Re: The war in my backyard : memories of a dutch boy
Kees Vanderheyden (keesv@SYMPATICO.CA)
Sat, 1 Mar 1997 12:34:54 -0500
Death Rears Its Head
It was only after several years of war that I discovered the face of
death. The death and destruction taking place far away in Germany
and in Dutch cities exploded before our eyes with images of bombs
and rubble on posters the Germans posted on the walls. They shouted
"Hamburg, Dresden, Arnhem. Van uw vrieden moet U het hebben!"
("Look at the cities of Hamburg, Dresden, Arnhem. Thank your
friends!") All this was terrible, but it seemed remote nevertheless.
During the last hours of the war, along with clear signs of the
Allied advance, I discovered the face of death close by. Death reared
its head just as final victory seemed to smile on us.
The Crosses in the Cemetery
One beautiful September day in 1944, the overhead rumble of planes
was so deafening that the daily flights of the Allied bombers seemed
a simple buzzing noise in comparison. That afternoon, plane after
plane flew by very low to the ground.
These weren't the usual bombers, but big planes towing motorless
square gliders, brushing the tops of the trees as they flew past. We
could even see the pilots and wave to the crew. It was absolutely
incredible and terribly exciting.
The German anti-aircraft defence guns rattled endlessly, but the
procession stayed on its course towards an unknown destination. We
became convinced that they were coming to liberate us that very day.
After several hours of racket and cheering as hundreds of planes flew
by, all was quiet again. But we were worried. Mostly, we were
disappointed. Not a single American or Canadian was in sight.
The Germans were nervous, but they were still lords and masters.
Neighbours reported that one of the gliders had been shot down and
crashed near the village, killing American soldiers in the accident.
We were aghast.
Early the next day, I went to Sint-Peters-Banden church, where I
sang in the choir. There was blood on the church steps, and the
wrought-iron gates to the cemetery were open. German soldiers
were busy with wheelbarrows on which they had placed long,
blood-stained, brown paper bags. I understood that bodies had been
placed in these bags for burial.
The soldiers were tossing the bags into a row of graves they had dug
near the cemetery gates. What had happened? Who were the dead?
Were they Germans, or were they the Allies who had died in
yesterday's plane crash? I had no answers for the moment. First, I
had to serve mass. But as soon as mass was over, I dashed to the
cemetery.
The Germans were gone, but the gates were still open and a crowd
of curious onlookers was examining the freshly-dug graves. I drew
closer. Much to my surprise, there were five wooden crosses with
khaki-coloured military helmets perched atop them. Most of these
helmets were damaged or crushed. And they weren't German helmets
either. What a distressing sight!
Maybe the dead were the people we waved to yesterday. Now they
were buried in our cemetery, next to a row of German graves marked
with similar crosses without helmets. I grew heavy hearted as I took
it all in. I hadn't yet really seen death, but I'd found its sad
monument.
Old Nilleke
Death's second visit struck a little closer to home. Nilleke was a
nice old man who lived in a tiny house just inside the village. He
regularly came to work in our garden. Hunchbacked, his fingers
gnarled and ruined, he shuffled along very slowly, dragging his worn
out old shoes, muttering as he spoke.
Old Nilleke, however, had magic in his hands. He was wonderful at
arranging the flower beds and vegetable garden, and he trimmed our
hedges artfully. This shrewd man had also managed to replace our
bicycles tires with pieces of garden hose. While this system proved
to be a bit painful for our backsides and produced quite a rattling
noise, certainly no German was tempted to confiscate our bikes.
Nilleke's greatest quality, however, was his vast knowledge. He
knew everything and could explain everything. He knew the secrets of
politics. He even knew secret German strategies! While listening to
him chat with two men his age on a village bench one day, I learned
that Nilleke had no fear of bombs.
"It's simple: when you hear the whistling of a bomb, just lie flat on
your tummy. When a bomb hits, it always explodes upwards. Stay
calm and you'll come out of it safe and sound."
Ol' Nilleke: he really did know everything!
Unfortunately, the bombs did not spare this wonderful, clever, and
wise old man. Nilleke was out roaming in the vicinity when the
Allies attacked a German position near the village. Time came to put
his theory into practice, so he laid face down, and the bomb fell on
him. It was with great dismay and many tears that we learned the
sad news of our old Nilleke's death. All his knowledge hadn't save
him.
My Piano Teacher
Another man, who seemed almost as old as Nilleke to me, used to
come to my house once a week. This was my fearsome piano teacher.
That blasted piano!
My mother wanted me to learn to play the piano, since I was the son
of a good family. Do ré mi fa sol la si do! Do si la sol fa mi ré do. To
make matters worse, the piano stood near the big glass door leading
outside to the garden. While my teacher lectured me and my mother
listened in the other room, my friends scoffed at me through the door.
"Are you coming outside? We're waiting for you. Come on!"
What a chore! I supremely detested the piano--not to mention my
piano teacher. My mother did not play the piano, nor did my father. If
this old pain-in-the-neck teacher wasn't there, I could be outside
playing with my friends instead of doing scales.
As much as I disliked my piano teacher, I never wished him any
harm. Tragically, his house in Kerkstraat, near the parish church,
was destroyed by a bomb no doubt seeking a more strategic target.
My poor teacher was home when the fatal moment occurred, and he
probably went to heaven tickling the ivories. Strangely enough, the
news of his death upset me more than Nilleke's had. While I had in no
way wished him dead, I felt guilty because I was now free to run
outside and play rather than practise scales.
Kees Vanderheyden
Mont-Saint-Hilaire, Canada