We remember

Every November 11, memories come storming through my mind about World War II. No, I was not on the battlegrounds; we lived in the Netherlands, where Canadian soldiers came to help to set our country free. For this great sacrifice, I humbly and sincerely thank them.

I was only two years old when the war broke out, and seven when it ended. We lived in the city of Rotterdam, which experienced many bombings, close to the seaports. Once the enemy tried to bomb ships in the harbour, but winds carried the bombs to the residential area. One bomb fell right across the street from us in the garden; I remember seeing the windows blown right out of the houses.

My dad was sent to work in Germany and later to a concentration camp. In the meantime, my mother had us two children to look after, plus run the grocery store. The milk delivery route was stopped and there were hardly any supplies anyway. My Oma came once a week to take my baby brother and me for a walk. Then one day she was sick and could not come. That day a bridge was bombed where she normally took us for a walk.

My Dad was born and raised on a farm close to a little town called Maasland. I always liked to be on the farm of my grandparents, Opa and Oma, as much as possible. One of those times I remember being in my bed and hearing a whistling sound overhead, and then an explosion. A V-1 flying bomb had fallen right across the road from the farm and it plowed itself into the ground there. Again our lives were spared.

That winter was the worse winter ever, 1944-1945. It was bitterly cold, hardly no food available anywhere, no wood or coal to burn for heat. Some people burned their chairs for heat. We still received food from the farm brought by my uncles with their horse and wagon. But sometimes, if they were stopped by soldiers on patrol, they lost everything.

My Dad was finally released, in the province of Brabant where that part of the country was freed already by the Canadian soldiers. On May 5, 1945, we were freed. What excitement and joy! There was lots of music, dancing, joyful shouts and flags flying. Food was dropped from airplanes. Lovely flour, butter and sugar. We were on rooftops seeing it fall from the planes. How good that all tasted! But where was my Dad?

Finally on June 8 “Papa” came home, very thin but alive. What joy and happiness! He had walked for many days! That night he was taken to the hospital with acute appendicitis, which could have taken his life if it had happened on the long road home. By the grace of God, he lived to become 87 years old and died in 1998.

We humbly thank our Heavenly Father for all his many, many blessings.

Ada Struyk (June 10, 1938-August 31, 2020), submitted by her family.