I buried the duds in the garden

When the war started, I was still attending trade school in Tiel. But then the threat of the Arbeitseinsatz loomed, and I wanted no part of it. So, together with one of my brothers, I went into farming. I even learned to milk cows for this specific reason! We would travel around together, renting fruit trees from farmers. During harvest time, we picked the fruit and tried to sell it at a profit. That’s how we ended up in the border region between Nijmegen and Kleve. We were considered so-called Grenzarbeiter (border workers). In that capacity, I worked for quite a while in Zyfflich, on the German side of the border. I stayed with a farming family where Russians and Poles also worked. The bizarre thing was that I was allowed to eat at the table inside the house, while the Russians and Poles weren’t allowed beyond the barn. The farmer was a fanatical German and his four children were all members of the Hitlerjugend. I quickly learned never to talk about politics…

One advantage of being a Grenzarbeiter was that I was allowed to go home at the weekends. Every Saturday afternoon, I would journey all the way home and on Sunday evening I would cycle back. I stayed there until 7 June 1944. But after the Allied landings on the coast of Normandy, I went into hiding—I refused to go back. At home, we had a fruit and vegetable nursery with vast stretches of land. So, if necessary, I had plenty of places to hide. When I made my escape, I ran into someone I knew near the border. I said, “Come with me! We’ll hide until those German border guards are gone, and when it’s safe, you can hop on the back of my bike to Leuth.” But he didn’t dare. He never made it home again and was listed as missing after the war. I believe he perished in the bombings of Kleve.

In the autumn of 1944, we were liberated—but at the same time, our village became the frontline. A group of Dutch comrades formed the Stoottroepen (storm troops). They wore blue overalls and carried stolen German rifles they barely knew how to use. My eldest brother was among them. Once, they captured a German spy and locked him in the coal bunker under the town hall. The next morning, when one of the storm troopers brought him food, the German shot him with a pistol they had failed to find during the search and escaped. That day, the others hunted him down with a vengeance. I was picking fruit when they finally found him, hiding in a dry ditch. They were so furious that they riddled him with bullets.

I spent more time with the English soldiers stationed in our village. Tommy, the driver of one of the carriers, became a close friend of mine. He gave me a military jacket and a black beret, and I even took part in guard duty. Once, we arrested an English-speaking motorcyclist who couldn’t give the correct password—only to later find out he was an American chaplain. I kept in touch with Tom long after the war; I thought very highly of him!

In the final days of the war, the Germans fired off as much ammunition as possible to prevent it from becoming Allied war booty. A week before the capitulation, five German mortars hit our house. Luckily, my father had reinforced the windows with shutters he’d bought from bargemen. We did end up with a large hole in the roof however. And there were two unexploded shells in the garden. I picked them up by hand and took them inside, later burying them in a deep pit. Perhaps they‘re still there to this day!