My father was beaten terribly in Camp Amersfoort

“I come from a large family. When the war began, there were six of us. In 1944, my youngest sister was born. My father was partially disabled. He made a living by delivering herring to the workers at the brick factory. He would cycle there around lunchtime with a small bucket of fish hanging from his handlebars. Later, he got a little cart attached to his bike, which allowed him to sell more products—vegetables and fruit. We were quite poor, but still, we never truly went hungry. Now and then, my father would bring home sugar beets. My mother would cook them, and we’d eat sugar beet syrup on our bread. Or, if an animal had been slaughtered, we’d have lard with a bit of sugar—something we found quite tasty. Sometimes, he’d bring home a small jar of pickled herring. We would each get a tiny piece, and we’d make it last over four sandwiches!”

“In that final war winter, we were surrounded by Germans on all sides. They were billeted everywhere around us. Every evening, three soldiers would pass by our house on their way to their quarters in the public school. They were kind men. My mother would chat with them sometimes, and one evening she invited them in for a cup of coffee. I remember it so well: one of them saw my little brother and suddenly broke down in heart-wrenching sobs! From that moment on, he came by every evening, and my little brother would sit on his lap for a while, and they would cuddle. He had a small boy of his own back home. Yes, it was terrible for those young soldiers too!”

“One day in 1944, my father was arrested! He had bought and slaughtered a sheep. All in secret—we knew nothing about it. But the Germans found out. My father didn’t deny it. Instead, he defended himself by explaining that he had many mouths to feed. Maybe he could have gotten away with it, but it turned out the sheep had been stolen. He couldn’t prove he had paid for it, as deals were made with a simple handshake in those days. He was sent to Camp Vught and, shortly after, transferred to Camp Amersfoort. He suffered terribly there and was brutally beaten. We learned this from the lawyer that my mother had hired. My mother wasn’t afraid. She went to the town hall first. When they ordered her to give the Hitler salute, she refused.

“My father then suffered from bloody diarrhea. Without medicine and proper nutrition, that would have been a death sentence. The lawyer managed to smuggle pills into the camp. All in all, my father was gone for three months. The fact that he survived and made it out alive—it’s nothing short of a miracle!”