Finding Shelter: A Child's Memoir of WWII

By Angelina Fast-Vlaar

It has been said that with the outbreak of the Second World War, Europe entered her darkest period in history. What was it like for a young child to live through those years of conflict and carnage in the Netherlands? Angelina Fast-Vlaar shares a tender, personal story of her impressions, questions, and panic against the backdrop of a loving extended family, living just thirty kilometres from the enemy border. She observes her parents deal with the Hitler-induced restrictions and atrocities with courage, resilience, and an unshakable faith in a loving God, while at the same time reaching out to provide food and shelter to the starving and homeless. The deafening noise of battle echoes on, as she innocently plays with siblings and cousins in their somewhat-protected back yard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Word Alive Press
• Release date: Apr 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781486615957

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Acknowledgements

Every family has a common pool of memories, and each member has their own particular memory of a shared event. I am indebted to my extended family for taking time to reminisce about our childhood memories of a devastating time—the Second World War. A special thanks to Ante, Elly, Hendrik, Henk, Aaf, and Tonny. Thank you, René, for accompanying us to Westerbork.

Thank you to my son, Bruce, our so-called family historian, for accompanying me on two trips back to Holland to help you to remember.

Thank you, Bert van Dop, for opening the Middlebert church for us, for taking an interest in this project, for sending me photos, and especially for sending me the details of the burning bomber.

Thank you, Donna Mann, Stan de Jong, Hendrik Harssema, and Bruce Fast for your kind words of commendation.

Thank you, Michael Caunter, for the beautifully crafted map of my village and all its waterways.

Thank you, friends at Martindale Place, for your constant encouragement to finish the story.

And last, but far from least, thank you to the Word Alive Press staff for putting it all together and delivering a beautiful final product.

Prologue

Thank you, Grandson Josh, for asking about these stories. It’s been an interesting journey, to say the least, to enter this vault of memories again. The first time I entered was a few dozen years ago while visiting a WWII display in a museum in Ottawa. Emotions overwhelmed me then as I stood face to face with the cruelties we experienced in Holland. It was all too much. I was with a friend who had lived through the worst parts of that war, and who had the same reaction. We both quickly exited the area. This time, in preparation for the book, I sorted through memories a few at a time, and memories triggered more memories. It surprised me to discover how much I had stored away—scenes, facial expressions, actual conversations—as far back as ages two and three. Perhaps my recall of this highly charged period of time is so vivid because there was little else to distract us. Since we were house-bound—or, in our case, yard-bound—with very few toys, we spent time absorbing our environment, imprinting on our young minds the events taking place around us.

Sifting through my past has led me to a deeper love and appreciation for my family and their bravery and resilience. I’ve learned much about myself, the conditions of the world at that time, and the effects they had on us.

It’s been good to dwell on the concept of shelter. This verse conveys what’s in my heart: Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty (Psalm 91:1).

The following quotes have guided my writing:

For all honest revelation there is a price to pay … revealing moments of weakness and doubt which occur in everyone’s life. But integrity demands this to be done.1

Good creative works open up space for people to hear for themselves, what matters to them.2

That is why I tell you stories—so I can remember who I am and someday there will be something there to help you remember who you are (Harold Rhenisch).

To tell my story, I’ve gathered morsels of memories and fit them into days—sunny days and days when the shadow of war cast a menacing gloom over our lives.

Lovingly dedicated to all my amazing family in

Canada

Australia

The Netherlands

Our house in Middelbert—a three-family home.

Family in front of rose bed:

Mom (Trijn Boerema), Dad (Elte Harssema), Henk, and Lineke

Chapter 1

The Sunny summer of ‘39

Sundays are the best. Especially when the sun is shining. And Dad is singing.

Mom was helping me get dressed, and excitement was written all over her face. She’d just finished knitting a new outfit for me—a dark-blue skirt and a pink sweater.

