Comradeship kept me going

Like so many of my generation, I was born and raised in a large family. My parents had seven children—five girls and two boys. It was hard work for my father to feed so many mouths. My mother was a strong-willed woman who instilled in us the motto: “Don’t complain, just get on with it!”

Because extra income was always welcome in our household, I had to find work after finishing primary school. I got a job at a basket-making workshop. It was late 1942 when, on my way to work one morning, a neighbour—an ardent NSB supporter—shook her fist at me and shouted, “They’ll get you soon enough!” Sure enough, just days later, I received a summons ordering me to report to Tiel for forced labour in Germany. I ignored the letter, but soon another arrived—this time with a far more threatening tone, warning that my family would suffer the consequences if I refused. I no longer dared to resist, and after a painful farewell, I left on 3 February 1943. Along with hundreds of other young men, I travelled by train via Venlo to Oberhausen.

I was assigned to work at Hydrierwerke Scholven in the Ruhr region. Together with hundreds of men from the Netherlands, Belgium, France, Italy, Poland and Russia. I lived in fenced-off, heavily guarded barracks. The food was poor, the work was grueling, and the treatment was harsh. Our lives were constantly at risk, as the Allies targeted the Ruhr’s industrial sites. There were air-raid towers, but they were “Verboten für Ausländer”—forbidden to foreigners. The factory I worked in was devastated during a bombing raid that lasted nearly an entire night. The next day, I was ordered to help retrieve the dead and wounded from the rubble. The sight was horrific—it made me physically ill. I fled into a nearby forest, where I sat for hours, crying from sheer despair, fear, and loneliness.

During this dark time, I was fortunate to meet a fellow Dutchman, Cor van Wegen. Like me he was from the Nijmegen area. Cor was slightly older and had more life experience. He was a skilled tradesman and had earned the trust of the owner of the carpentry workshop where he had been assigned. Thanks to Cor’s recommendation, I was able to transfer there as well. His friendship helped me through the ordeal, especially when, after our factory was shut down, we were forced into brutal, dangerous labour in a coal mine—almost 200 metres underground.

After the Americans crossed the Rhine at Remagen, we found ourselves caught in the crossfire. Cor and I gathered our few possessions onto the frame of an old pram we found among the ruins and began the long journey home on foot.

The reunion with my family was deeply emotional—they barely recognized me; I was so emaciated. For years afterward, my wife would often wake me in the night, as I relived the bombings in my nightmares, haunted by the horrific images of mutilated victims.

Cor and I remained lifelong friends. In those darkest times, his comradeship was what kept me going.