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From 'The Second World War' by Ben Suijkerbuijk
Ben Suijkerbuijk has chronicled some stories of Oudenbosch residents. One of the narratives recorded is from a farmer who wished to remain anonymous. Excerpts from it follow below:
Food
Food was one of the most important things in the war. As farmers, we had a huge advantage over the bourgeoisie. We had vegetables, potatoes, grain. We slaughtered two or three pigs a year. We had chickens and plenty of fruit. We could therefore do a lot with food. We traded eggs for clothes, bacon for shoes. Despite the sometimes strict controls, we were able to keep quite a lot out of the compulsory deliveries. The government knew exactly how many cows, chickens and pigs we had, or at least it thought so. So there could only be sold black or sometimes given away within a certain margin.
From Rotterdam, a pathetic little man came every week asking for a loaf of bread. He told them he had a big family. That his wife was ill and they could barely keep their heads above water. We felt so sorry for the little guy that we gave him a loaf of bread every week. We baked our own bread in those days and it was a lot better than the baker's war bread.
One day we were threshing and there had been no time to bake our own bread. Against our will and custom, we had to get bread from the baker. The Rotterdam man came into the yard for his bread. I made it clear to him that this time he came in vain as I had been unable to bake bread. The man became furious, scolding me for everything and telling me we were stupid farmers. "I'll sell your bread on the black market for thirty-five or forty guilders," he shouted at us. Incensed at such ingratitude, I grabbed the pit hook and chased the runt out of the yard, telling him never to come back. So that one had smashed his own windows.
I was still upset by this incident for days, but I did not let it affect me and helped as many people as possible. I did become a lot more critical of pathetic stories.
The girl
One day I went to take the empty milk cans off the road. On one of the cans sat a girl of about 14 years old, emaciated to the bone. Next to her was a woman waiting for the child to catch her breath. When I asked what was the matter, the woman told me: "At the Wildert there are a number of children to gain weight. She is one of them and frankly she is one of the worst. I went to the doctor with her, but he can't say anything other than: she needs fortifying food."
I invited the woman and the girl inside and gave the child a cup of warm milk to drink. From now on, she could come and get a litre of milk every day. We saw the child blossom and she went from being a skinny little girl to a beautiful teenage girl, although we didn't call it that then. After the war, her father sent us a letter of thanks for taking such good care of his daughter.
Pilots
It had been very busy in the skies that day and there was no way out. A plane was shot down. Late at night there was a soft knock on the door. We held our hearts, because you never knew who came to the door, especially if it was so stealthy.
Father walked to the door and without opening it he called out "Who is there so late?" It was clear they were not Germans. They were not so modest. Then we heard a familiar voice call a familiar name. Father opened the door and let the familiar in. To our shock, he was accompanied by two people totally unknown to us.
"Do you want to hide these men for a day and a night?" our acquaintance asked. "They are English pilots. They will be picked up in twenty-four hours".
Father did not mince words. He took everyone to the hayloft where they were hidden behind the hay. The next night or day, I can't remember very well, they were picked up by our family doctor. Of course, we were very curious to know whether the pilots' escape had been successful, but when we asked about it, he just smiled mysteriously and put his finger to his lips with the familiar gesture: "mouth shut". After the war, he told us that all the pilots he had taken away had arrived safely.
Note from Ben Suijkerbuijk: It does not seem to mean much to hide a couple of pilots for a night, but if the occupiers found out, in such a case, the farm was set on fire, the adults shot and the children taken away to a concentration camp. All this was known to these people.
Our first encounter with the liberators
In the land behind our farm, a group of soldiers was busy. We had never seen their uniforms. We also missed the raucous sounds of orders shouted in German. Curious, we went to check them out. They turned out to be our liberators.
Through an interpreter they had with them, we heard that their kitchen van had not shown up and to satisfy their hunger they ate the tubers that were still in the fields. Of course we could not let this get to us. We were not allowed to welcome our liberators like this. They were therefore invited to come and eat. Four large loaves of bread disappeared like snow in the sun. They especially enjoyed the home-made salads. Of course cigarettes were handed out, and how nice they smelled. After another cup of warm milk, the soldiers were ready to move on. Suddenly they jumped up to run towards a slow-moving truck. It turned out to be the truck carrying their food. In gratitude, they gave us back four loaves of bread. They were the whitest loaves we had ever seen.
What struck me most then was that these soldiers treated each other differently. No shouting and ranting at lessers, but just talking to each other. Â
