Dad's story prior to meeting Mum

I was born on the 19th of October, 1923 in Arnhem in the Netherlands, the second son of Willem Diederik Gradus LUCAS and Alberta LUCAS ELFFERICH. I was christened Gerhardus Jacobus (I am third from the left in the front row of the photograph above).

My brother, Johannes Benjamin (second from the left at the front), saw light two years earlier, on the 20th of August, 1921.

On the 31st of July, 1929, my sister Albarta Grada was born. She was called Bep for short.


My father came from a family of six. He was the second son and child of Johannes Lodevicus Lucas, (1856-1928) and his wife Grada Waltman (1863-1963). She became a centenarian and died in her 101st year.

Opa Lucas, my grandfather, was a painter and sign-writer, as were my dad and his three brothers. They were all very artistic and painted many landscapes and portraits.

Willem, my father, was born on the 18th of December, 1889. He lived through two world wars and the great depression, as did my mother, and he died in September 1964, in his 75th year.

Alberta, his wife, and my mother (extreme right in the front row of the top photograph) was born at Arnhem on the 17th of December, 1894. She died in 1981, in her 87th year.

My earliest recollection in life was when we shifted from Zeist in the province of Utrecht back to Arnhem. Apparently my parents had had some bad luck in Zeist, becoming bankrupt in some business venture. We rented a house at the Geitenkamp, one of Arnhem’s suburbs, and were able to see all of my grandparents on a regular basis again. Opa and Oma Elfferich had bought a house in the St. Antonielaan, number 238.

When my grandmother Opoe died, Opa was quite helpless on his own, and he soon asked my mother, his youngest daughter, to bring her family and live with him. This my parents did. As I recall, this occurred in 1927.

Opa Elfferich lived from 1859 to 1938. His wife lived from 1855 to 1927. Her maiden name was Colenbrander, and she was born in Lochem. Opa was a real character, and, as his name indicates, his forebears came from Germany. He therefore had Pro-German feelings.

He loved Kaiser Wilhelm and the Boer leader, Paul Kruger, and hated the English for what they had done in South Africa. He would never eat oranges, because in those days they came from Spain. Holland had fought an eighty-year war of independence with that country 400 years ago! “I hate that fruit”, he used to say. He had been employed by the Dutch Railways as a head-conductor, and was retired on a decent pension.

My father found it difficult to find regular work. Finally he started a painting business with two of his brothers, but the world was in a depression and so they struggled to make ends meet. We were lucky that Opa lived with us. I am sure that quite often he provided us with eggs, meat and other “luxuries”.

My brother, my sister and I made up our own games and played in the streets with all the other children of the neighborhood. Our youth was carefree. There were hardly any cars or trucks on the roads. I remember standing at the side of the main road from Arnhem to Apeldoorn, counting the passing cars. In an hour we were lucky to count 18 to 20.

Joop on left, Gerhard on right

Our school years were easy for the Lucas children as we all were above average, and we always loved to show our school reports to Opa, because he would then reward us then with a silver coin.

I also want to mention the day that my Uncle Jan, Dad’s older brother, came to visit us one day in 1935, and presented us with a radio he had built. We were the first family in our street to own one, and on weekends our house was full of neighbors listening to the news, especially when a Holland-Belgium football match was being broadcast.

We lived near a very large park called Sonsbeek. It had a deer park, several large ponds, and beech and oak forests. It was very hilly and an ideal playground for children. The winter months were fantastic, and we skated and sledged to our heart's content.

There was an emphasis during my early life on Christianity. My dad was an elder in the Dutch Reformed Church. He was a religious man, born a Roman Catholic. He converted to Protestantism shortly after he got married.

In 1939, the year that I got my Diploma of Secondary Education, things were still tough economically. I was looking for a job and got one as an apprentice photographer with a large industrial firm that tested electrical goods. I worked in the darkroom mostly, and was earning 15 dollars (guilders) a month. It wasn't much, but it beat my brother's 10 dollars.

I started my job on the 1st of September, a few weeks before Hitler's armies invaded Poland, and Britain and France declared war on Germany. However, life went on and really nothing much happened during the first winter of the war. Holland stayed neutral in the conflict, hoping to repeat her neutrality from the First World War.

Then came the month of May, 1940. We had beautiful spring weather. I remember our cousin, Rinus, arriving on the 9th on his brand new bicycle. He'd come all the way from Delft, 120 km to the West. He was several years older than me, and a real showoff. He stayed with us for the night. That was when, in the early morning of the 10th, all hell broke loose. The invasion of Holland had begun.

Over the radio Queen Wilhelmina made a scathing attack on the German Reich and declared a state of war . It was a very emotional day for all of us. The Germans made rapid progress. Arnhem is only 18 km from the border and by midday German troops were marching through our city. Only at  Grebbeberg, near Wageningen, were the Dutch army able to resist them.

Germany dropped parachutists on many places. When the the Dutch kept stubbornly resisting, the Luftwaffe bombed Rotterdam, erasing most of the inner city. They gave our government - our Queen and her family had in the meantime managed to flee to England - an ultimatum. They threatened to bomb Amsterdam too the next day. So on the 5th day of the war, the 15th of May, Holland capitulated, and we were occupied by Germany. Belgium and France quickly followed.

After those five fateful days, the country slowly got back to normal. Apart from seeing Germans everywhere, it didn’t affect our lives very much. Of course, we all were supplied with identity cards and ration books, which seemed normal practice in wartime. But now the Nazis had everyone on their books. This included the Jews, and it wasn’t long before they started putting all sorts of restrictions on them. One was that every Jew was to wear a yellow star of David on all of their clothing, so they could be easily recognized in the street.

All this time I continued to work at photography. One day, a colleague of mine at work gave me a photograph of Princess Juliana and her two little daughters, Beatrix and Irene, taken in Canada. She had gone there from London, which was considered too dangerous because of the bombing. The photograph was one many that had been dropped over the country by the RAF.

Everyone was very interested, and asked if they could have a copy. So I started printing them off and felt very patriotic. However, I always made sure to keep the negative on me. Then an school friend of mine asked for one too, and thanked me when I gave him one. Little did I know what this would lead to!

On the 5th of January, 1941, I was at work when the telephone operator rang to say that somebody wanted to see me at the administration building. When I asked her who it was, she wasn't able to say, so I walked the small distance, wondering.

When I entered the room, I saw a stranger who introduced himself as detective so-and-so (I forget his name). He asked me to go to the local police station with him. I knew instantly that I was in trouble. He was a Dutch policeman, and he wouldn't tell me what it was all about. In a police car we drove to the station.

My brain raced, and I thought of the negative in my pocket. I was wearing baggy trousers, 'plus fours' they were called, and I managed to slip the negative from my pocket into the top of my trousers, from where it slid down as far as my calf, where the trousers were tied.

Once inside the police station, I was put in a cell where I had to wait for several hours. During that time, I fished out the negative, then chewed and swallowed it.

Eventually the detective took me into a room. He told me he'd learned that I was distributing photos of members of the Royal House. Would I tell him where I got it? I did not intend to name any names, and told him that I had found the photo in our letterbox. He didn't believe me, but I stuck to my story. In that case, he told me, he had no option other than to hand the matter over to the Gestapo, the German Secret Police.

He took me to the local jail, and I was put into a communal cell that had four prisoners in it already. At night, we were locked in iron trellis cells separated from each other. After about a week, my name was called out, and I was taken to the Gestapo Headquarters where they started to interrogate me.

However, I stuck to my story even though I was hit on the head and forced to do knee bends until I couldn't get up any more. I told them repeatedly that I had no further information for them.

At some stage somebody walked into the room, and lo and behold, it was the old “school friend” to whom I had given a photo of the royals. He had been called in to identify me. He was obviously a German sympathizer.

After some more interrogating, I was taken back to the prison where I was to stay for 8 months. During that time, my parents were allowed to visit me only twice.

Then one morning, I was suddenly taken along to the Gestapo again. On the way there, all sorts of thoughts went through my head. But nothing happened. I was just given a garden fork and ordered to do some weeding. After being cooped up in a cell for so long, it seemed like being in heaven, especially as the weather was summery and warm.

The garden sloped gently, and was huge. I had been working for about an hour when I saw an officer coming towards me. He looked at me quizzically, and then I recognized him as the man who had been present when I was interrogated months ago. He asked me how long my sentence was. I told him that I had not been to court yet. He looked very surprised, and promised he would look into the matter.

At about 17.00 they took me back to prison. The next morning my name was called out again, and I was again taken to the garden where I happily picked up my fork. Anything was better than lingering in a cell. An hour or so passed by, and I felt on top of the world, weeding away in the late August sunshine. Then, the officer from the previous day turned up and told me to come with him.

Inside headquarters, I was again led into another room. The face of Hitler stared at me from a frame on the wall. An officer sat behind the desk. He gave me a lecture about cooperating with the German Army. A piece of paper was shoved under my nose. It stated that I promised I would never again work against the Nazis. Otherwise they would send me to a concentration camp.

After I signed it, the officer shook my hand, and a minute later I found myself standing in the street, a free man.

I paused for a while, thanking my lucky stars, and the officer who had started the ball rolling. I guessed that my file had been put in some drawer and then forgotten. It made me realize that that there are good Germans too.

I never forget the feeling of elation as I walked down the road - the warm sun, the beautiful trees and gardens, the people walking, the traffic and the realization of being free! What an incredible experience. You should have seen my family's faces when, totally unexpected, I walked in!

