From Tulips to Your Ears

Vignettes from a teenager during the occupation of Holland

Oct 18, 2024

Forgive the lousy pun in the title. This is why during my newspaper career the editors I worked under got their jollies rewriting my headlines, but now that I’m my own boss there are no such restraints.

I’m considering publishing in print form some of the material from my original web site, launched in 1997. The site, tankbooks dotcom, was meant to promote the first edition of Tanks for the Memories, which I published in 1994 and is now in a greatly expanded third edition. After I launched the site, though, it kind of took on a life of its own. People would send me suggestions about veterans to interview, and sometimes they would send stories for me to post.

The following two stories are part of a ten-story series titled “Vignettes From a Teenager During the German Occupation of Holland, 1940-45” that was sent to me by a grandmother in Pennsylvania, Hansje de Zwaan Johnson, back around 2002, likely a couple of years earlier, as that’s the year I posted it on the site. As I revisited her introduction, I realized how relevant the stories are to the events of the past few months and the next three weeks.

I long ago lost touch with Mrs. Johnson and I’m not even sure she was a grandmother, although I always described her as such. Following is her introduction and the first two of the ten vignettes:

In memory of my husband Bill, who was the first person to encourage me to write about my experiences as a teenager during the German occupation of the Netherlands.

Many young people don't realize how privileged they are to live in a non-occupied, free country. They accept their liberty as normal.

I hope they will realize how lucky they are compared to young people who are living under a dictatorship. Freedom is one of the greatest values. The lack of freedom with its resulting anguish should never be forgotten. If the readers will admire and respect those who have died, and those who are still living — for having fought, and who are fighting for freedom — I hope to have accomplished what I tried to tell in these short stories.

Too Late

Our network met in secrecy to find new hiding places for a large Jewish family. After a long search we thought we could place only six of them. But it was getting dark and each of us had to hurry home.

The night was windy. The narrow street was hemmed in by tall step-roofed brick houses. Because of possible sudden air attacks their windows were tightly covered to prevent any light from showing. Only the left side of the cobblestoned street was illuminated by the full moon.

I rode along on my bike on the dark side, hoping not to be seen. Gripping the handlebars tightly, I bent over to cut through the raw, biting wind. As I rode on, my stomach growled and hunger pains churned my bowels.

The curfew was set for twelve midnight. My parents would worry if I were not home before then.

In the winter of 1942 the German occupation army in the Netherlands laid strict rules. The reason for the curfew was that too many of their drunken soldiers were drowned nightly in the canals or killed in alleys.

In various European countries some citizens took advantage of the Nazis’ presence. In Holland a group of collaborators sided with the Nazis against their own countrymen. They even aided in persecuting Jews, and, at times, betrayed members of their own families. Frequently I overheard people say: “Just wait until the war is over. Prison will be too good for them!”

I pedaled on, my teeth rattling. The bare rims of my bike’s wheels clanged across the deserted streets, noisily echoing from the walls of the dark houses. Not a soul was in sight. An eerie feeling, that I was alone in the world, overcame me.

Had I heard the church bells chime eleven-thirty? Would I make it home by midnight? The wind hindered my progress and I felt cold and weak. Arriving at the next street corner I knew I only had three more blocks to go. Rounding the first corner I was exposed by the moonlight. I struggled on, willing myself with energy. Twenty … maybe ten more minutes to go. …

Suddenly I fell over a pile of rubble, raked across a bomb hole where a house once stood. I hauled myself up. My bell rolled pinging away. There was no time to retrieve it so I climbed on my bike, relieved to be near the last corner.

Then … I heard a rustling sound, perhaps a rat. … Did I hear a movement? Was someone watching me? In the semi-darkness an advertising kiosk seemed to move. Was I imagining things?

My neck hair prickled and goose bumps ran down my arms. Cautiously I moved halfway around to the moonlit side. Then … I saw a uniformed man sitting against the post, with his upper body leaning against it. I peered ahead. The man moved slightly. I saw a glint of something. … Was it a gun?

Stealthily I moved forward, not sure whether I should go on or turn back.

“Help! Please, someone help me,” he called. Then … he slid down. His booted legs lurched toward me in the moonlight, scraping the sidewalk.

Oh, my God, he’s a German soldier! No, no; can't be. He called out in Dutch. He must be one of those traitors. Seeing the hated black uniform I froze in my tracks. Lamely he waved an arm. I didn't see a gun but a knife handle protruded from his shoulder and a trail of blood was spreading down one side of his body.

