Michael Vanderhout: March 2015

Thursday, March 5, 2015

"Mijn Klein Jeep Jeep!", a little of what was left behind and some of what was taken.

“Mijn Kleine Jeep Jeep!” a Little of What Was Left Behind and Some of What Was Taken

Many Jeeps were left behind in Holland, after the War. They became very popular with the Dutch farmers, who utilized the handy multi-faceted vehicles to do farm work and other chores. In fact, the Jeeps were so popular that even a song entitled "Mijn Kleine Jeep Jeep!" was written and recorded. Replacing the sound of a brass instrument in the melody was the "beep beep!" of a jeep horn. In this photo, Aunt Pleuna is in the driver's seat of the Jeep. Seated behind her are my grandmother and my dad, with neighbors, after the War. My Uncle Frits is atop the hood to the left of a Canadian officer. Can you see the dog Pieter Peck on the right, behind the jeep?

In this photo, Aunt Pleuna is in the driver's seat of the Jeep. Seated behind her are my grandmother and my dad, with neighbors, after the War. My Uncle Frits is atop the hood to the left of a Canadian officer. Can you see the dog Pieter Peck on the right, behind the jeep?

Quonset Huts that the military left behind after the War were also very popular with the Dutch, for their simplicity and practicality. Many Hollanders living along the Rhine River and the North Sea converted the Quonset Huts into summer beach homes. Many of those are still in use to this day. Here, we see my Aunt Pleuna, on the right, with a couple of her lady friends, standing in front of a Quonset hut, with Dutch curtains in the window, after the War.

Over a century ago, there numbered 10,000 windmills in the Netherlands. By 1923 only 3,000 remained. After 1923, the Netherlands lost many windmills, as the result of storms and fires, but especially because of the War. At the end of WWII, 850 windmills remained in Holland. Since that time, many have been rebuilt. Today there are over 1,150 windmills, mostly in the province of South Holland. This is a photo my dad took in the 1930s, of a windmill near his hometown. It sustained heavy damage in the air raids of World War II.

And this is the same windmill in 1965

After Liberation, it became customary for American G.I.s to hand out Hershey chocolate candy bars, to the newly liberated Dutch people. My Aunt Pleuna recalled American soldiers along the road in her hometown, passing out the famous candy bars to the townsfolk. She told me how these young soldiers looked so healthy and well-nourished but appeared visibly shaken by what they had seen in their short time in the Netherlands. These men had no idea that the small country had been so plundered and devastated, or that the Dutch people had been starving and suffering so very tremendously under Nazi occupation.

Aunt Pleuna added that some of the American boys broke down in tears, overcome with anguish as they reflected upon some of the atrocities that they had encountered north of her town.

One G.I. recounted ragged, emaciated Dutch waifs along the roadside that swarmed to the soldiers for chocolate. In their malnourished state, the big sad eyes of these children's wan, hollowed faces lit up at the sight of the sweet, delectable gifts from the Americans.

And for a brief moment, the thin orphans were smiling, happy children again, revisiting their youth as they devoured the scrumptious chocolate bars.

“I happen to be one of these poor chocolate souls. I had just turned ten years old and would wait by the concert hall in Heerenveen for the soldiers to finish dinner, and I hung out for leftovers. Then during the day, I would pass the hotel where at times some officers had a coffee break, and one of them would say "if you can say Freckle Queen I will give you a piece of chocolate". I had no idea what freckle queen meant. but I did anything for not only chocolate but any bite of food. I had filthy hair, bomb holes in my coat, boots with the toes cut out and no socks. I must have been a sight. The last year I had lived on one watery bowl of soup kitchen soup and the rest I found on the field past the train station of Heerenveen, like the odd potato or root vegetable, and at times, some weed sprouted up here and there. And, of course, I got good at digging tulip bulbs from the park. I must have been a skinny, ugly little runt. Between age eight and ten, I never grew one inch or gained one pound. So, it sure brought back memories.”
Anneke

In another moment, they became sad and old and sick from starvation, as they coughed and cried as only a child would cry, and held their bloated stomachs in nausea to stoop over and chunder the first real treat they savored. From time to time I often wonder what ever became of the poor souls. It was a long time ago. We'll probably never know by now.