We had a great party that night, and all the neighbors came in to congratulate me. I got my job back, but found I couldn't stand being cooped up in a darkroom anymore. Therefore, I applied for another job. I was soon accepted as a clerk at a semi-government department, and life returned to normal.

The autumn and winter passed. In late February 1942, sitting down at our evening meal, Dad told us that he and Mum had decided to take in a small Jewish boy for the duration of the war. He came from a family of four, and his parents and little sister would be staying at different addresses. The persecution of the Jews was well on the way, and the church and resistance movement had been looking for suitable hiding places. Dad was a very religious man, and felt it his duty to do his bit.

The boy, Nico Bohemen, arrived a few days later. He was 11 years old, had strong Jewish features, and was very well behaved. We liked him instantly. Our life changed dramatically from then on, because, although Nico wasn't allowed outside, we sometimes took him for short walks on dark nights. He had to stay away from the windows and avoid making too much noise, as we had neighbors living to our left and right, and even above us. But it wasn't long before his little sister came to stay as well. Temporarily, Dad was told, until they found other accommodation for her.

Two weeks later, I was asked to go to an address two kilometres away to fetch the children's mother. She needed to leave her hiding place after being informed that the German Army was going to billet two officers at that address.

I went there in the evening on my bike, loaded her travel bag on the carrier, and we walked all the way home, dodging busy streets and intersections - a very scary trip. However, it all went well. But then, a fortnight later, Dad got a phone call from a shopkeeper in the centre of town, begging him to come and collect Mr. Bohemen too. He was very fearful of being discovered by the Gestapo.

Arrangements were made for Dad to meet him at 21.00 hrs, when it was dark, under the viaduct that crossed the main road to Apeldoorn. When he got there at the given time a man lit a cigarette, letting him know that he was the Jew.

By then it was mid-June. Certainly, having to hide four Jews hadn't been my parents' intention, But there was no going back, we all realized, so we were determined to carry the whole operation through.

Food was going to become a problem, as every citizen had by now been supplied with a ration card. Every month a new one had to be collected from a distribution bureau. Of course the Jews were now excluded from getting one, but were promised a new card every month by the resistance. These cards were obtained through raids on the distribution bureaus, of which there were hundreds throughout the country.

Mum had to be very careful buying food, and so she did her shopping in several shops. But the biggest worry was unexpected visits from neighbors and other people. We had to make sure that the Jews were then downstairs in their sleeping quarters.

One day my sister Bep was standing by the window looking out into the street when suddenly my mother‘s sister, Aunt Sina, turned the corner. She was heading toward our place. Aunty saw Bep at the window and waved.

“Oh God, the Jews!” Bep ran to the back of the house to warn them, but by the time they had disappeared our aunty, expecting the front door to be opened immediately, had angrily pushed the bell several times. She was furious when Bep at last opened the door, and lambasted her for letting her wait so long.

Another time that our aunt called, my mother was in the middle of making an enormous pan of pea soup. For that, she needed to think of a reason. We often used to have relatives or friends stay the night, but now we had to come up with excuses. For example, “The children are sick,” or “We're sorry but we won‘t be home then.” The strain grew heavier as time went on, and it caused mum to get the shingles. Somehow we all persevered.

In September of 1942 Dad decided to build a hiding place in the little alcove downstairs. He put up studs over the width of the room. It was dark there, because there were no windows. The only light it got was from the front room. Dad put scrim over it and wallpapered the entire room. He fabricated a trapdoor that opened from the bottom, so as to let in the Jews behind the surrogate wall. They would then pull it shut from the inside. It was an ingenious job, and gave everyone much more confidence.

The hunting down of Jews had begun in earnest, especially in Amsterdam where there was a big Jewish population. Meantime, during the cold winter of 1943, it became clear that the Germans were getting into difficulties in Russia. More men in Germany were called up, and so more slave labour was required. That was the time when young Dutch men began to be forced to go and work in the factories of Germany. I too was called up by the Labour Department. I was to report at a certain date, early in the morning, at the railway station.

We called a family meeting. We needed to decide what to do. Should I report as demanded, or go underground? I decided I'd better go, because I didn't want to put the family at risk. It was agreed, and good old Dad made me a suitcase of plywood.

When the day arrived for me to leave, I said my good byes. I had to walk, carrying my heavy suitcase to the railway station, where I saw roughly 100 young men, all packed and anxious. We had been promised that our identity papers would be returned to us before boarding the train (they had been taken off us when we reported at the office a few weeks earlier) but now we were told that they would be sent on later.

I realized that we would just be slave labour in enemy territory. We would be without any proof of identity, somewhere in the middle of Germany. At that moment I planned to escape as soon as an opportunity presented itself. We were put into rows, and one of the guards, a Dutchman in a black uniform, counted us. There were about ten guards, who travelled with us in the train.

During the trip, I managed to change some Dutch money into German currency. I thought that it might come handy later on. We travelled into the Ruhr region, and after two to three hours, the train stopped. We were at Dortmund, and were ordered to get off and form a column. Then we started marching. As we left the station, we realized that most of the buildings lay in ruins. Dortmund had been bombed by one thousand RAF planes a few days ago.

We were marched through hastily cleared roads, where many of the ruins were still smoldering. I was trying to think of a way to escape. I kept to the rear. I pretended that I could hardly keep up. The guard turned around now and then to urge me on. Then, as we came to a corner, and the next-to-last man disappeared around it, I took my chance. I turned on my heels and started running back the same way we'd come. I dreaded to hear a gunshot, but there wasn't. It is amazing how fast you can run if your life is on the line!

Nothing dreadful happened, and after an hour or so I arrived back at the station. There, I joined a line of people waiting to be served at the ticket counter. I listened to the way that they asked for a train ticket. I thanked myself for changing money in the train. When it was my turn I asked for a single to Emmerich, a little town near the Dutch border. Then I passed the control point and was on my way. So far so good!

On the train I happened to meet three young men from Arnhem who were going home on leave. I learned that they worked in Cologne. They all had passports, and expected no trouble. I, on the other hand, had no papers at all. We arrived at Emmerich in the late afternoon, and found a small hotel where we spent the night.

Early the next morning, after a surprisingly good breakfast, we walked to the railway station. They continued their journey and left me there, all alone, wondering what to do next. On an impulse, I walked to the river Rhine and saw a large steam-ferry ready to cross the mighty river. I was just in time to board. About midway on the crossing I saw a Gestapo soldier coming towards me, his gun pointed at my chest. “Ausweis!” (identity papers) he snarled.

I honestly thought my end had come. My brain raced for a suitable, credible answer. I knew my freedom and life depended on it!

I told him almost exactly what had happened. Almost.

I had been on a transport, got sick at the border crossing, and had been allowed to leave the train and go to the toilet. I had been violently sick, and by the time that I returned the train had left. I told him that I had panicked. I hadn't gone to the police as I had no identity papers with me. I said that my mother was very ill, and that I wanted to try and get a job near the border. That would enable me to see my mum on my days off. I'd heard that there were jobs to be had near Kleve, and that was the reason I was on this ferry.

He looked at me for several moments as if to ascertain how much or little to believe of my tale. Thinking back, this moment was one of the crises of my life. I guess the way that I looked (very young for my age) and the convincing manner in which I had told my story, persuaded him say to let me go to Kleve. But, he told me, in case I didn't find employment I should come back to the ferry, where he was on duty 24 hours a day, and he personally would make sure I join the next transport. I thanked him from the bottom of my heart. Inwardly I gloated at the way I had fooled him.

Soon the ferry berthed and I walked off the boat, still a free man, and another step further. Walking through the busy town, I couldn't see any damage anywhere. When I arrived at the Labour office I went in and asked the receptionist to see the boss.

She showed me to the waiting room, and soon a thickset official led me into his office. He offered me a chair and set himself down behind an enormous desk. Behind him, on the wall was the omnipresent face of Herr Adolf Hitler.

I told him - the man, not Hitler - roughly the same story. I emphasized that my mother was very sick. I had to be able to see her on a regular basis. The man looked sympathetic. He seemed to like me. He used his telephone to talk to several people. When he put the phone down he told me that there was a job available at a timber mill near the border. Was I interested?

Was I ever!

The man then asked to see my identity papers. When I told him that they were still in Arnhem, he got angry. But not at me -  at those stupid Cheese-heads (how the Germans referred to the Dutch). He issued me a note with several important-looking swastika stamps. He told me this would take me right to Arnhem. I was to go to the labour office there and show those Dummkopfen his note.

Feeling light as a feather, I left his office. I went to the railway station, bought a ticket to Arnhem, and rang our front doorbell only a few hours later. Everyone at home was amazed at what I'd done, and I wonder about it as well, even as I'm writing this.

The next day, after showing the German‘s note, the people at the labour department couldn't give me my papers quick enough. Consequently, the next morning I went back to Kleve. I saw my savior again, and this time he presented me with a stamped Grenzkarte (a border-crossing card). He even took me in his car to my place of employment in Donsbruggen, a small village just across the border from Nijmegen in Holland. I still have this Grenzkarte, and I can tell you that it has saved my life several times over.

Well, the job itself was tedious, and not worth my telling you about. At 05.00 in the morning I had to leave home to be at work on time at 08.00. I would returning in the late evening at 09.00.

After a few weeks at that job, I got a weekend off. It was springtime, and the cherries were ripe, so my brother and I and a couple of friends got on our bikes and pedaled to the Betuwe orchards. We had a glorious time eating as many cherries as we could. We also took back several kilograms for the folks at home.

