There were long queues for even the
most basic foods, in spite of rationing. Oma von Ziegenweidt, in her seventies,
always insisted on going grocery shopping for us. When Oma queued up, people
would be sympathetic, saying, “Oh, let the poor old lady go ahead.” Oma played her age to her advantage. I
suppose we were lucky because not every family had an old grandmother at their
disposal.
In order to alleviate the
desperate situation a little, the municipality started a soup kitchen. The
problem was not only a food shortage and having to queue up for the little that
was available, but also an almost complete lack of cooking fuel. Soup was
prepared centrally and distributed to various distribution points throughout
the town. It was made of cabbage, onions, carrots, some potatoes – and a lot of
water. It was ladled out according to the number of ration coupons tendered. You
also had to pay for it. You would come with an empty pan to the distribution
point, where a volunteer dished out the soup. In our neighbourhood, a retired neighbour
had taken on this task. One day he had a cold and a large drop was hanging from
his nose. Everybody wondered in dread when this drop would fall. Luckily our
soup was spared.
From time to time the Resistance would sabotage the Germans. As a precaution, the Germans had taken hostage a number of prominent people. Soon after an attack, they would shoot a couple of hostages. The Germans would paste red posters with a “Bekanntmachung” (Announcement), listing the names of the people who had been killed in reprisal. Sometimes they would simply pick people up off the street and shoot them summarily. In Tiel, they shot the eighteen year old Marcel van Tinkelenberg, whom I had visited at home because played the accordion so well. The father of my friend Jan Daalderop was somebody else who wasn't able to escape this fate. He was the managing director of a large metal products factory in Tiel. Both had lived close to our old house in Drumpt.
 |
| Line up at a soup kitchen in Amsterdam during winter of 1944-1945 Source: https://themasterforger.wordpress.com/2011/01/31/the-dutch-hunger-winter/ |
From time to time the Resistance would sabotage the Germans. As a precaution, the Germans had taken hostage a number of prominent people. Soon after an attack, they would shoot a couple of hostages. The Germans would paste red posters with a “Bekanntmachung” (Announcement), listing the names of the people who had been killed in reprisal. Sometimes they would simply pick people up off the street and shoot them summarily. In Tiel, they shot the eighteen year old Marcel van Tinkelenberg, whom I had visited at home because played the accordion so well. The father of my friend Jan Daalderop was somebody else who wasn't able to escape this fate. He was the managing director of a large metal products factory in Tiel. Both had lived close to our old house in Drumpt.
Together with one of her friends,
Mother made three exhausting bicycle trips to the east of the country in order
to find food for the family. These expeditions were both difficult and
dangerous. Transporting food that had not been purchased with ration coupons
was strictly forbidden. They rode on bicycles with worn-out tyres. In spite of
the dangers, Mother always succeeded in bringing home potatoes, pulses, grain
and rye.
Women generally wore men’s clothing during the last winter of the war, to better protect them against the cold. I still clearly remember seeing Mother wearing one of Father’s old brown three-piece suits. She wore it without the waistcoat while travelling. It was a practical solution in a time when new clothing was simply unavailable. Mother completed the look with a triangular headscarf.
Women generally wore men’s clothing during the last winter of the war, to better protect them against the cold. I still clearly remember seeing Mother wearing one of Father’s old brown three-piece suits. She wore it without the waistcoat while travelling. It was a practical solution in a time when new clothing was simply unavailable. Mother completed the look with a triangular headscarf.
One time she wasn’t planning to go far.
With her friend she rode to Spakenburg, but there was nothing available. They
rode on to Nijkerk and then to Harderwijk, without success. It wasn’t until
they reached the province of Overijssel that they were able to buy food. At
night they slept in the straw above the cowsheds or in haystacks, on condition
that they first hand over to the farmer any matches they might have been
carrying.
The first night, nobody worried when Mother didn't come home. The second day wasn’t too bad, but by the third day we were quite worried. Only Father, in his typical way, remained
impassive. Even after a full week he showed no emotion.
In the meanwhile, Mother had a very hard time in Overijssel. Her bicycle was heavily laden and she was very tired. The worst was that there were inspectors at the bridge across the River IJssel, and they were confiscating any food they found.
While Mother was wondering what to do, it started to get dark and it was almost curfew. Luckily a convoy of German troop transports drove up. Mother and her friend asked if they could catch a ride. Moments later, Mother, her friend, their bicycles and all their precious contraband were safely hidden on board the truck with the Germans. Mother and her friend sat on benches between the young men and soon a soldier rested his head on one of Mother’s shoulders, a sailor on the other.
They were very lucky. Not only did the truck bring them safely past the inspectors and across the river, but they were brought all the way to Amersfoort. From there they rode their bicycles back home again.
In Baarn, Mother had a puncture. She went to the police station, where the officers were good enough to patch her tyre for her.