Look, they button together, she said, smiling from ear to ear. See the buttons around the bottom edge of the sweater? I glanced down and nodded. And look, I made buttonholes along the top edge of the skirt! She poked a finger through one of the buttonholes. I nodded again. So let’s button it together! Her excitement seemed to mount. When you grow, I’ll move the buttons down, so it will fit you for a long time, she added, as if she had a premonition of the hardships to come.

When the outfit was fastened together, she stroked the skirt, which flared out at the bottom, and said, These colours look so good on you. I sensed how very pleased she was. She touched the sweater and explained that the pink wasn’t just a plain pink, but a rose colour. And do you like the little pompoms? she asked. She had crocheted a string to serve as a ribbon tied under my chin with two blue pompoms attached to it. After standing a moment and admiring the outfit, her beautiful, round face radiating pleasure, she said, Run upstairs and show Tante Tina (Aunt Tina). She’d love to see it.

I went out the back door, down our porch steps, and ran around the house to the side door. Tante Tina lived upstairs with Oom Daan (Uncle Daan) and Opa Harssema (Grandpa Harssema). I rang the bell and waited to hear a click. Their door latch had a string that ran through loops on their banister all the way upstairs so that the door could be opened from up there. When I heard the click of the latch, I pushed the door open. Tante Tina was standing at the top of the stairs, smiling.

Oh, it’s you, Lineke, she said. Come on up. The staircase was very high, and it felt as if I were climbing a tall tower. Tante Tina admired my new outfit, spun me around, and said, Your mom did a beautiful job. It looks lovely! I smiled and went back down to tell Mom what Tante Tina had said.

Our red-brick house was enormous—the largest in our village. Dad and his two brothers, my Oom Arie and Oom Daan, operated a market gardening business, and they had built a house where three separate families could comfortably live. We lived on the side which faced two canals. Oom Arie and his family lived on the opposite side where the driveway was, and Oom Daan lived upstairs.

I now watched Mom set the table for breakfast. Sunday breakfasts were special because Dad didn’t have to go to work. Also, we could have a soft-boiled egg to eat, as well as a round rusk with chocolate sprinklers on it! I watched as Mom placed a small, white, ceramic egg cup beside each of the four plates. Our table was in the back room with our potbelly stove. The room had two large windows overlooking our back yard, and a side window overlooking the sloot (sloat), a small canal which ran alongside our property. Two sliding doors across from the big windows opened to the little room where Henk (my older brother) and I usually played.

I had a doll named Liesje and her four-poster bed, which had a curtain around it. I was a bit disappointed when I got Liesje, because she had no real hair and looked like a boy. Henk’s favourite thing to do was to stand on his chair and look out the window. He could see ships moving in the big canal which ran next to the sloot, and he could watch the bridge-watcher crank the bridge open and shut to let the boats go through.

We also had a front room. It had a large bay window facing the road, and an elegant stove with little windows it its door so that you could watch flames dance inside. Mom’s organ stood beside the mantel. It was fascinating to watch her play. She had to pump pedals up and down with her feet to make a sound come out and then her fingers played the tune, hands and feet all moving together like a busy weaver. The room had a low table with four comfortable chairs. Mom served tea in this room when we had company.

The back door opened and I heard Dad enter the kitchen, so I went there. He had been in the barn milking our two cows. He smiled at Mom and gave her a shiny can of milk.

Here’s the milk, my dear, he said. Mom poured it into a pan and set it on a petrol burner to boil it.

I knew that Mom and Dad loved each other, because they always smiled when they saw each other. Dad’s blue eyes seemed to sparkle when he looked at Mom, and his voice was always soft and gentle. Dad moved to the sink, filled a basin with water, and washed his face and hands. Opa and Opoe Boerema (Grandpa and Grandma), who lived in the big city of Groningen, had a special little room with a toilet and a sink. We didn’t have that. Our toilet was in an enclosed outhouse on the back porch, and we all washed at the kitchen sink. Last night, like every other Saturday night, Mom had placed her laundry tub on the kitchen floor, heated a kettle of water, poured it into the tub, added cold water until the temperature was just right, and then Henk and I had a bath in the tub. In the same water. I was glad I was first.