The next morning, I was on my way back to work. At the border we had to get off the train and go through customs to show our grenzkarte. Suddenly got a horrible cramp in my stomach. The customs officer saw me grimace and told me to go to the toilet. There I was violently sick. When I came out, he told me that I still looked terrible, and that I should go home to see my doctor.

I agreed heartily, but by the time I was on my way back to Arnhem the cramp had already subsided. I was well aware what had caused it. But I was cunning. I saw a chance for me to get a day off work. I did go and see my G.P. and when I told him the story he grinned at me wickedly and gave me six weeks sick leave.

What he wrote in the letter to my employer I'm not sure. Possibly he said that I had some serious disease or illness. Good old doctor. It was great having those six weeks off. I helped Dad a bit with his work, wondering what I should do next. I made up my mind not to go back. With a good friend, a student, I decided to go on the run into the countryside.

We biked for miles, and ended up on a farm near Raalte, in Overijssel. We worked on a farm for about seven weeks, after which we biked home again to see how things were getting on.

It was apparent to me that the strain at home was terrible. Dad told me that Mr. Bohemen told him that he couldn't stand it any longer, and that he was going to give himself up. My father stood in front of the door and told him that by doing so he would not only jeopardize his, but also our family's lives. The Jewish father then quietened down, and life returned almost to normal.

Then came the big railway strike. Employees of the Dutch railways refused to transport Jews to Germany. Hundreds of workers went underground, and transport came virtually to a standstill. That was in June of 1944, when the invasion of Europe by the Allies started.

One day, I took a walk in Sonsbeek Park with a friend. When we came out at the main-entrance to cross the Apeldoornse road, a German soldier with his gun at the ready came towards us. He demanded our Ausweis.

My friend had his student-card,was allowed to go. I showed the soldier my Grenzkarte. It had actually expired a year ago on 11-6-1943. However, I had rubbed out the 3 and very carefully replaced it with a 4. It was quite noticeable to me that it was a forgery, but for anyone else it might pass as genuine.



The soldier studied it for a while. He asked me why I wasn't at my work. I explained that the trains hadn't been running that morning. We had been told to go home and wait for word from the authorities.

He accepted my excuse and let me go on my way. If he had noticed the falsification, it would have been the end of me, I'm sure. We were two very lucky young men!

When we arrived at our place, I rang the bell, and who do you think opened the door? It was Mrs. Bohemen, the Jewish lady!

I didn't say anything to my friend. He noticed her of course, and looked a bit uneasy. I told him later that she was our cleaning lady, and he never mentioned the incident again. Only after the war did he reveal that he knew instantly that she was a Jewess. He was the only person to ever know that we sheltered Jews.

Then came the 17th of September, the day of the Allied Airborn-troop landing near Arnhem. It all started with a bombardment of Deelen Airport just north of Arnhem. And soon we saw the gliders over the lowlands south of our city, my brother and I hurried to my friend's place from where we could see the whole operation firsthand.

There was an atmosphere of great excitement around us, and  in the distance we could soon hear the fighting. It took the Allies three days to secure the bridge over the Rhine, but the Germans hadn't been asleep either. They brought a panzer division in and managed to throw the paratroopers back, inflicting heavy losses. People from the southern part of the city fled northward, and soon every house in our part of the city had refugees.

We took in our Oma Lucas and her daughter and family as well as several others. But when they saw the Jews, the others rapidly left. They were dead scared in case the Nazis discovered them. Only Oma and her family stayed. But we were optimistic and didn't worry  anymore about the Nazis. The war would now soon come to an end, we assumed. Wishful thinking on our part.

The paratroopers were thrown back across the Rhine. The operation at Arnhem had failed, and the whole population was ordered to evacuate the city. All 120,000 of us had to go; nobody was allowed to stay behind.

Oma Lucas was 82 years old, and could not walk very far. Dad improvised and made a cart out of two old bicycles, tying planks between them, and by placing pillows and cushions on the planks turned it into something like an easy chair.

The bikes had no tyres; there were none to be had. We all carried what we could, and off we went. The whole population was on the go. All roads leading north, east and west were full of people, bicycles, horse-drawn carriages, wheelbarrows - you name it.

The weather was kind to us though. We had chosen the northern route, to Apeldoorn. Oma was quite comfortable in her makeshift fauteuil, the Jews made themselves inconspicuous amongst us, and my brother and I pulled Oma's cadillac. She seemed happy enough. On we all plodded on, people around us everywhere. It was a real emigration of a whole city - quite remarkable.

We saw German soldiers on trucks travelling towards Arnhen as we turned away from our hometown. We walked for over six hours before reaching Beekbergen, a village 2 km from Apeldoorn. Farmers with horse-drawn carriages were waiting to pick up the weak and sick. Seeing Oma in her makeshift cart, one of the farmers offered us a carriage. He thereby became our 'landlord' for the meantime. It took us half an hour more to reach his farm.

We got out and were shown to the 'deel', the very large shed, built onto the house, that protects all the cattle in winter. On each side the farmer had a spread thick layer of straw. This was to be the communal bed for the 35 evacuees he had taken in. We were all fed thick pea soup and told by the farmer's wife that we could use the big kitchen normally used by the farm workers. It was still late summer so the cows would remain in their meadows until the first frosts arrived in late November.

In a sense it was cosy with so many people lying next to each other on the straw. Many times there was laughter. We had been there for three weeks when the farmer called us all together and told us that there was no longer enough food for 35 people plus his family. He asked for volunteers who were willing to go and look for other quarters. He would supply a horse and cart and take them further afield.

The Lucas family held a family conference. We decided to volunteer, as we were still very scared that the Jews might easily be picked up. And in that case it would become dangerous for us as well. So along with a few others we made up a party of twelve.

The next morning, a horse and wagon were brought in, and by nine the farmer and his volunteers were on the road west to a place in the Province of Utrecht called Hoogland.

The sun shone brilliantly. It felt as if we were going on a holiday. My mother enjoyed it immensely too, and waved to passers-by the way our Queen used to do. But it was a long drawn-out trip and we were thankful to ultimately arrive at a school in Den Ham.

There the headmaster welcomed us and we were let into some classrooms that had thick straw on the floors. The stoves were burning. By the time we had installed ourselves, it was 10 p.m. and everyone was soon fast asleep.

The next day we were collected by farmers from round about. Our family ended up on a modern farm at the Coelhorst which a Castle that had several farms run by tenant-farmers . There were already a number of people in hiding there - five I believe - so when we joined them it brought the total to ten. There was also the farmer’s family of four.

Our communal bedroom was a little room above the horse-stable. The warmth from the horses kept the room comfortably warm. We slept well on straw again. There was plenty of food on the farm, and we never went hungry once during that last winter of the war, called the 'hunger-winter' in the big cities of the Western provinces. There,  people were reduced to eating tulip bulbs and all but starved. Many did die from the cold and hunger.

We became very friendly with the van de Broeks, the headmaster’s family. We walked regularly to Den Ham. It took roughly 30 minutes.

The last big German offensive in the Belgian Ardennes failed. We waited now was for the Allies. They began their advance into Germany and Holland. In March, the Canadians liberated Den Ham, and we expected them to turn up at our farm at any moment.

However, for some reason or other they stopped their offensive. This gave the Germans time to put landmines all around the area, and we ended up with a whole platoon of SS soldiers staying on the farm.

People from Amersfoort used to come on their bicycles to the farms to buy milk or potatoes. Often they bartered their precious possessions for food. They didn't know about the mines, and several times we would hear a loud explosion that told us another person had struck a landmine, probably loosing a foot or leg.

The son of the farm next to us went out one morning to milk the cows. He had just entered the paddock when he stood on a mine, blowing off his foot. He crawled back to the house but struck another mine, ten meters from the kitchen-door. It killed him, but nobody dared to go near him, and he lay there for thirteen days.

This happened about a week before the Germans capitulated. They were ordered to clear the mines they had laid, and only then could we get to the young farmer‘s body. We had tea towels dipped in vinegar strapped round our noses, and used rakes to gather what was left from his body. His parents had seen their son‘s body lying there for over a fortnight, unable to do anything. Such is war.

One day, one of the German soldiers asked us if we'd like to do some fishing. My brother and I went with him to the Eem, the little river that ran behind the dike at our farm. There was a small rowing boat moored there.

The soldier took one of his hand grenades, pulled the pin and threw it in the water. There was a big explosion and lots of fish came floating to the surface, we got in the boat and started collecting the fish.

Suddenly we heard a plane, so we hurried back to the shore and dived behind the dike, just before the plane came over very low. We were very lucky not to be attacked since, at this of the war, the warplanes were shooting at anything that moved. But that evening at the farm we all had a great feast of fresh fried fish. Even the soldiers joined us.

But that was not the only adventure. Joop, my brother, was looking out of the little window in the loft when he saw a German patrol finding their way through the minefield. He watched carefully and later suggested that he and I take that same route and make for Den Ham, already liberated by the Canadians. We would find out how things were over there.

It was a stupid thing to do, of course, but we set off anyway and managed to reach the village where our friends the van de Broeks lived. We were asked by the Canadian soldiers based there how many Germans there were on the farm, how they were armed and so on. It was a crazy stage of the war. There was no fighting going on, but we felt that something unusual was going to happen.

On our way back to the farm we suddenly heard “Halt!” A German soldier approached with his gun at the ready. We told him we'd been to see a doctor in the village to come and see our sick mother. We also gave him some chocolate and cigarettes - a luxury for him. He warned us of the minefields and let us go.

