anew when his repertoire seemed worn out? Far more
worrying was the notion that his re-runs did not
always coincide with earlier versions of his stories.
Which ending, or details, was I to believe?
Only many years later did I make a serious attempt
to extract a definitive version of his war-adventures
from him. Armed with a cassette-recorder, I visited
my parent's house. My father and I looked for a place
opposite each other across the table. Although I had
put it into my head that my aim must be historical,
this conviction seemed to evaporate when I started on
the rough draft of his stories. Certain fantastic aspects
of what he told me had my preference. Always at the
expense of the real historical war-experiences that I
had wanted to describe. Could this development mean
that I had curtailed my war-trauma? Probably so, but
it remains a guessing-game, what goes on in the
deep...
Another conclusion must be that the noisy beginning
of my life made it so, that I hadn't got a tear left later
on in life. So I could face the huge spectre of post-war
peace in reasonable balance, and with dry eyes.
II
I shall not reveal the digest of my interview, the main
story of my father's war-adventures. Only the most
fantastic and most absurd event from that time shall
be revealed. It should be a symbol of the chaos that
ruled in that great Realm of Darkness. How could my
father pass on these ultimate experiences to us? All
his stories were insufficient (by definition) to shed
light upon the humiliating and yet exciting days, end
of 1944, and the beginning of 1945. Is that why he
endlessly repeated his stories?
Spring of 1945. Suddenly my father and his brothers
found themselves trapped amidst great troop-move
ments. As if caught in the eye of a military tornado.
After a successful escape-attempt in the vicinity of
Bremen, they had to plow their way through heavy
shooting, minefields and hostile towns and villages.
Fugitives from all over Europe are swarming through.
In this total anarchy, anything goes.
In a village, the name of which I have never heard
mentioned, the brothers find a small railway-station,
and an abandoned train-carriage. They force a lock,
and drag out all the freight. Sealed boxes and crates.
The loot is a disappointment: ladies nylons,
umbrellas, ladies underwear and apples. At last they
force open a metal box. This contains plenty of Dutch
banknotes. The well-known notes of 25 and 10 guil
ders, but also brown, unknown banknotes of 5 guil
ders. The sight of all this money has them loose their
last inhibitions. From that moment on, they are invin
cible. They count off over 100.000 guilders, stuff the
money in their battered rucksacks, and regain their
breath in the station building. To release the tension,
they throw stones at a portrait of Hitler. They rumma
ge through the mailbags behind the station-counter.
Finally they set fire to the building. The loot is handed
out amongst the locals the next day. Women and
children line up in rows on the only platform. Then
they head off south, on foot or hitchhiking. By now,
they looked like Mexican bandits: Spanish boots (sto
len), leather coats (traded), berets, long hair, pistols
(obtained from an Englishman), head lice and fleas.
After a screening and de-lousing, and a short,
compulsory stay in Eindhoven, they are allowed to
return to Rotterdam. With the money, they can't do
much. There is hardly anything on sale in town. My
father, usually very keen on saving, spends thousands
of guilders on fairgrounds and dancehalls. He even
buys a few paintings which he doesn't even like
much. When after the war the great money-launde
ring scheme starts under Finance-Minister Lieftinck
(The Netherlands looks like an empty shop with an
overflowing till), my grandfather has an accountant
figure out what he could have saved during a dutiful
life. That amount, 25.000 guilders, he trades in for
unsuspected, whitewashed money. The rest of his loot
was by then either spent or burned, for fear of being
incriminated.
Probably to sweep the fantastic element of this
story to even greater heights, the following happens.
My Granddad takes the money to a bank office of
Mees Hope, and obtains exchange-tenders. Back
home, he wants to throw them on the table, in
demonstration. But what is the case? The tenders
have disappeared from his inside-coat pocket.
Of course, this causes some commotion in the
family. Who is in cahoots with whom? Later, my father
will never admit to a possible conspiracy by his parents,
brothers and sisters. This fact is just too painful, too
subverting for our trust. How can his children believe
in the future, when they realize that the Great War is
not only fought outside the family, but also within?
18 Zeeuws Tijdschrift 2004/6-7