Dad loved to sing, and the kitchen now filled with his beautiful baritone voice. And then the magic happened. Faint and far away, I heard another voice. It was Oom Daan’s from upstairs, joining in. His voice was higher—a tenor. I moved into the hall and leaned against the shiny banister of our staircase to catch every sound. And then I heard it—Oom Arie’s deep bass voice from next door, also joining in. Three brothers singing a hymn in perfect three-part harmony on a Sunday morning. It was beautiful. It was magic. I stood very still and listened…

Sundays were the best. Especially when the sun was shining and Dad was singing … with his brothers.

Harssema family. Standing: Annie, Arend (Arie), Daan. Seated: Elte (Dad), Opa Henricus, Martha, Opoe Antje (Bouwman), Trien.

Chapter 2

Remember When?

It was Sunday again, or maybe it was the same Sunday. Dad, his brothers, and Tante Tina left to go to church. Mom stayed home with Henk and me, and Tante Trien stayed home with her two children, our cousins, Ante and Elly. Ante was a bit younger than Henk, and they often played together. Elly was almost two years old, and I played with her a bit.

When the four adults returned from church, I remember Tante Trien coming out on her back porch and saying, Let’s have coffee outside.

That’s a great idea, Mom replied. It’s such a lovely day, and I’ve already made the coffee.

I watched as Mom and my aunts brought the coffee paraphernalia outside: cups and saucers, cream and sugar, koek (spice cake), and pots of coffee. The men brought out chairs and set some crates together under the big walnut tree in front of our packing shed to serve as a table. I wanted to be part of the happy group, so I brought my blue chair out onto the porch. Dad picked it up and carried it down the steps for me, and I pulled it to where the others were. Henk also brought his chair outside. His chair had armrests and looked like a grown-up’s chair. Mine was more like a plain kitchen chair.

Ante and Elly came outside and ran toward us. Henk and I now joined them in our favourite activity—running around the yard trying to tag each other, laughing and squealing to our hearts’ content. Favourite running places were the two sloping brick ramps that led into our basement, designed so that the wagons, used to transport produce to the city, could be parked in the basement. One ramp was on our side of the house, and one on Oom Arie’s side. We ran down, trying not to trip; we ran up, trying to keep up speed. Elly carefully walked down and back up.

When everything was ready, the seven adults (Opa had also come down) sat around the makeshift table enjoying their after-church coffee. They seemed to have so much to tell each other. Everyone was talking, and laughter filled the yard. I heard one of the adults say, Remember when … followed by what must have been a comical story, because they all laughed. Then another said, Remember when … followed by another story, and everyone burst out laughing hysterically. Still another one said, Remember when … The stories seemed to get more and more humourous, because the laughter got louder and louder as everyone took a turn. Gales of laughter rang out across the yard. I was fascinated. My family seemed to be able to remember many happy, even hilarious, events.

Elly had settled on Tante Trien’s lap. Henk and Ante were still running around. I was getting tired and hungry, so I moved my chair closer to Mom’s and rested my head on her lap. After awhile Mom said, You run along now. Maybe she didn’t want me to hear the stories, but I didn’t move. Mom gently pushed me and with a no-nonsense voice said again, I want you to run along now.

With a sigh, I lifted my head from her lap. I grasped the top rung of the back of my chair and pulled it across our yard to the sloot, placing it at the edge of the water between the chicken coop and our barn. The chickens squawked, and the rooster chased them. I sat very still, and it seemed like everything around me hushed except for the lighthearted laughter still filling the yard. The water glistened in the sun, mirroring the blue sky above. A fish swam just below the surface. My mind drifted …

All the adults remember so many things! When I’m an adult, I’m going to have to remember things