Dad was angry at us for risking our lives so recklessly. We realized that it had been a stupid thing to do. But at these last stages of the war, in such unusual circumstances, people were inclined to take risks. Everybody was just marking time - the Allies, the Germans and we Dutch.

Next morning, we heard the sound of many planes overhead. No anti-aircraft guns fired, so we figured that it had to be something special. Later that day, we heard those planes dropped food and medicines on the big cities to bring relief to the starving population.

The German platoon packed their bags and left for Amersfoort. We heard later they had been taken prisoner there. We realized the war was nearly over, at least for us.

A few days later, guarded by Allied soldiers, some of the Germans began clearing our area of the landmines. Soon we were able to walk the roads again. We waited for another week before deciding that Dad, Joop and I would borrow some bikes and head back to Arnhem. Mum and Bep would stay behind. The plan was for us to go and check out the state of our own house, make it livable again, and then return to the farm to collect the others.

We arrived in our hometown, only to find most of the inner-city in ruins. But our street and surroundings were still there, although badly battered, with all the windows broken, grass growing in between the street-bricks, most of the furniture broken, and with everything incredibly dirty. But we also found was that the surrogate wall Dad had built downstairs, hadn't been touched. All the linen and blankets that Mum had put behind it was still there and untouched.

We boarded up the windows, cleaned up, and after a few days cycled back to the farm. We returned home as a family.

Some time later, we heard that the Jewish family Bohemen had survived the war, too. Towards the end of the occupation, they had been caught by the Nazis and taken to Westerbork from where they were to be transported to Auschwitz. But at the last minute they were liberated by the Canadians. At least our efforts had led to a good end.

A few months passed by. Life slowly got back to normal. Then one day a car stopped in front of our door. Out of it came the Bohemen family, all dressed up nicely. The father a clothing manufacturer I think. After telling us their story, I believe that my father was given an old watch. They thanked us for what we had done for them.

But I can still see Mum looking at their clothes. They must have known how desperate we were for clothing and shoes, she'd say. My Dad also received a certificate from the Israeli delegation in The Hague in recognition of his work for the Jewish community in Holland.

We were told that a pine forest was going to be planted in Israel. Each tree would bear the name of a person or persons who had helped save a Jew or Jewish family. Well, we thought, at least Mum Dad would get some recognition.

Years later, when I had been living for a long time in New Zealand, my brother Joop made a trip to Israel, to visit his daughter who now lived there. On an impulse he made inquiries where to find this pine forest, but got no satisfaction. He tried at the Dutch Embassy there, but they couldn't tell him anything either. I wonder whether it had ever been planted?

The war in the Far East was still raging, and soon our government was asking for war-volunteers. It was still in the days of nationalism and national pride. Those volunteers would first get military training in England, because Holland wasn't ready by a long shot to train them itself.

You can guess, I suppose, that Joop and myself were among the first ones to volunteer. By the end of November, we were both in England, doing the initial course. I was selected for the Royal Engineer Corps, and Joop for the Infantry. We were both there for a whole year.

I graduated as a sergeant, and Joop was chosen for the Officers Course run in Holland by that time. I arrived back in Holland too in February of 1947, but then left for the Dutch East Indies in March.

Our company was the 6th Genie Veld Company. Our job was to construct the quarters for the bulk of our Company due to arrive several months later. We sailed on a ship called the Nieuw Holland, a fairly ancient affair. We slept in hammocks. That was really rather good, because they swung with the waves, which prevented most of us from being seasick.

We disembarked at Palembang, the biggest place in South- Sumatra. We got stationed in the Benteng, an ancient fort used by the Dutch Colonial Army. They taught us the ropes, as it were, to prepare us for the strange conditions over there.

Soon after our Company arrived we went into action. It didn't take long before most of the important places were occupied, and the planters came back to carry on from where they had left off when the Japanese overran the Dutch back in 1941.

But now  Indonesian guerrillas made that difficult. They sometimes put land-mines across our supply- routes, and took potshots at small units.

I vividly remember an instant where I and four men were loading our truck with timber needed for a bridge that we were building. We were ready to leave. I was seated beside the driver when we heard a bang. We dived into the ditch and fired in the direction the shot came from, but there was no more firing. After a while we climbed back into the truck and saw holes in the front and rear windows Where a bullet had passed between the driver's and my head.

We didn't see very much action in Sumatra. The main action was on the island of Java. It was there that Sukarno proclaimed Republik Indonesia. Under heavy pressure from the US and Britain our Government was forced to grant the former colony its independence.

Our old Queen Wilhelmina probably saw the writing on the wall early on. She abdicated the throne in 1948, passing it on to Juliana, who, in 1952, I think, signed the proclamation, giving Indonesia back to the Indonesians.

I returned to Holland in January, 1950. I demobilized, in March of that year. Although I had seen much of the world, I have always regarded my Army-years as time wasted. Nearly 5 years of my life was used up.

But life goes on.

I couldn't get a decent job. Holland was now even poorer after losing Indonesia. After a year of just drifting, I decided to emigrate.

I had been in contact with one of my ex-colleagues from Indonesia. He had emigrated to New Zealand directly from Indonesia. He was working on a farm and had found a sponsor for me, making it so much easier for me.

I visited the N.Z. office in The Hague and was on my way in no time. I sailed on the Groote Beer, a Liberty ship converted to a passenger liner. It was the first ship to go to Australia and New-Zealand (from Holland). It left Rotterdam on the 17th of August 1951.

On board I soon made friends with a Dutch couple who had recently married, Arie and Jannie van Nugteren. I would see quite a bit of them later on. We arrived in Wellington on the 23rd of September 1951 where I was interviewed by a journalist of some newspaper.

We all received an 'alien book'. It contained our names and forwarding addresses. We were instructed to always contact the local police whenever our address changed. I didn't like this rule; it gave you a feeling of being kept under constant surveillance. However these were the rules in those early days, and we had to follow them.

My friend from Indonesia was there to greet me, and that same afternoon we were on our way to the King Country, to Taumarunui. The actual farm I was going to was 25 kilometres from town. It was in the middle of nowhere, at least that‘s what I thought. But the farmer's family was kind, and slowly I got used to herding sheep on horseback, digging fencepost holes, milking the cow and doing my own washing.

The meals were eaten with the family. I had my own batch, close to the house. All went reasonably well until one day, when the boss asked me to kill a sheep. I refused, because I had never killed any animal. The boss said, "You city boys are all the same. You‘ll never make a farmer.” To which I replied, “I don‘t want to be one anyway.”

I lasted for a year on that farm, but I decided not to make farming my career. I wondered what to do next. I traveled up North and headed for Tirau in the Waikato, where I knew Arie and Jannie were living. He worked as a baker in the one large bakery there. They made me most welcome, and I soon found a job in the dairy factory along with lodgings.

A few months later, Arie saw an ad in the paper. There happened to be a small bakery for sale in Kaitangata, a mining town right down the South Island. It took his fancy, and he went down there to see for himself. He came back four days later and told his wife that he had bought the place. They would start work in a few weeks' time.

Arie asked me to go with them. There was to be a room for me to rent, and plenty of work in the coal mine. That seemed a good idea, and that's how I became a trucker in the underground mine. I boarded with the Nugterens.

Then my sister Bep came out from Holland. She arrived in August, 1953 and came down to Kaitangata to stay with me. She got a job in Balclutha hospital.

But after a few months we decided to go back to Wellington, where there was plenty of work on the waterfront, and where there were also better work opportunities for Bep.

We found a nice flat in Benares street in the suburb of Khandallah. My job on the wharf suited me fine for the meantime, and there were many Dutch immigrants working there. Soon we had made a large circle of friends.

One of them, was called Gerrit Kerkmeester. His eye fell on Bep. After a short courtship they got married. He moved in with us, but it wasn't long before they bought a property in Johnsonville on, what was at that time, the main road (Middleton).

His brother Jan and I rented rooms at their place. Bep became pregnant, and when the time came, she went to Alexandra Hospital to give birth.

Just at that time Rie Ottema came out from Holland. I remember the day that I met her. I had gone to the hospital to visit Bep who had had her first baby. Bep told me that she was being nursed by a Dutch nurse who had come out from Holland very recently. I was sitting by her bed, and there came the nurse with a cuppa for Bep. And that is how I first set eyes on my future wife.

Mum's story before she met Dad

My name is Hendrika Ottema. I was born on the 31st of May, 1928 at Almelo, a town in the province of Overijsel. I was the 10th child of Otte Ottema and Hendrina Ottema-Wanschers. My father was born on the 12th of January 1889, my mother on the 31st of December, 1889. They were both from Almelo.

My father was a self-taught builder and architect. He had a flourishing business in the 1920s, but when the stock-market crashed, his bank crashed as well, and Dad's business went bankrupt along with it. At that time he had twenty or so employees, and they all suddenly became unemployed.

Dad had come from sombre beginnings. When he was nine years old his father died, leaving behind a widow with seven children. Dad was the third oldest. His mother certainly knew what hardship was, and the family didn't know where their next meal would come from. They lived near the Twente-Rijn canal. My father used to run from one bridge to the next, shouting at the top of his voice, “Ship coming!” so as to warn the bridge-attendant to open the swing-bridge and let the ship through. This earned him a free meal from the skipper. Those were the 'good old days'.