I recoiled. My first thought was, “Serves him right, the bastard!” His moans made me shiver.

“Please help me, Miss,” he said in a hoarse voice. Should I? Wondering if he were dying, I moved a bit closer. A cloud shifted and I saw his cap fall oft. His hair ruffled above his pale face. He was young, not much older than I. I tensed. Did he expect pity, this traitor?

Resolutely, I turned away and mounted my bike. His voice keened after me. “Miss, don’t go. Please, help me.”

My angry heart was pounding, but my brain kept on reasoning.

I thought, “The man could have a wife and children. He might wish to leave a message. Or perhaps he is a Catholic and wants a priest. Who knows?” Were there no others who could do something?

I moved back and looked at him. He and I were alone. He was slowly sliding down the lantern post. I now felt I was a coward to let another human being down, when in need. I moved closer and asked him, “Is there something I can do?”

Again his metal-heeled boots scraped toward the curb with agonizing sounds. His eyes stared up at me, then rolled back in their sockets; their whites showing.

“Forgive …” he whispered, and slumped onto his back. I reached for his pulse. Then withdrew. He was dead.

Invasion

Vader stood at the foot of the stairs and bellowed:

“Downstairs! All of you, right now! Moeder, get those girls to stop cackling and come down. Bad news. Our country is being invaded!”

It was May 1940, three months after my fourteenth birthday. On Ascension Day, early in the morning, the German Luftwaffe (Air Force) bombed Rotterdam. It was a surprise attack. Hitler had assured Queen Wilhelmina that he never would set foot on Dutch soil. We were stunned when we heard the news, but also somewhat relieved that none of our friends or family lived there. We anxiously awaited further developments. Vader was twiddling with the knobs on the radio, annoyed with the static interference. Moeder went to the kitchen. My two sisters and I sat quietly down at the table. Vader shushed us when the news could be heard again. There it came. "Her Majesty, Queen Wilhelmina, and her family have left the Netherlands, and are presently residing in London, England." Nothing but crackling noises followed. He turned the knobs.

“She went to England?” I called out. “How could she do that? It seems as if she betrayed us. Remember when she declared, ‘As a member of the House of Orange, I will never leave my post’?”

“Listen, little Hothead,” Vader said, smiling. “No doubt she followed the advice of ‘ government, not only for her own and her family’s safety, but for political reasons.”

“What do politics have to do with it?”

“Perhaps I should have said for military reasons.”

“What military reasons?” My sisters laughed.

“You never stop with the questions, do you?” Anna remarked.

“Let me explain,” Vader said. "After all, this is history in the making. You know that we own the East Indies. If more countries get involved in this war, we might lose that colony.” (His words were prophetic. After Japan attacked Pearl Harbor and the United States went to war in December 1941, the Japanese overran what is now Indonesia.)

‘‘Shush! I hear something.” Moving his head closer to the radio, he exclaimed, “My God, no wonder we can hear guns. The airport is attacked by the Luftwaffe. Parachutists are already coming down.” We heard the announcer say, “The Netherlands, unlike Denmark, will not let the German army march in without resistance. Our army is actively reacting in defense.”

Vader impatiently shook the radio, but this was the last news we heard. Moeder called from the bay window. “Look, look, you can see them from here, like a biblical plague of locusts!”

We crowded around her. The street was totally deserted. It was an eerie sight. Living in Amsterdam, not too far from the airport, we heard the constant rat-tat-tat of gunfire. We huddled together. Moeder told us not to be scared. “I doubt if they'll come any closer.”

Vader pulled at my sleeve. “I've got to get some things from the cellar. You come with me, Hattie. In the meantime, if there should be any bombing, you girls crawl under the table. We'll be right back.”

Moeder raised her eyebrows. Was he serious? In the cellar he told me not to ask any questions. We began to fill several jute bags with bottles of aged wine. They were my father's pride. For years, nightly, he turned each bottle just so, “in order to mellow them,” he would say. Only rarely, on very special occasions, would he open one or two bottles to celebrate.

After all the bottles were bagged, Vader took me to the balcony. There, he really surprised me. He took each bottle by its neck, swung his arm back, and threw it against the brick wall. I couldn't believe my eyes.

“Why are you doing that? Are you going to break all of them?”