Eventually both women arrived home safely with their loads.
When it was all over, Father admitted that after more than a week without word, he had been getting quite concerned.
In the meanwhile, Mother had a very hard time in Overijssel. Her bicycle was heavily laden and she was very tired. The worst was that there were inspectors at the bridge across the River IJssel, and they were confiscating any food they found.
While Mother was wondering what to do, it started to get dark and it was almost curfew. Luckily a convoy of German troop transports drove up. Mother and her friend asked if they could catch a ride. Moments later, Mother, her friend, their bicycles and all their precious contraband were safely hidden on board the truck with the Germans. Mother and her friend sat on benches between the young men and soon a soldier rested his head on one of Mother’s shoulders, a sailor on the other.
They were very lucky. Not only did the truck bring them safely past the inspectors and across the river, but they were brought all the way to Amersfoort. From there they rode their bicycles back home again.
In Baarn, Mother had a puncture. She went to the police station, where the officers were good enough to patch her tyre for her.
Eventually both women arrived home safely with their loads.
When it was all over, Father admitted that after more than a week without word, he had been getting quite concerned.
The trips were hard on Mother’s
health, weakened as she was by the food shortage. It was probably during this
time that she contracted TB, although she didn't find out about it until after the
liberation.
She had to spend a full six months recuperating at home. In those days, this meant full bed rest and lots of milk. However, even after the end of the war, there was a shortage of cows and it was very difficult to find milk. Medication against TB wasn't available.
---
Footnote
In this same period, the 21 year old Nely Sneder wrote this descriptive letter to her friend that echoes this story:
A couple of weeks ago, all the men were ordered to present themselves to go work on the Ijssellinie. At 9am [the Germans] started to search the houses. If you didn't open the door, they blasted it open with a grenade. They had machine guns too. Two men who tried to escape were shot dead.
My father is 45, but thankfully they weren't able to catch him. After a week the men who hadn't been taken were walking about on the streets again but [the Germans] now pick them up for forced labour loading and unloading the trains. The food situation here is hopeless. No potatoes, no butter, no milk, no sugar, very little bread, etc. The smallest children are given dried milk and rapeseed oil instead of butter. That's all. You'll be wondering what we're doing to survive. There is a central soupkitchen. If you give them ration tickets, you can at least get something hot to eat every day. They serve pea, brown bean, onion and vegetable soup, but if you ask me, it's all the same. There's porridge too, but it's so thin that it's just like water. The past three Sundays we were served porridge with syrup as a treat. The whole family (except mother, my youngest brother and I) went out to glean potatoes. They got up at 6am, it was pouring rain, and they were up to their calves in mud, but they came home with almost 3 bushels. They looked like pigs! Gas and electricity stopped a while back. We cook on the heating stove, but we don't have coal. My 15 year old sister and my 12 year old brother go out to look for wood as often as possible with a saw and an axe. Last week their saw was confiscated so that's become more difficult as well.
Source: https://www.historischekringbussum.nl/images/2016/DeLaatsteLoodjesTVE2016.pdf
She had to spend a full six months recuperating at home. In those days, this meant full bed rest and lots of milk. However, even after the end of the war, there was a shortage of cows and it was very difficult to find milk. Medication against TB wasn't available.
---
Footnote
In this same period, the 21 year old Nely Sneder wrote this descriptive letter to her friend that echoes this story:
A couple of weeks ago, all the men were ordered to present themselves to go work on the Ijssellinie. At 9am [the Germans] started to search the houses. If you didn't open the door, they blasted it open with a grenade. They had machine guns too. Two men who tried to escape were shot dead.
My father is 45, but thankfully they weren't able to catch him. After a week the men who hadn't been taken were walking about on the streets again but [the Germans] now pick them up for forced labour loading and unloading the trains. The food situation here is hopeless. No potatoes, no butter, no milk, no sugar, very little bread, etc. The smallest children are given dried milk and rapeseed oil instead of butter. That's all. You'll be wondering what we're doing to survive. There is a central soupkitchen. If you give them ration tickets, you can at least get something hot to eat every day. They serve pea, brown bean, onion and vegetable soup, but if you ask me, it's all the same. There's porridge too, but it's so thin that it's just like water. The past three Sundays we were served porridge with syrup as a treat. The whole family (except mother, my youngest brother and I) went out to glean potatoes. They got up at 6am, it was pouring rain, and they were up to their calves in mud, but they came home with almost 3 bushels. They looked like pigs! Gas and electricity stopped a while back. We cook on the heating stove, but we don't have coal. My 15 year old sister and my 12 year old brother go out to look for wood as often as possible with a saw and an axe. Last week their saw was confiscated so that's become more difficult as well.
Source: https://www.historischekringbussum.nl/images/2016/DeLaatsteLoodjesTVE2016.pdf
No comments:
Post a Comment