I grew up in a warm nest. Ours was a loving family with lots of fun and laughter, even through the Great Depression and jobs were scarce. At that time, Hitler came to power in Germany. He ignored the Treaty of Versailles and reoccupied the Saarland. The Allies did nothing to stop him, and the German people regarded him as a savior, as did many others the world over. It wasn't very long before there was plenty of work in Germany, and many Dutch workers who lived near the border could find well-paid jobs. My two older brothers were soon convinced that Hitler was doing an excellent job, and became true sympathizers of the man.

In Holland, Antoon Mussert formed a new political party on the same principles as the one in Germany. He called it the N.S.B., freely translated as the National Socialist Party. It was fiercely anti-communist, and had a roughly ten per cent following. Naturally, the Ottemas joined the party as well. But the left-wing parties: the Communists and Socialists, didn't like them, and made things difficult for them.

I remember vividly one day, when my parents were out and only we younger children were at home, that  a large brick was thrown through our window. The three of us (Wim, Ans and I) dived under the table, trembling all over. I couldn't understand what this was all about; I was only eight years old at the time (in 1936). Sometimes, stones were thrown at us while we walked to school. Such things make a big impression on small children, and I am sure that these upheavals, at such a tender age, left a stamp on our later lives, making us unsure of ourselves.

Then, on the 10th of May 1940, the German Army marched into Holland. Within five days, our country was occupied. We felt a bit safer now. However, Mum's parents were anti-German and refused to have anything to do with us. I was very confused, and couldn't understand why we didn't go and see Opoe and Opa any more.

Dad started his business again, and soon needed personnel. Among them were some of my uncles. Slowly, broken family-ties were mended. I remember one day in particular when we children were playing in the garden. Mum came running out of the house shouting loudly, “Look who is coming!” We saw a man approach, seated on his horse-drawn carriage. It was Opa with his white beard.  He had come to make up again with Dad. It made me very happy, because my Dad was a good man.

My oldest sister, Katrien, who was 27 years old at the time, was engaged to be married. In August, 1943 she went camping with some girlfriends in Lunteren, at a holiday-camp. A week later, we got a telegram saying that she was seriously ill in a hospital in Naarden. Mother rushed over the next day. Katrien had blood-poisoning. It was a serious illness in those days, because there was no penicillin yet. Mother sat at her sickbed for a whole week, and later my Dad and her fiancee as well, but after a week of unbearable suffering she died. Her body was taken back to Almelo in a white railway-carriage put between the ordinary wagons. We children thought it was something very special. I was 15 years old.

Katrien's body lay in an open coffin in the front-room.Our dog, Pukkie, stayed with her all that time. It lay under the table. We four girls, stayed with her every night in turn. In the day-time we had many visitors. It was very sad. At the funeral, there were also many people. The women all sat in carriages with drawn black curtains , so it was quite dark inside. The men all walked behind the horse-drawn hearse. We girls were all in sombre black, and we had a carriage to ourselves.

We looked secretly through the windows, one at a time. Suddenly, the one whose turn it was started giggling. “Take a look. Pukkie is in the procession too!” We all saw Pukkie followed by several other dogs. Apparently she was on heat. We couldn't stop laughing! It was all due to nerves, of course.

The day after, Mum and I went to cemetery to see Katrien`s grave. We walked, and again Pukkie went with us. Even before we came to the entrance, Pukkie ran ahead. When we arrived at the grave-site, Pukkie was already there, digging away! Katrien was her favorite, you could tell. It really upset us.

Her fiance continued to come to see us for a long time after her funeral, even after he got married. He and his wife had three children: two girls and a boy. His wife died rather young. His son studied to be a doctor. In 1973, in the wintertime, while I was on holiday in Holland, we heard that he and his son were killed in a car-accident. The roads had been iced over from the frost.

In the autumn of 1943, we endured several bombardments. One evening, at 21.00 hours, it started. The R.A.F. wanted to bomb the Stork Works in Hengelo, but one pilot must have mistaken Almelo for Hengelo, as these two towns are very near to each other. The bombs fell close; I shall never forget it. The son of a neighbor who was normally never scared ran into the street, the most stupid thing you could do. His mother ran after him, and then we heard her screaming. Dad ran upstairs and saw the poor woman lying in the street, her arm ripped off by a piece of shrapnel. Together with another man he got a ladder, laid her on top, and ran with her as fast as they could to the hospital. But she bled to death before they got there.

For hours you could hear the planes coming back from their mission. Now and then, one of them would be damaged, or running short of fuel, and then it would discard any bombs that it had left. We usually spent all night in the cellar then.

Our dog was once out in the street at the time that the sirens sounded. A bomb fell not far away, and many windows in our street broke. Pukkie was scared, and tried to get inside, but in doing so hurt its front paw quite badly. From then on, as soon as the warning sirens went, it was the first one in the cellar. Clever dog!

Two of my brothers had joined the German Army. When Germany invaded Russia, my brothers took part as well. After all, Europe had to get rid of Bolshevism, according to Hitler. Four months later, a letter arrived from the German High Command. It stated that my oldest brother, Jans, had been reported as missing in action. That was a blow, but we kept hoping for better news. However, we never saw him again.

The war dragged on, and many able men were called upon to work in Germany. The only way to get out of it was to be declared unfit. One of my uncles had sugar-diabetes and so was rejected as being unfit. He was a cunning fellow, and he sold little bottles of his own urine to friends who were going to be checked. In this way, he saved many men from having to work in Germany.

My brother Otte came home on sick leave. He had been wounded in Russia, and was allowed to recuperate at home. Later, back in action again, he was nearly killed once more, but survived, and is  alive and well to this day.

Then came that fateful day, the 17th of September, 1944. This was the day of the Battle of Arnhem. It was on a Tuesday. We called it Dolle Dinsdag [Crazy Tuesday]. There was panic amongst us NSBers. The rumor soon spread that Hitler was going to order the whole of Holland to be gassed, and that he gave the Pro-German section of Holland permission to flee to Germany. Many, including us, decided to go.

We were promised quarters on a farm, but were instead put in a camp at Langendam, a small hamlet near Nienburg on the river Weser not far from Hanover. Its name was “Luna-Lager”. There were more camps, but these were were reserved for prisoners of war. We could move freely about, but always had to carry our passports. We slept six in a small room, in three, two-high bunk-beds.

During working-hours in daytime we worked in an ammunition-factory where grenades for canons were made. The factory was situated in a large forest. Every day we walked from our camp over the moors to the factory. It took us three quarters of an hour, and we used to sing all the way, Mum, Ans and I. Many prisoners worked there, too: Russians, French, Hungarians and many more. We became friends with many of them.

Although the factory was well camouflaged, the sirens sounded often. Then we would hurry out of the factory to the underground shelters. Poor mum was quite deaf, and she didn't always hear the siren. She was often left on her own in the place. I was 16 years at the time, and worked with eight others, including Mum, in the last room. By then the grenades were ready and had only to be stamped. They were big, those grenades, and fairly heavy. Mum thought it was too tiring a job for me because I was very thin. Quite often, she asked the foreman to give me a lighter task.

From September until the 2nd of February, 1945, we worked there. Then, at last, I got an easier job. Mum was really pleased and when I left to go to it called after me, “Shouldn't you give me a kiss?”
"Oh Mum," I said, a bit embarrassed, “I will see you later.”

An hour later we heard a loud explosion. We all ran outside to the shelters, thinking it was an air raid. We came out after the danger had passed, and then realized there had been sabotage in the factory itself. There were bodies lying around covered with blankets. We panicked when mum didn't turn up. We saw several bodies under a big blanket. One hand was sticking out from under it. My youngest brother Wim recognized it. I felt as though I was having a bad dream, and that I would soon wake up. But we children still had each other. I could easily have been a victim as well.

The funeral was very scary, too. We had to jump behind rocks every time the Allied fighter-planes zoomed overhead, strafing us with machine-gun fire. Ans and I fled that place then. We couldn't work in that factory any more. We went to the Labor Office and told them our story. We were sent to a home for old people in a little village called Blenhorst. Most of the old people came from the Ruhr area. It was constantly being bombed. Those poor souls were completely out of touch. Some couldn't even remember their own names any more. They all slept in a large hall, and we had to look after them during the night.

We slept during the day, but even so it was difficult to keep awake. A few times it happened that the sirens went, and we got so scared that we left the old people on their own. We hurried to the air-shelter and fell asleep, leaning against one another. We were lucky not to be discovered.

I must tell you about the time that Ans and I were sitting at the table in the kitchen one night. She heard some noise and went to investigate. In the dark, she bent over an old woman. Then, totally out of the blue, the patient slapped her face. She came back to the kitchen and told what had happened. I burst out laughing and that made her angry at me, but later on we both laughed.

We hadn't been there very long when one day my older sister, Alie appeared, totally unexpected. She had heard that mother had been killed. She told us that our brother Henk had been shot in Holland. Alie was a nurse and worked in a hospital in Utrecht in Holland. She was on holiday and had decided to come and get us all. “We aren't safe anywhere anymore, so we might as well go back to where we belong,” was her opinion. So that is what we did. We left the next morning.

The journey from Blenhorst to Groningen took us roughly three weeks. We walked during the daytime, now and then catching a ride on a farmer`s wagon. We even rode on a tank once. We slept at night in haystacks, sheds, and once in a small railway-station. On the 7th of April, 1945, we celebrated Ans's birthday on the road. The weather was good at the time. Sometimes we were lucky to get something to eat at a farm-house.