* * *

My Cousin Arie-Jan, Uncle Wim and Aunt Pleuna during food rations in Holland in 1946

THE ONE WHO WALKED BACK

Jogchem “Jack” van der Hout was warm and gregarious. He had an outgoing and animated personality, and was well liked by his customers, who knew him as “Happy Jack”. Jack immigrated to this country from the Netherlands as a young man, after surviving years of Nazi oppression. He married a pretty Irish girl from Chicago, raised four children and bought a series of homes. Jack loved sharing amusing anecdotes of growing up in the Netherlands, before the War, and of his impressions and encounters in his new homeland, the United States of America. Yet some things he didn’t discuss very often, those painful things he didn’t care to talk about. They were evidenced in the faded scars across his back, the terror dreams that bedeviled him at night, and the lost moments of heightened alertness and anxiety. Like many survivors of World War II, Jack made little mention of any of it. He chose, instead, to move forward with his life, putting the horrors behind him. Occasionally, though, he would divulge a brief episode of his experience that would surprise everyone. Then, he would say nothing more about it, and life went on. Not until the last ten years of his life, then he wanted to talk about all of it, to explain his internment by the Nazis for his activities in the Dutch Resistance, and all that he endured between the years 1940 and 1945. He chose his youngest son, Michael, to hear his stories, and to write it all down, for posterity. Michael and Jack spent long afternoons and evenings together. Jack sorted through shoe boxes of old photos and documents, and soberly shared what he kept inside all those years. There were poignant accounts of escaping house arrest in 1943, enduring brutal interrogation six months later; sitting handcuffed in a dark bunker cell of a Dutch Concentration Camp for eight weeks; then being transported to harsh slave labor in a camp in Bavaria, from summer through one of the coldest winters in European History. The stories were amazing. There were deaths, many deaths, and many narrow escapes. Two days before Germany surrendered, Jack escaped from Bavaria one last time, and was later freed by a German soldier who got the drop on him and could have killed him. His fragile freedom survived a hellish 440-mile trek across war-torn Germany, Belgium and Holland, to his home. After Jack's death, Michael took Jack's stories, photos and memorabilia, and began to write vignettes, which he sent to friends by email. Over the years, his email list grew and, ultimately, his stories gained the attention of the local newspaper, in an article that was syndicated. The vignettes are integrated in Michael’s new book, The One Who Walked Back, telling Jack's saga. There is Jack’s childhood encounter with the pivotal figure of World War I, his first visit to America, a year as an exchange student in Illinois and his return to Holland before Nazi occupation. The reader learns of Jack’s encounters with the invading and occupying Nazis, his adventures in the Dutch Resistance, the captures, escapes and incarceration and release near the end of the War, and his good deeds, along the way. Then, it tells of his happier life, in America, and the lives of others on both sides of the pond, as well as chance encounters with notable figures from Adolf Hitler, to Bing Crosby, from Perry Como to Lawrence Welk. The stories provide a rare perspective on life during the War, as well as insight into the personal affect the Nazi Occupation took on the lives of his family members and fellow Hollanders. The One Who Walked Back is a kind of history, with a special personal touch. In the end, it is a happy story of a life well lived, despite significant obstacles.

MOVING TRIBUTE (May 17, 2019)

Its façade ornamented with the effigies of the saints, apostles and prophets of the Old and New Testament, transformed in style from early Gothic to high Gothic - this the result of the passage of the 182 years it took to build Notre Dame. It is a testament to dedication, vision and selfless devotion. This elegant cathedral that towers over a great city is not just art or some centuries-old religious museum. Rather, this elaborate structure, its ribbed groined vaulted ceilings reaching toward heaven, is a holy place, where spirits dwell, now left wondering, waiting at the fallen altar, now surrounded by felled, charred timbers. The crowds gathered around the burning Notre Dame and wept as night fell, their hearts heavy as they prayed and sang “Ave Maria,” and the glowing ash and embers lit the night sky. Poignantly, like Our Lady, forever bound to this earth, forever mourning the death of her son, the 870-year-old cathedral, is among the most moving tributes to our Judeo-Christian culture, blessing us, calling out to us, mournfully. Are we listening? Michael van der Hout Southeast Portland