The war years

It’s still dark when I wake up. A thought pierces my heart: today is the funeral. Four days ago, on February 22, 1944, an American bombardment tore the heart out of Nijmegen, our city, and shattered our family by killing my eight-year-old brother, Jos. Jos is short for Josef, meaning “God adds.” Yes, God adds, but he also takes. Why, God? Why Jos? Jos was special – a sweet, gentle and exceptionally musical little boy. We were so proud and grateful when Arvo, our church organist, offered to give him the organ lessons that our family would never be able to afford.

The last few days have passed like fog. Everything seems unreal. Wednesday, Papa went to tell Mama in the hospital that our little Jos was gone. Mama was devastated. Arvo came by and cried with us. He’d grown to love the little guy even though he’d only known Jos for a few months. “He had so much promise. He could have become a great church organist.”

“Maybe he’s an organist now,” I said quietly. Arvo looked at me and nodded.

We cooked a red cabbage that the Baroness gave us last night – it tasted good. But it’s hard to appreciate anything when Jos is not with us. He would’ve had such a big smile eating the cabbage. Usually we have only potatoes, sometimes with beets or carrots, but often only potatoes.

A funeral for 500

Today, we say goodbye to Jos. We have to be at the Concert Building at 2:00 o’clock. More than 500 victims will be buried at the same time. We’re all dressed in our darkest and best clothes, even though our best clothes are not great these days. Tom’s suit is way too small for him; his ankles and wrists stick out. But at least it’s a dark suit. We start walking towards the Concert Building – Papa, Tom, Margo and me. The little ones, Lienie and Wimpie, are with Mrs. De Herder, our neighbour. Mama’s still in hospital and Henk . . . who knows where Henk is. He doesn’t even know yet that Jos is gone.

The master of ceremonies is Mr. Hondius, a city councillor who’s the acting mayor since the mayor is said to be ill. I’m glad Mayor van Lokhorst isn’t here. He’s a fanatic Nazi, and no one likes him. Mr. Hondius is also a Nazi, but more reasonable. He tells us that more than 700 people died in the bombing, and many more wounded are in the hospital. I wonder what happened to the people hiding from the Germans, like my brother Henk. We have not heard anything from or about him since the day he left. Would Henk’s body be lying somewhere below the rubble? No, no . . . . I think Henk is out of town with a farmer somewhere . . . . He must be, he must be.

A commotion at the front

In the background, beautiful organ music by Bach envelops us. Mr. Hondius introduces a well-known soprano who sings “Nearer my God to Thee.” The song is magnificent, and she sings it with such expression that I start to cry. Tom puts his arm around my shoulders. Papa looks somewhat dazed. Mr. Hondius explains that Father Van der Heyden, the pastor of St. Stephen’s Catholic Church, and the Rev. van Selms, representing the Protestant churches, will each conduct a service, one after another. I don’t envy the speakers: what can you say when hundreds of people die so needlessly?

When the pastors are finished, someone comes rushing forward. Oh, no. It’s Mayor van Lokhorst. What does he want? He rushes up the steps and makes his way to the podium. He almost pushes Mr. Hondius out of the way. Van Lokhorst starts a long rambling speech. He accuses the Americans of mass murder and claims people in Nijmegen now know better than to think the Americans are their liberators. I’m furious at the mayor for spoiling the funeral service with his outburst. If those Nazis had not started this war, this bombing would not have happened. No matter what the mayor says, I’ll continue to hope fervently that the Allies keep fighting for our liberation. As we leave the building, the organist plays pieces by Handel and Grieg.

Outside, it’s cold but dry and sunny. We move slowly, forming a procession at least a kilometre long. Crowds of people line both sides of the road all along the route. The men take off their hats as the hearse passes by. The women look on silently. All we hear are the clip-clop of the horses and the creaking of the hearse’s wheels ahead of us. The road from the Concert Building to the Graafseweg Cemetery usually would take about half an hour to walk. Today, it takes well over an hour. I think about Jos, how he liked to go for walks with me, how he would have loved to hear that lady sing “Nearer my God to Thee.” It was one of his favourite songs. Margo comes close and holds my hand.

“I miss Jos too,” she says. Papa still looks lost, and I grab his hand with my other hand. Tom takes Margo’s hand, and hand in hand, the four of us walk on.

‘By love o’ershadowed’

When we finally reach the cemetery, I notice the crowd forms layers around two enormous rectangular graves. There are long rows of coffins placed side by side – the coffins that arrived by train from all over the country in the last two days. I can no longer cry. I’m worn out. Where is God in all this?

Suddenly, someone nearby starts singing softly: “Safe in the arms of Jesus / Safe on his gentle breast / There by his love o’ershaded / Sweetly my soul shall rest.” Gradually, more and more people join in. By the second stanza, many are singing. Hearing this song, sung so often at a child’s funeral, gives me a measure of peace.

After a while, Margo pulls at my arm, “Let’s go.” We turn around and walk away quietly. Others are leaving as well. Soon, we arrive at Mrs. De Herder’s house to pick up Lienie and Wimpie. Mrs. De Herder sees us coming.

“They were very quiet, as if they knew something was wrong. I think they miss Jos already. By the way, I have way too much food – why don’t I bring you enough to eat, say, at 5:30?”

I say “Thank you” with tears streaming down my face.

At home, Wimpie turns to me and says, “Jos, Jos?” Suddenly overwhelmed, I whisper, “Jos is playing the organ in heaven.”

Wimpie’s face lights up: “Jos, ow’an. Jos, ow’an.”

What happened in Nijmegen?

On February 22, 1944, American forces bombed the German-occupied Dutch city of Nijmegen killing almost 800 Dutch people, nearly all civilians. This CC story is fictional but based on detailed eyewitness accounts.