We used to wash ourselves at streams. You'd think we would have felt miserable, slowly getting hungrier and dirtier, but I can only remember being happy. We sang a lot and even had fun together. We were in good shape mentally, realizing that come what may anything had to be better than the nightmare we had been through. It was as if Jesus had laid a hand on my shoulder.

We were carrying several suitcases. Crossing the border, we had to open all the suitcases. In one of them we carried all our dirty clothes. It even contained our dirty underwear. We had all had our periods! Of course, it was my luck to be carrying that one and have to open it.

At last, we arrived in the city of Groningen and had to tell a white lie: that we had been forced to work in Germany. We could not tell them that we were NSBers. They would have  put us in prison straight away. We were placed in the centre of town with a young couple with a new-born baby. After a few days, the fighting became fierce. There was shooting everywhere. By evening most of our street was in flames. It reached to within three houses away from us. I thought, “Oh, my God, we are going to be burned alive.”

Our radio had been on all day. Suddenly, there came an announcement that firing on both sides would stop for an hour, to give people living in the inner-city the chance to flee. We then went to the couple's parents' home. They lived only a few kilometres away. The next morning the young man returned to fetch something that the baby needed, but he didn't come back. It was a terrible time for his wife and parents. After two more days, the shooting stopped. The young man was found, lying dead on top of the roof of his house. They took him home. I never knew how bad a burnt body could smell.

After the funeral we started walking again, back to Almelo. By now, the war was finished, but not for us NSBers. After three days, we arrived at our house where we had lived for so many years. All the glass in the windows was broken. It was very sad. A soldier was there with his gun at the ready. When we made ourselves known, he said, "You are being sought. Go give yourselves up." The streets were decorated, and there was dancing, but we were put in a cell.

The prisons of those days were different from nowadays. We slept on straw-mattresses on the floor, “aired” once a day. There was no radio or other luxuries. But we didn't mind too much. At least we could rest, and didn't have to walk any more. We didn't get bored. We talked a lot about what we were going to do once we were free. We fantasized about our favorite foods. And we spent hours picking the lice from each others heads. We even had scabies.

All this was a result of the rough time when we walked for weeks without being able to get a decent wash. We got rid of the little worms, just under the skin, by picking them out with a needle. We also sang a lot in the cell. We stayed there for a fortnight. We were always hungry.

After prison we were placed in a house with many others and received a year's confinement. Luckily an aunt, a sister of our mother, came to see us one day and took us to her own home. She received a letter from the Dutch authorities informing her that we were enemies of the state. She ignored this completely and we stayed the rest of the year with her and her family. Aunt Sientje had three children, 2 boys and a girl. They were 17, 3 and 14 years old.

We had a great time together. Although weren't supposed to be allowed outside, we were taken on a camping-holiday to Dalfsen. It was meant to be for a week, but somebody informed on us so we had to return home after a few days. My uncle got a nasty letter from the city-counsel reprimanding him. He was warned that next time he would be fined, and that we would be taken away from his care.

When the year was over, Ans and I went to Hilversum where Alie, our sister, had rented an attic-room in a well-to-do neighborhood. It was great there. We both got jobs. I was a clerk in a laundry, and later I worked as a nurse-aid in a nursing-home. When we reached the age of 18, we applied to train as nurses and we both got jobs at the Hospital in Zutphen, the place where where we did our nursing course. Alie was very happy because now her two little sisters had a roof over their head, as we were there as interns.

Meanwhile, three members of our family were serving time: Papa in Steenwijk, Dinie in Staphorst, and brother Otte in Vught. They were allowed one visit each month, and we made sure they got that. There was no money for train-fares, so we had to hitchhike. At first we were apprehensive and scared, but we got used to it. We always traveled together and made sure we had plenty to eat for ourselves and and especially for the prisoners that we went to see. They were starving for food and looked desperately hungry.

We usually managed to complete those trips in one day, but once it became too late to go back. We had to go to the police-station where we spent a night in a cell.

During that period in our lives we really missed home. Other students went home at holiday-time, but we had to stay at the hospital, in our own room.

Papa was set free after nearly three years. All his possessions had been confiscated. But he soon found work again. He rented a room in a pub and it wasn't long before he had saved enough money to buy an old motor-bus without tyres. It stood on a small piece of land that he still owned (later it too was taken from him).

How “gezellig” (homely) it was in that bus. We felt we had a home again at last! All of our days-off we spent there. In the evening we biked from Zutphen to Almelo. We spent many a day with papa in his bus.

Papa would have preferred that we had found some other profession than nursing, because of the risk of contamination. Many men coming back home from German concentration camps had tuberculosis, and nurses could easily contract that or some other disease from them. In Zutphen of the ten nurses that worked in the TB ward, seven contracted Tuberculosis or Pleurisy.

Ans was one of them. She contracted pleurisy and had to spend two years in bed. This was a great pity, because she never got her nursing diploma. Alie contracted it too while working in Zonnestraal sanatorium, and had to take a whole year of work. I managed to stay healthy and could sit my final exams in 1951.

After three years of study, of the 24 girls who had started only five passed the exams. I got the opportunity to take over, temporarily, from a Matron in Hilversum who needed an extended holiday. During that time there I followed a course of Chiropody. In 1953, I worked in Middelburg, where I got my diploma in maternity.

While there, I experienced the big flood. In February a frightening storm together with abnormally high seas caused the dikes to break in several places in Zeeland and Zuid Holland. In the floods that followed, 1985 people drowned, as did thousands of cattle and other animals. Our hospital stood on hilly ground, thank God, but we were completely surrounded by seawater. We were totally isolated, and for a few days my family back home were very worried for my safety.

After this ordeal I worked as matron in a rest-home in Oosterbeek. Ans was better again and was allowed to work, but in 1955 she emigrated to New-Zealand. I was planning to go and work in Curacao a little later, but from the letters that Ans wrote I realized that she was homesick. Because the two of us had always been together, I decided to emigrate to New Zealand as well.

After all the formalities such as applying to the New Zealand Embassy and booking the fare, I didn't have long to wait. I boarded the “Zuiderkruis” on the 19th of January 1956. We sailed through the Panama Canal to Tahiti. There we had a break. We spent a welcome interlude on a tropical island and eventually arrived in Wellington on the 26th of February.

A few days before being interviewed we are asked as to our preferred destination. I named Dunedin where my brother and sister lived. However, as my fare was an assisted one I was warned that there was a small possibility I'd be placed in a hospital somewhere else. But they told me that chance of that was small.

At Wellington, still aboard ship, we were given our final destination. Mine was to be Alexandra Maternity Hospital in Wellington. That was a blow. But Ans, who was there to greet me when I disembarked, said, “ We'll go and see the matron and tell her that you plan to come with me to Dunedin to see your brother, and there apply for a job.” However, the Matron was very unwilling. She told me that I had to report for duty the next morning.

"Blow her!" Ans complained after the interview. "That woman has no feelings." She persuaded me to go with her. "We are going to go anyway." And so we sailed on the ferry to Christchurch that same evening.

In Dunedin we greeted our brother Wim. After a good night's rest, we went to the labour office. I heard there that Dunedin Hospital was crying out for nurses. I was told that they would contact Wellington and then let me know when I could start there.

But then Wellington sent word that I had to return there forthwith, otherwise I would have to pay for my whole fare. Of course, I hadn't that amount. So I boarded the train again. Ans promised me to join me in Wellington as soon as she could arrange to finish up at the place where she worked. I think that I've never felt more miserable than I did on that train. I cried for a long, long time.

When I arrived in Wellington the next morning at 06.00, it was raining cats and dogs and blowing too. So was the matron. When I arrived at Alexandra Hospital she was furious. She called me all sorts of names, half of which I didn't understand as my English was not very good at that stage. The only consolation was that I found that Aggie, a travel companion from the Zuiderkruis who had chosen Auckland as a destination, was also working at Alexandra Hospital.

She hated that matron, Miss Burdett was her name, as much as I did. We formed a sort of pact to try to ignore her nasty remarks. The hospital itself was primarily for unmarried mothers. In those days still a shameful thing for girls to give birth outside of marriage. But the hospital also catered for married mothers.

One day in April, a Mrs. Bep Kerkmeester was admitted to have her first baby. She was Dutch and we clicked straight away. In the afternoon one day, as I was taking her a cup of tea, she had a visitor. She introduced him as her brother. Gerard Lucas was his name. And that is how I got to know my future husband.

Mum and Dad's Early Married Life

After the service we had a Dutch “wedding breakfast” at my sister’s home in Johnsonville, with speeches, drinks and food galore. It lasted till late that night. The next day we set off on our honeymoon destination, Kaitangata, where many of my old friends lived. I wanted to show off my wife to them. All went very well, and after 10 days we were back in Johnsonville to stay with Gerrit and Bep for a while.

We were lucky enough to find a house for rent, not far from them. It was in Morgan street, opposite the school playground. Soon Ans arrived to live with us. That was very handy as far as the rent was concerned as at that time we didn’t have much money. Rie was expecting, and we travelled regularly down Ngauranga Gorge to Wellington Hospital on the motorbike to see the doctor.

Our neighbour, I forgot his name, had promised to take Rie in when the baby was due. That occured late afternoon on the 19th of February, 1957. As far as I can remember, William Otte came into the world at five minutes before midnight, but years later, when he applied for a full birth certificate, he was told that he was born on the 20th.

