Dear William

I was only young when the Germans invaded Belgium, my home.  Just a girl. But even then I understood the urgency; the dread, the truth of it.  In the beginning we tried to escape! Can you imagine?  My father in the front of the car arguing with my mother, my sister and I were terrified sitting behind them with my two grandmothers. They just retold tales of German atrocities.  The worst was my mother’s mother, her parents had been German.  “Never trust the Germans,” she had said, “they’re dangerously dedicated.”  She had been ranting long before the threat of invasion, you know?  She knew they were awful.  We women were trying to get to Britain; grandmothers, mothers and daughters.  My father knew he had to return to Antwerp as he was very important.  As a young man he refused to work for my grandfather; oh, I tell you, they used to argue like cat and dog! Even when my father had made something of himself they would argue, I think that’s why my own parents argued like they did.  It was a different life, William, now we are so lucky.
         One of those planes went over us, you know?  The loud ones with a siren on the bottom, I can’t remember now but, my gosh, they were terrifying!  My father pulled the car over and screamed at us to take cover in the ditch.  As the eldest daughter I was in charge of my grandmothers.  Can you imagine it?  Me with an elderly woman on each arm as we ran to the side of the road!  The German went over twice, but he never fired.  I imagine he had more important things to worry about.
         We made it all the way to Bordeaux in that little Ford.  When we got there, Father rented a disgusting little house, ah my you wouldn’t have believed it!  It was rotting in the corners and the land lady was horrible.  We were only there a little while but your Tante Lilly and I grew to hate it there.  After a little while we knew it was useless and the French gave up fighting in a shorter time than us Belgians!  So we went home and I went back to school and my father back to his factory. 
         In school the war was seldom out of my head.  Everything had changed, my English teacher was arrested for giving secret lessons.  German became the most important lesson on the timetable.  Oh it was horrible, such a vile language.  I wanted to speak French and English.  One day though, not long after the invasion, all the little complaints I had about lessons or that picture of Hitler hanging on the wall, became... well, petty.  We were all called out onto the lawn in front of my school and stood to attention in roll-call fashion.  A German officer in a black trench coat stood with papers in front of him.  Godverdomme! That man, that horrible man.  We all shivered at the sight of him.  I was very confused as I looked at him then he started speaking.  I noticed that before he had even said anything some of the teachers, standing next to him, were crying.  His Flemish was awful and made a few people laugh, for a brief time.  He read out names, some of my friend’s names; Sarah Finklestien, Elisabet Cohen.  About twenty girls were called forward.  They were herded into the trucks like animals.  I never saw any of them again.
My father was having much the same torment in his factory near the docks on the River Scheldt. The men there really loved him; you’ll remember I told you they used to call him “Fat Boss,” not insulting you understand, they just did!  He never really talked about the day the Germans talked to him about the factory.  He never told anyone, but there was a court case after the war, you see?  It all came out then.  The Nazi’s threatened him and my family and the families of every man who worked at the factory.  Being a prisoner in your own country leaves you very few choices, William.  His was simple; work for us with your men, or die and we bring our own in.  The Germans were brutal like that, they always thought unilaterally.  So; my father, the “Fat Boss” did what any man would do in that situation.  He compromised.  “Yes,” he said, “you can have my car factory, on some conditions.”  The Germans agreed after a while that all the workers were to be kept, and no weapons were to be built in the factory.  Of course, the German’s had much bigger things to worry about; like Belgians destroying officer’s uniforms on the trams with razor blades!  Reluctantly they agreed to his compromise, and ambulances were made. 
Even after the war the entrapment didn’t stop.  My father was imprisoned.  When the Canadian and British soldiers freed us, my father was put into jail for ‘collaboration.’  Of course he was too shocked to argue, “I did what was right,” he told the judges, “that will come through,” he hoped to hell it would.  It took oaths from his workers to free him.  They told the government how the Fat Boss had saved their lives; how he not only allowed sabotage but actually used to encourage it secretly.  I never understood why he didn’t tell them that to start with.  But then, he was a good man your great-grandfather.  After he was freed and returned to his post, he met his accusers, they were his own men, you see.  They were after his job!  Now, I was furious and wanted them embarrassed.  You should have seen it, the anger in his eyes when I said that... I am embarrassed myself now, when I think of it.
      As I grew older, the war changed the way Antwerp looked and felt.  The garrisoned soldiers were no longer fanatical young men in love with their darling Führer.  No, no, they had been sent to Italy and Russia where they were needed.  The soldiers then were old men and boys, some as young as you are now.  They just wanted to go home to their families.  I remember, one day I was approached by an old soldier outside the bakery.  I was getting our rations for the week.  He came up to me and smiled.  My spoken German wasn’t fantastic but I understood enough to realise what he wanted.  He greeted me in Flemish and smiled widely; “meine tochter” he repeated, “meine tochter!”  Reaching for his breast pocket he pulled out a picture of his daughter, his tochter.  She had light hair that fell to her shoulders as did mine.  We did indeed resemble each other.  But I saw the baker’s wife looking at me with disgust.  I smiled at the lonely German; all he wanted was to see his daughter again.  I only ever pitied a German twice during the war; that was one of the times.  When I got home my mother was waiting for me.  And, my God, did she scream?!  “How dare you?” she asked.  I didn’t even bother, William, trying to explain.  He didn’t want anything, don’t you see? He just wanted to be with his daughter again.  It wasn’t his fault I looked like her!
The second time I pitied a German was also the same day I felt every other emotion I have ever felt before.  And that was all on one day!  Liberation day.  Ah my, it was fantastic, the cheering, the crying, the joy!  Tanks came first, Canadian and British, they waved at us.  My mother and I were watching them from the street, I’ll show you. When you’re next in Antwerp, I’m sure the real thing is better than a letter!  I’ll show you also, where Tito died.  Tito was a great friend of mine, eighteen years old.  The Germans used to take young men of that age so he hid in the Ardennes.  He found the allies and came all the way on a Sherman tank!  He was shot dead by a German sniper who would not admit defeat.  I didn’t find out until later that he had even come back, let alone been shot.  But about the same time I was watching an old German soldier on his bicycle. He was not armed.  He was shouting, “home! Let me go home!”  He didn’t want to be there.  Then the people got him.  Mostly men, but some women spat on him as the men dragged him away down the streets.  I can’t say what those people did to him, but I know he didn’t deserve that treatment.  So there in one day, I had felt so many things; entrapment, freedom, joy, sadness just to mention a few.  But all these feelings, William, were bound together by an unbelievable sense of guilt, I still don’t know why.  You see, William, you can never understand why people feel how they feel or do what they do; it’s all just too... personal.