World War 2 memories
World War 2 began just after my nineth birthday. Married, with 3 small children, we bought a summer house on an island in Lake St. Louis in 1958, accessible only by ferry or boat. There I met a Dutch family – Joop (Josef) Van Riel, Mientje Willhemina and their son and daughter Gregory and Renee, the same age as my children. We became fast friends. They had grown up in Amsterdam, came to Canada in 1952, and rented (later bought) a house on the island. We often spoke about the war.
The winter of 1944 had been terrible for both the Dutch, and the occupying German army. The Germans had, unwisely, broached the dikes, so that no crops could thrive in the salt soil. Everyone was starving. They were eating leaves, grasses, tulip bulbs, bugs, mice. Every able person was working in the resistance. My friend, only 2 years older than I, road her bike into the country – this in itself was dangerous, to pass the camouflaged German camp sites, slowly, counting the number of troops, tanks, armed vehicles, if possible the regiments and a guess at the number of artillery pieces. Nothing could be written down, she could not stop or in any way be spotted or stopped, so she paddled on a bit, and, if possible, returned home a different way. Her information was given to someone unknown to her and passed on.
Then suddenly, RCAF Canadian Aircraft began to fly over the city. Boxes were dropped nearby. They must be quick to hide, before the Germans could get them. Food, bread, meat, real coffee, things unseen for a very long time. Also jars of brown, smooth stuff. What could it be? Peanut butter!
In 1959 or 60, we were having a lot of renovations on our old house on the Bord-du-lac (Lakeshore) Road in Dorval. Amongst the workers, a man recently arrived from Holland, just hired. He didn’t know he was expected to pack a lunch. I offered him coffee or tea, fruit and a sandwich, what would he like? “Do you have peanut butter?” Though he had only been 4 years old in 1945, it was still his greatest treat! I gave him the rest of the nearly empty jar to take home.
My husband, a medical doctor, had served in the R.A.M.C. for 5 years in North Africa, Italy and India. I met him in 1952, we were married in December 1952. Thus, my children had dual citizenship and, if they travelled, were readily admitted everywhere they choose to go, as was I - married to a British person.
Two of my mother’s brothers in the Canadian army were amongst the soldiers who marched into Amsterdam that glorious May day. My friend Mientje often described their welcome. Nothing was denied them – a hot bath, a real bed with clean linens - if it was available they got it and more. Some were even hiding downed Canadian RCAF men, who, of course, were immediately out on the streets being feted with the others. It lasted for weeks – until ships or aircraft came to take the heroes home.
My youngest daughter now lives in Amsterdam. She and her British husband work for an international company where everyone speaks multiple languages. Their three boys (the oldest being 30) are all in England – everyone Covid-19 free so far and thank God for that.