After mother and son came home, our neighbour confessed he had been dead scared in case the baby had been born in his car. That had happened to him before. William was our pride and joy, and a very easy baby. We were a happy family indeed. Ans and I went to work on the motorbike every morning. I worked on the wharf while Ans had a dressmaking job.

It was nice having her staying with us, because I often worked till nine p.m. And Ans was then good company for Rie and the baby. Then, one day at noon, Rie got a shock. We both came walking in - Ans with her arm in a sling and me limping.

On the way to work we'd had an accident. We  were taken to hospital by ambulance, but were discharged later on in the day. Ans had suffered a broken finger, and I had a badly bruised leg. The bike was only slightly damaged. But we were meant  to stay in bed for the time being. The doctor would call in a day or two.

Poor Rie had to run back and forth from one room to the other. As it was cold, and so as to save on the cost of heating, she put William’s cot in the master bedroom and told Ans to get into bed with me. "That way we only have to use only one heater. You’re both too miserable to do anything you shouldn’t."

At about eleven o’clock the following day, the doctor called. Rie let him in and showed him to the bedroom. He looked at us in the bed, then to Rie, and asked, “But you are Mrs Lucas, aren't you?” He looked puzzled as I said, “ That's our custom in Holland. Wife or sister-in-law, it doesn’t make any difference.” We three started laughing. After a while the doctor saw the joke too.

We had no income for a while but still had to manage to buy groceries. But one day when Rie asked for money to buy some potatoes, I found that I had none. I'd expected that she'd have some hidden away. Normally Rie always managed somehow, but this time we were stuck. And for the first (and last) time I had to go to the greengrocer and humbly ask for some potatoes “on the slate”. He was very obliging, but I felt sick at heart.

We lived in Morgan street for a year and a half. William was doing well, and the financial situation had improved greatly. Everything seemed to be going fine when a letter arrived from the owner of the house. He had been living in Gisborne but planned to return to Johnsonville and: "Would you be kind enough to vacate the house within six weeks?" We did not have the means to buy a house of our own and wondered what to do next.

Then a letter arrived from Wim, Rie’s brother who lived in Dunedin. He had just bought a house there. Now, he and his wife had decided to go overseas for a year. Would we be interested in coming down to Dunedin and live in it for a small rent, and look after the place? I did not really want to give up my job on the waterfront, but after talking it over with Rie, I finally accepted.

We packed all our belongings into crates. I gave in my notice at work and asked for a transfer to the wharf in Dunedin, which they could not guarantee. I booked a plane for Rie and William for the 30th of August, 1958. I was to go on the ferry that day, to Lyttleton. From there I would ride to Dunedin on my motorbike.

With mother and son safely on the plane, I crossed on the ferry that night and started early the next morning from Lyttleton to Dunedin. It was rather chilly but soon the sun broke through and all was fine until I reached Oamaru. It got colder and darker and even started to snow. Helmets were not worn in those days, and I had to wrap a shawl round my head. I felt more miserable the closer I came to my destination. By the time that I got there, I'd lost all feeling in my legs.

It took hours of sitting by an open fire to thaw out. I could not help thinking what I had myself let in for. It took a while to get a job, as there were no vacancies on the wharf. Anita, Bill’s wife, worked at the Roslyn Woollen Mills. She got me work there, so we used to go to work together on my motorbike.

One day, coming home from work, we were driving through town past the Oval. We had to pass under the Anderson's Bay railway viaduct where there used to be a street called Wharf street on the left coming from town. I saw a car standing still waiting to turn right. I saw the driver talking to his companion. Just when I was passing, he accelerated. I had no time to go left or right. He drove straight into the left side of the bike, throwing us onto the road.

I could not move. Soon an ambulance arrived. They put me on a stretcher, my left leg broken in two places. It was a compound fracture. Anita came off slightly better with a broken finger. In the meantime, Rie had heard the sirens from 37 Oxford street where we lived. She came out to the street and asked a woman on a bicycle coming towards her what had happened. The woman turned out to be Dutch too. She asked Rie if she knew of a Dutch family living here, because the injured man was from Holland. That's how Rie learned that the siren had been for us.

The Dutch lady, Bep Spronken, offered to look after William in case Rie wanted to go to the hospital. Rie took up her offer and caught the bus. I was in agony in A & E when a doctor came to see me. He straight away offered me a cigarette and I accepted thankfully. Imagine a doctor doing that nowadays!

In the operating theatre my leg was put in plaster, but after ten days it had to be reset and a pin put in that I still carry to this day. After three weeks I came home, but I had to be in plaster for nine months before I could start work again.

During this period, the police took the driver of the car to court for dangerous driving. I was a witness for the police. However, the driver of the car had a clever lawyer. The case was dismissed by the magistrate, a Mr. Willis. But I was convinced that I had a very strong case and took out a civil case against the driver.

At first my lawyer was optimistic. A few weeks later, however, he called me up to say that my chances were poor. He suggested I drop the case. I couldn’t fathom what he was up to and insisted on pursuing the case. He replied, “Well, Mr. Lucas, don't forget that you are a foreigner and he is a New Zealander!” to which I answered: “If that is the law in N.Z and you approve of it, then it’s time I looked for another lawyer.”

My threat made him change his mind and he asked me politely to wait a few days so he could contact the insurance company. About three days after that he told me they had offered to settle out of court for 1300 pounds. The amount was for suffering and being nine months off work. I was so fed up with the whole business that I reluctantly agreed, not realizing that the lawyer would deduct 500 pounds for doing absolutely nothing.

While this was going on, on the 28th of January 1959, our second son was born at Queen Mary Hospital. In those days husbands were not allowed to be present at the birth, so Rie had asked the nurse to ring me as soon as the baby arrived. Therefore, when I came and visited her at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, my first words were: “ haven’t you started yet?” In tears Rie said that the baby had already arrived at 10 in the morning. She couldn’t understand why she had not heard from me yet.

We gave each other a big hug and adored our son, whom we called Michael Henry. He would turn out to be a very lively, mischievous, and a nice playmate for William. 

When my brother in law and his wife came back from Holland, we felt it was time to move on.

We bought a leasehold dairy in Hanover Street at the corner of Grange street. It was an old ramshackle two-story place. Over the years it had sagged in the middle. We had to keep the pram upstairs, as there was no room on the ground floor, and we had to put a block of wood under the wheel to prevent it from running down the stairs.

The shop was a seven-day-a-week dairy, open from seven in the morning until ten at night. The shop was a decent size, but the living quarters were very small. It only had a little room measuring three by four metres behind the shop plus a lean-to kitchen with a small shower room off it. Our cooker was a small Atlas one-plate electric with a small oven just big enough to warm six pies at a time. But we managed fine. We had a big turnover at lunch time. We even sold hard-boiled eggs.

Before long, we had to get up at six in the morning to make sandwiches and so on. Rie always said that she hoped the next baby, our third, would not arrive on a Monday, as this was our busiest day of the week. But sure enough, on Monday the 2nd of July 1962, when we got up at five to start to butter the bread, the waters broke. But we carried on as well as we could and had everything ready by half past eleven.

We called Christine, a good friend of ours from our Oxford Street days, and she came directly. At seven p.m. Rie got in the van, with her pains coming regularly at ten-minute intervals. I rushed her to Redroofs Hospital, the only place we had found which would allow me, the husband, to stay at my wife's bedside during the birth. We arrived there at half past seven, and the baby was born at five minutes past eight. It had been a close call.

We were overcome by joy when the baby turned out to be a girl. We called her Hendrina Katrina Barbara, after Rie’s mother, eldest sister and stepmother. When mother and baby returned home, we soon got back into routine but decided not to carry on the business much longer. It would be too much of a strain for Rie with three children. What made us even more determined to sell up was a terrible near-accident.

It happened that one afternoon we were both busy in the shop. The baby was sleeping in the pram upstairs. The two boys were in the room playing. It was cold, so the electric heater in the room behind the shop was turned on. The door had into the house a large ribbed window. Rie and I were both serving customers when I happened to look at the door and saw large flames through the glass.

My reaction was so fast it wasn’t funny. I rushed in and saw a large cardboard box fully alight. I grabbed my leather coat that was draped over a chair and threw it over the fire. Soon everything was under control, but we had almost had a catastrophe on our hands. We both got a terrible fright and were now really ready to take action. Quickly I put our business on the market. It took a while, but by late September we were successful. We sold the shop for a profit to a Chinese gentleman.

We moved out at the beginning of October and moved to a large flat in Queens Drive in Sth. Dunedin. We hired a large van and shifted everything ourselves. Rie and I were unloading the truck and the boys were running around in the large garden. But boys are boys and after a while we heard them crying. We didn’t take too much notice. Then Rie carried some linen inside, heard muffled crying and saw the large cabin trunk with its lid closed, when before it had been open.

Her knees started trembling, she dropped the linen on the floor, rushed over to the trunk, opened the lid and out popped two red-faced boys. Thank God! We could have lost them. Even today they maintain that Mum exaggerated, but we know the score.

The 6 to 8 weeks that we lived in that flat was like heaven after having spent nearly 3 years working in a 7-day dairy. I took a temporary job at Woolworths to cover the rent and living expenses, and we had great times with the children at St Kilda beach, only a few minutes' walk from the flat. We were having a holiday even before the big one started.

On the 2nd of January, 1963 we flew to Auckland where we spent two days in a motel. We boarded the Fair Sky, an Italian owned ship. Our cabin was right down on the lower level but it was comfortable. The stewards were Italian. They were very fond of us and helpful, especially towards little Katrina, then 9 months old. “Little bambina” they called her, and they made a big fuss of her.

