went to church twice. I found that a pleasurable experience. The organ music made an impression on me and the multi-coloured windows threw blue and red and yellow hues over the congregation. I didn’t understand what, the minister was talking about, but he was a nice, old man with a bald head.

Everybody walked to church, for it was forbidden to use bikes on Sundays. Only people living outside the borders of the town were allowed that mode of transportation. Sometimes I became restless and then my mother would take my hand and make small circles in it with her finger – that felt good! I counted organ pipes, but always lost count. Churches were full, mornings and afternoons.

During the second year of the war (1940-1945) food was rationed, but since my father visited so many farmers, he took along wheat and milk and later cooking oil, so we really did not go hungry. The colour of bread became grayish/brown and the only things we put on our sandwiches were brown sugar and beet syrup. No more cheese, meat, peanut butter, etc.

Our family wasn’t used to exotic foods like oranges and peaches (my father had a low income at that time), so we didn’t miss much when these items disappeared from stores. Every day my older brother Kees would bike to a farmer outside the city, with whom my father had made an arrangement to supply us with milk. Two bottles of milk were usually the limit. Later on, in the war this became my job. All this had to be done secretly, for German soldiers and Dutch collaborators would often inspect the contents of your bike-bags.