My father secretly milked German cows during English bombings

My father grew up in a farming family. His father, Dirk Jan de Heus, was a small-scale farmer with a mixed farm—some cows, chickens, and fruit trees. I still remember the water pump in my grandparents’ kitchen and the well outside. Before the war, there was only one lamp, a gas lamp, hanging above the kitchen table. The radio ran on a battery, which had to be taken to Buren on a handcart now and then to be recharged. Adriaan was almost seventeen when the war started. It was a risky age, but because he worked in food production, he was able to avoid forced labor in Germany for a long time. That changed in March 1943, when he went to the cinema in Tiel. Armed German soldiers ordered all 300 visitors outside, and all men eligible for Arbeitseinsatz were deported to Camp Amersfoort. As my father walked through the gates, he saw Dirk van Kuijlenborg, a fellow villager from Erichem who had been caught in a raid on a train to Amsterdam. My father called out to him—and immediately received his first beating from a German soldier. At Camp Amersfoort, my father and Dirk were assigned to the potato commando. They were also among the forced labourers sent to Germany on April 20, as a so-called birthday gift for Hitler. Like Dirk, my father ended up in Dreierwalde at Hopsten airfield, where many foreign labourers worked under terrible conditions.

After the war, it was estimated that more than 700 people died there due to a combination of inadequate food, hard labour, and long working hours. The airfield, including the workers’ accommodations, was also constantly bombed by the British. The situation was so dire that several forced laborers volunteered for the so-called Ostlegion — they joined the German army simply because it meant they would finally get enough to eat.

My father, being a farm boy, knew how to take care of himself. He could slaughter a rabbit or a chicken, he could milk a cow—he always found a way. During English air raids, when everyone else hid in shelters, my father and some comrades took advantage of the chaos and darkness to sneak away, poach game, or secretly milk cows in nearby farms. This helped him supplement his meager rations.

During one of those bombings, he made his final escape. As a farmhand, he easily found work with a German farmer in the village of Hopsten, near the camp. He was warmly welcomed by the Bröntz family. August Bröntz needed a strong helper — most German men were away fighting at the front. My father was well cared for and even started a relationship with the daughter of the local shoemaker. But that romance didn’t last.

Near the end of the war, my father became seriously ill with diphtheria and ended up in a German hospital. As a result, he didn’t return to Erichem until October 1945, five months after the liberation. Soon after, he found work at farmer Sijtveld’s in Kapel-Avezaath—where he also met my mother.

My father always shared many stories about his experiences. As a young boy, I was all ears. In 1965, when he traveled to Germany with my eldest brother to visit the Bröntz family and the shoemaker’s family, I could barely contain my excitement—I wanted to see where he had been! So, in 1967, at 17 years old, I rode my moped all the way there, with just 35 guilders in my pocket. I was warmly received and got to stay overnight at the shoemaker’s house. And along the way, I bought the single Keep on Running by the Spencer Davis Group for one guilder!