“Yes. I won't let any German soldiers get drunk on my wine, not over my dead body!”

Now we could now hear the gunfire increasing.

“Will they come here? Into our house?”

“You never know. Soldiers can do nasty things.”

He kept on breaking bottles; the shards of glass and spurts of wine were flying in all directions.

“Go back inside, Hattie. I'll be right in.” I was only too happy to leave. Moeder shook her head and said, “He may do the right thing. He already burned two books. I hope he won't get rid of more. Your father has read a great deal about warfare. He's well-informed about such things.”

“I hope he won't destroy any of my books,” Anna mumbled.

“No, he only burned ‘Das Kapital’ and ‘Mein Kampf.’”

I wondered if he did that for political or martial reasons. He joined us, but I couldn't question him. Although the rifle sounds began to diminish, we heard much louder, hollow, rumbling, squeaky noises. Frightened, we clung to each other.

Moeder moved the curtains a bit aside so that we could see better. The noise seemed to make the walls tremble. Vader, who was a block leader, said, “Good. I told everyone to stay off the street, and I don't see a soul. That’ll tell the German army we aren't glad to see them.”

“What's that terrible noise?” Moeder asked.

“Advancing tanks. They’ll soon be here.” Vader spoke curtly. His voice was strained and his face white. I was shaking and Beth made a wailing sound.

“Stop it, this minute,” Vader admonished. “This is a time we can't lose our heads. Remember you’re Dutch. You control your emotions. When you calm your mind, you can handle difficult situations better.”

“I agree,” Moeder said. “We must stay calm.” l could feel Anna sniffle at my side and Beth was biting her lower lip. We looked down the street. We could see our neighbors, across from us, peer anxiously from behind their lace curtains. Like us, they probably were wondering what would happen next.

Suddenly, it seemed as if a large bird descended in front of our house. A teenage German parachutist, wildly pointing a large rifle in all directions, landed on top of a lamppost. There he hung, hooked by his jacket. Slowly he was sliding down. First his pants ripped open, then his underwear followed. My sisters and I giggled like mad while mother tried unsuccessfully to pull us back from the window. We saw him drop his rifle, jump free, and run bottom-naked around the corner of our block. The neighbors' curtains fluttered wildly. We could imagine them laughing as well. Our laughter was a hysterical relief from all the frightening tension we were experiencing.

(Not until the war was over did we learn that this parachutist had been killed by a blow on his head by, of all people, the pastor of the Reformed church!)

By mid-morning a deathly silence reigned. Next the guns started again and loud rumbling sounds came our way. From around the corner, at the end of the street, we saw a snake-like formation of large tanks approaching. Each tank sprouted a square-helmeted head. Slowly rotating guns pointed up at our windows. Father patted our shoulders, admonishing us to stay calm. I thought he was as scared as we were. We waited fearfully as they kept on coming, slowly advancing with heavy grinding sounds. There didn't seem to be an end to them. We lost count. Grim-looking soldiers marched behind the tanks. I thought how different they looked from our army. Several times during the year I had seen our soldiers march through town, if it could be called marching. They didn't always keep in step. Some smoked; they talked to each other and kidded, and waved at me. It showed how much the Dutch in general disliked wars and army discipline.

The Dutch army, small and rather undisciplined, resisted as a matter of principle. They made it clear that they objected. The war was over within four days, costing lives and prisoners of war.

My father was a respected man in our neighborhood. Our house, like the others in the street, had on top a staircase-like stepped stone facade. Behind these facades were the actual flat roofs where people grew plants or hung their laundry to dry. The doors, opening onto the roofs, were usually left unlocked. Two neighbors, one from either side of us, came by way of our roof door down to our living room to ask Vader's advice. Although they talked loudly, they looked as upset as I felt. One of them asked Vader how long we'd be stuck with those Moffen (Germans). He answered, “Seeing those well-trained robots reminds me of history, of the Spartans. It will probably take five years or more before they are defeated.”

When the army column had passed, the two neighbors went home and never spoke to my father again. Because of his remark they considered him a traitor.

This was my first lesson about how, being under siege, you had to see everything in black or white. The Germans were the bad guys, and we the good guys. If you expressed yourself any other way — for instance seeing grey in between — you were considered a traitor. The proper answer Vader should have given was most likely: “We'll soon kick the bastards out!”

He proved to be right. We were under German occupation until the Allies liberated us in May 1945.

World War II Oral History

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