Traveling to Europe by ship, the clock gets put back one hour every so often, so the children woke up earlier and earlier. We didn’t want them to wake up other passengers, so we used to take them upstairs to the upper deck to the swimming pool. We taught both boys how to swim. And later, passing the equator, Father Neptune came on board. On that occasion sailors jokingly threw some passengers into the swimming pool to get “baptized” in order to receive a certificate that acknowledges the fact that you have crossed the equator.

While this ceremony was taking place, our young Michael threw a little playmate into the pool and one of the sailors had to jump in to save the youngster from drowning! His parents, a German couple, never talked to us anymore. Poor Mike ran off to our cabin and didn’t show his face again for quite a while.

There also was a fancy dress party for the children. Our two boys entered as Adam and Eve. We also had baby Katrina participate as a little aborigine. We had darkened her face with Nescafe and had her carry a cardboard boomerang, but by the time of the judging she had been crying and her wee face looked a mess. The boys won first prize, but she got nowhere.

We were on board for 6 weeks and had a wonderful holiday. Even a storm in the Mediterranean Sea didn’t worry us, although at one meal all the dishes, cutlery and food slid off the tables at one stage. People were seasick all over the place, but our whole family came through unscathed.

Just think, six whole weeks with all meals provided for only 300 pounds for a family of six! By plane, it would have cost at least five times as much. We did loose a certain amount of money, in Naples, however. We went ashore to buy some warm clothing and shoes for the boys. I had been told that it would be profitable to change Aussie dollars for Italian Liras, not at the bank but in the street.

As soon as we came off the boat, a man walked up with us and asked if I had money to change. After some haggling we agreed on an exchange rate. He took me with him to a deserted spot and started counting out the paper money. Then suddenly police sirens sounded. He shot away and left me standing there without completing the transaction. I was disappointed, but Rie wanted to go back to the ship. 

We bought some coats and shoes and went back. As we got aboard, I told Rie that there still was some time left, and that I would try again. Back at the square where I had first seen the man, he suddenly turned up again. He indicated for me to follow him.

We walked a fair way and ended up in a dark alleyway, where we met another chap. He counted his notes again, then put them away and I started counting my notes. I had almost finished, when we heard the siren again. “Quick, change over”, he said, pushing his bundle into my hand, while grabbing my money, and they scurried away. 

It took me roughly ten minutes to walk back to the quayside. There was a bookstall and I bought some comics for the boys. Taking the bundle of notes from my pocket I nearly died! There was only one big Lira banknote there wrapped around a stack of newspaper 'banknotes'.

It gave me a nasty shock and an instant headache. I felt weak at the knees. As I walked unsteadily to the gangplank, I  heard the ship’s siren. I walked up the gangplank just in time to see Rie standing waiting for me. She was almost crying. “Where have you been?” she shouted, “You are the last one to come on board. The ship almost left without you!”

But then she saw the look on my face. It probably looked green from misery. When I told her what had happened, she got a shock, too. However, she said that it didn’t matter. As long as I was safely on board in one piece.

In hindsight, I had been lucky not to notice what was going on. I’m sure I would not have been here to tell this story, but lying there dead or wounded with a knife in my back, if I had discovered the men's trick. Losing our hard-earned 80 pounds in this way was stupid, but it had taught me a lesson. Consequently, we had to borrow some money from a friend to see us through till we arrived in Holland.

Our ship arrived at Holland in mid-winter. The Noordzee Kanaal was frozen over, and an ice breaker had to clear us a path. We berthed at Amsterdam and  almost all of Rie's entire family were standing at the quayside.

Rie went ashore first because I had to search for our hand luggage. When I finally came ashore, I was warmly greeted by Papa Ottema. Then I turned to Alie who was holding a baby in her arms. "So you are Alie," I said, "And is that your youngest one?"

"No," came her reply, "It's your youngest one!"

That broke the ice and we all laughed heartily. We first stayed with papa Ottema for a few days. He spoiled us with plenty of coffee and meatballs which the boys loved. 

Then we traveled to my parents in Arnhem. As soon as we entered their home, Michael managed to throw the front door key in the toilet. 

Next we went to Dinie and Henk in Utrecht, where we celebrated William’s 6th birthday. He got a big surprise when the barrel-organ played Happy Birthday for him.

After a few days there, it was off to Alie and Huub in Goirle. We had a great time with them, but after six weeks on the move we felt that it was time to get a place of our own. 

We bought a big house nearby in Tilburg. It had six bedrooms, so we rented three of them out to students. That money paid for the interest on the mortgage. I got myself a job as a telephone operator at the local Energy Works.

1963 was an eventful year. There was the Cuban crisis that nearly plunged the world into the 3rd world war, and President Kennedy was assassinated in November. 

We had our own eventful time. Just before I started my job, we took the boys to the big local fair. We only had about 100 guilders left to last us until my first pay, but we had promised the boys a ride in a bumper car. They enjoyed it so much that we gave them a second go. After that we went home quickly as a storm was brewing. We arrived at the house just as the first raindrops started to fall.

The next morning Rie asked me for the purse. She wanted to buy some milk. But try as I might, I could not find it. I searched for it everywhere, but the purse didn't turn up. I must have lost it, I realized, so I rang the police station hoping against hope that some honest person had found it. To my great surprise and relief I was told an address at which to ask. I went there and, yes, a boy had found it. He'd handed it in to the police. 

Thanking him and rewarding him with 10 guilders, I left, bought a bunch of flowers and gave these to Rie when I came home. I told her that it had not been my purse but that I had pretended that it was. You should have seen the look of disgust on her face! But when I showed her our own purse, all was well.

Soon after, I collected my first wages and our financial crisis belonged to the past. My job was a pleasant one. My two colleagues were jovial guys. The senior one, Henk, said to me on my 40th birthday that I could still make 25 working years at his job. That would guarantee me a better pension when I turned 65. That thought shocked me as I never intended to have a permanent job.

That evening in bed, unable to sleep and looking through our bedroom window, I saw the cross on the steeple of the nearby church lit up with neon. Noticing that Rie was still awake, I asked her if that would be our lookout for the next 25 years. This amused her greatly, but she admitted she had been thinking along similar lines as well. This was the moment we both began to think in terms of returning to New Zealand.

Then, we received word from Arnhem that Opa Lucas was in hospital. He had suffered a stroke. Opa and Oma Lucas had spent Christmas with us only a month earlier. We had found it strange at the time that Opa had asked to return home shortly after. He must have had a foreboding, I guess.

Taking William with me, we went to Arnhem to see him, and to see how Oma was coping. She was doing as well as could be expected, but my father looked bad. He would hang on for 9 months, unable to speak or walk. (He never really improved and he died in September, on the day that we landed in Wellington. He was then 74 years old.)

In April, 1964, we decided to return to New Zealand. We booked a passage on the Rangitane, a ship belonging to a N.Z. shipping company. The sailing date was at the start of August. But first, we had to put our house on the market and sell it. It took about eight weeks before a buyer turned up. We sold the house for a decent profit which enabled us to bring a sizable amount of money with us back to New Zealand.

All in all, we had lived in Holland for over one and a half years. We had enjoyed it. William could complete a full year at primary school. Michael had gone to kindergarten. Katrina was now two years old, and Kristina was almost eight months old when we departed from Holland - first by taxi from Tilburg to Schiphol at Amsterdam, and then by plane to London. From there, we took a taxi to the East London docks where the Rangitane lay waiting.

The whole trip had taken nine hours, and by the time we arrived at the quayside Katrina was fed up and screaming. Whatever we tried, she was beyond reason. Then the purser came down the gangway and gaciously led our whole family on board first. We are still grateful to him for this gesture of goodwill.

Our cabin was very roomy. It even had a round porthole. The whole family occupied it together. The journey was very pleasant and rather uneventful. We first came to the island of Curacao where we were allowed ashore for half a day. There I took the radio I had bought in Holland to a repair shop because it wouldn’t operate on the boat. The shopkeeper then switched it on and found nothing wrong with it. The batteries were fine, but because the ship's cabin was all iron it would not work. I looked a bit sheepish at him. I hadn’t thought of that.

I remember that the boys dug a cactus out of the ground on Curacao. We took it with us to New Zealand. We sailed through the Panama canal and then on to Tahiti, but we were not allowed off the boat.

When we sailed on from there, Katrina got a sore on her lip. The ship’s doctor treated it with penicillin to be administered twice daily. But after two days she developed some blisters and became very miserable. Rie stopped giving her the medicine (and that probably saved her life). That same evening, Rie went over to the cot to check on Katrina. When she lifted her up, she discovered that her skin had blistered and come loose. Rie could see Katrina's raw flesh underneath.

I hurried to get the doctor and he immediately took Rie and Katrina to the ship’s hospital. Katrina was very ill, and had blisters from head to toe. We really feared for her life, and so did the doctor. There was talk of flying her to land on a helicopter. This dire situation lasted for two days. The morning after that, Rie was woken by the sound of singing. Katrina was sitting up in bed! The crisis had passed and the girl was on the way to recovery. We both thanked God that moment. Apparently our child was allergic to Penicillin.

By the time we arrived in Wellington, Katrina's skin was peeling head to toe. She made a game of it, and would say “Papier hier” as she showed us each bit of old skin  pulled off. It means: paper here. She remembered that phrase which the talking rubbish bins at Efteling theme park in Holland uttered whenever you threw something inside.