You’re alive, that’s what matters most!

My father was a bridge keeper. Shortly before the war, we lived next to the bridge in Raamsdonkveer. Close to the bridge was a barracks where many Dutch soldiers were stationed during the 1939 mobilization. That was a fun time—the soldiers would pull me on a little sled through the snow. Just before the war began, the Dutch military rigged the bridge with explosives to blow it up in case of a German attack. I remember that on 9 May, many Dutch soldiers crossed the bridge. They were exhausted and thirsty, clearly after a long march. My sister and I spent the entire evening handing out water. They told my mother: “You’d best pack a few suitcases. If you hear shooting early tomorrow morning, that means the bridge is being blown up. You must get out of the house!” The next day, at five or six in the morning, we were standing outside. At exactly six o’clock, the bridge was gone! I was eleven years old, so I remember it vividly. The bridge in Heusden was also rigged with explosives, and as we stood on the dyke, we saw that one blow up as well! I can still see the flames.

After that, life resumed, somewhat as usual. I recall an English fighter plane being shot down. The pilot managed to parachute to safety, but he was captured and taken to the police station. We saw it happen on our way to school in Heusden. Of course, we immediately went to the police station—we wanted to see an English pilot up close! We arrived at school very late and got send to detention as punishment.

On the first Sunday of October 1944, my father, my sister Rens, and I were at church. My mother and my brother Anton stayed home. When we returned, they told us they had seen an English aircraft attacking a ship. My mother said: “We stood by the upstairs window and watched. It was amazing!” But the next day, it wasn’t so amazing anymore. The English came back three times.

Later, we lived in fear of the German V1 flying bombs. They could explode mid-air or crash unexpectedly. We had to evacuate. Because my father worked for Rijkswaterstaat as a bridge keeper, he was deemed essential and managed to get permission for us to stay in the area. We ended up in Zuilichem with just a cart full of belongings. There, three families—14 people in total—lived together in the Water Pumping Station.

I will never forget the day of the liberation—how we rode from Zuilichem through the Sterrebos to Nederhemert. The weather was beautiful, and we were finally allowed to return home. I felt so happy. When we arrived, our house near the bridge was destroyed. But we were alive, that what mattered most.