15. February 1945: Sitting on a bomb and using stationary bikes for lighting

At some point during the war, the Germans established their headquarters in the Jan Tabak hotel. The Resistance presumably managed to signal this through to England, because fighter aircraft bombed the hotel. 

The ruined Jan Tabak Hotel. Source: https://www.europeana.eu/portal/de/record/2021641/publiek_detail_aspx_xmldescid_197819162.html#&gid=1&pid=1

Although the building was totally destroyed, they missed their goal as the Wehrmacht had moved on to the Hotel Bosch van Bredius a short while earlier.

I went to take a look at the damage with my four-year old brother. The walls were still standing. In the garden we saw a bomb, about one and a half metres long and 45 cm in diameter. It was green, pointy at one end and flat at the other. 

“Jan,”  I said, “We've walked a long way. Let’s take a rest. We can sit down on that bomb.”  And that's exactly what we did. There we were, the last male descendants of the centuries-old von Ziegenweidt line, casually sitting on an unexploded 500-pounder. Admittedly we did sit down very carefully. 

Later, when we came home, our parents didn't appreciate the story one bit when we told them what we had done.

A month later, the fighter jets came back and destroyed the Hotel ‘Bosch van Bredius' as well. Unfortunately they missed their target again because the Germans had left this place too. The loss of these hotels was a real pity. Both had tremendous ambiance, and the Jan Tabak had been built in the seventeenth century.

Undated postcard showing the Bosch van Bredius hotel. Source: https://ansichtkaartenbeurs.nl/images/kaarten/nh_8841.jpg

It was doubly tragic that the house next door, owned by the Bouvie family, was hit too and Mrs. Bouvie was fatally injured. She had been one of Father’s clients and had also sometimes visited us at home.

The office of the bank as well as the flat upstairs had central heating, which was used throughout most of the Occupation. Not that it was ever really warm, because we had to be very sparing with fuel, but at least there was some heat. Originally oil was used in the furnace, but early on in the Occupation, it was converted for coal. In 1944, the bank stopped receiving coal allotments and from then on we had to fend for ourselves.

When the electricity supply had stopped altogether in November, we had to improvise lighting in the evenings. Mother’s small supply of candles was soon depleted and we started using oil lamps. Although oil was no longer available in the stores, we discovered that the old oil tank from our central heating system still contained a small residue. We hoisted out the oil using a tin tied to a string. These oil lamps were smoky and exuded a permeating smell but at least there was light.

Some people attached bicycle dynamoes to little windmills on their roof. These 6 volt dynamos dissipated a lot of the energy along the long wire from the roof to the room below. Even if a strong wind was blowing outside, bicycle lamps provided very little light. Another way of providing light was putting a stationary bicycle in a room and peddling.

The food shortage had become extreme. Even with ration coupons there was almost nothing available any more. Even the soup kitchens closed down. In Amsterdam people died of starvation, especially the elderly and the very young. In reprisal for the railway strike, the German High Commissioner had stopped all food transportation from the east to the west of the country.

In Bussum, if we were lucky, all that was still available were small quantities of sugar beets, and these were rationed too. They tasted disgusting. Mother would give us a bit of grated beet in the morning, a small quantity of beet gruel in the afternoon, and if there was any left, the same in the evening. Occasionally, there might be some cooked peas or half a potato from Mother’s foraging expeditions to the east of the country. We had all become very thin. I think my parents gave us a little extra from their own meagre portions.

When the food shortage reached its peak, very young children were given a warm meal twice a week at the ‘Bensdorp’ factory in Bussum. Somehow, management, with the authorities’ permission, had obtained food outside the official distribution. My sister and my little brother, 8 and 4 years old respectively, were allowed to go. It was most probably these extra meals and Mother’s foraging expeditions that saved our lives.