After the liberation, I ate my first Kwatta chocolate bar!

It was Whit Sunday, 28 May 1944, when, during the night, an Allied aircraft was shot down by a German fighter pilot near the hamlet of Bern. That morning, I looked out of my upstairs window, and there, right in front of our house, lay the tail section. It made quite an impression on a boy just four years old. Later, I saw a pair of aviator sunglasses, which had miraculously survived the crash completely intact.

I’ve always been very interested in history. Years later, I researched the details of this incident online. The German fighter pilot was still alive in 2014. I even have a wartime photo of him—looking like some kind of film star. The Allied crew consisted of Polish airmen, with an American of Polish descent as their captain. It was his first operational mission. All eight crew members perished and were buried in Heusden at the time. After the war, they were given a solemn reburial at the Polish War Cemetery in Breda.

Another image that has stayed with me is the flames engulfing Nederhemert Castle. It was caught between the lines of fire. It was largely destroyed by Allied phosphorus shells around the turn of the year 1944/1945.

In mid-January 1945, we were evacuated to Aalst—my father and mother, grandfather, and two unmarried uncles who lived with us. The six of us moved in with my grandfather’s sister-in-law, who lived alone in a tiny house. How we all managed to live and sleep there, I have no idea. Desperate times call for desperate measures! I celebrated my fifth birthday there. Of course, there were no presents. My father gave me the empty tin from the throat pastilles he used.

While we were in Aalst, I witnessed the church spire of Wijk en Aalburg being shot down. Three shells—the third was a direct hit. And down it went!
In April, we were allowed to return to our home by the dyke in Nederhemert. We didn’t notice much of the liberation—no Allied troops came rolling into our villages. Once we were home, one of my uncles said to my mother: “I’m going for a bike ride with Pieter!” He took me on the back of his bike, crossing the emergency bridge at Hedel, all the way to Den Bosch, where we visited some of his acquaintances in Orthenstraat. And there—something I will never forget—I ate the very first Kwatta chocolate bar of my life!