HOW WE GOT OUR MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACE IN THE NETHERLANDS
How we, our poor and displaced family from the tropics, got our beautiful house on one of the nicest places in Wassenaar. The mother of my father was a Hammacher, the daughter of one of the notaries from Groede. She had five brothers and sisters. One of these brothers had a son, a cousin of my father, who circled in the art world and lived in a wonderful house in Wassenaar, wich he had bought in the most luxurieus and beautiful area of Wassenaar, with a park, trees and a great lake behind the Townhall. In Holland my father got his old job back in life- and mortages insurance. He had asked for the district Aalten and surroundings, but providence had determined otherwise. To his chagrin he got The Hague, Wassenaar, Voorburg and Rijswijk, one of the toughest districts. He went to his cousin in Wassenaar and heard that he was appointed director at the Kruller Muller museum on the Veluwe and that he had to live there, he also had to travel with the Van Gogh’s to America. My father wanted very much to rent his house in Wassenaar and his cousin, feeling deeply sorry for him for everything he had endured, offered him the house for a very reasonable rent, with the understanding that my father could buy it from him when he was doing better. A great offer. Unfortunately then a problem arose, something they had not foreseen. At that time the council decided who was to live where, it was not up to the owners of the houses. This was due to the extreme housing shortage in 1947-1948. The council had other plans, they assigned the house to the director of the Rijnland Lyceum and certainly not to the poor cousin from the tropics.
The cousins in their turn wrote a long and very convincing letter to Prince Bernhard, my father’s cousin probably knew him already a little bit I guess, because The Prince's aid had called the mayor and it was arranged that we could live in this beautiful house after all.
We arrived, using orange crates as chairs and tables, in this big lovely house among the trees and around the corner the magnificent Townhall and all the woods around it, we were very happy. A dream came true.
Since both my parents were from good families and had a luxurious taste, they bought beautiful furniture at auctions for little money, later the furniture was worth a lot.
I would not forget our first St Nicolas (a Dutch holiday on the 5th of December) and our first Christmas there. My mother had knitted hats, mittens, scarves etc. There was not much money to buy things for us at that time. Then suddenly the doorbell. Not knowing anybody in Wassenaar, we were very surprised, when we opened the door, to find a basket filled with jam, fruit, nuts and cans on our doorstep. If that was not enough there was also an envelope containing 150 guilders, which was a lot of money in that time. There was no note, no name, nothing, so we didn’t know who had sent it.
This was not all, because at Christmas again the doorbell rang and again we found a basket full of things, even a Christmas pudding. It made my mother cry. Since then we always eat Christmas pudding with flaming rum over it at Christmas. We never found out who had given us these wonderful gifts in a time that was our most poor period in our lives. Dinkie.
Dinkie
dinsdag 18 januari 2011
maandag 10 januari 2011
Christmas Trip Continued.
CHRISTMAS TRIP CONTINUED
The next day we made a trip with Mike Steward in Lokpako, this was a Biafra area, where a terrible war had taken place. Also located here was a studio where artificial legs and arms of wood were made and where many disabled war victims worked. Mike, who knew the director very well, showed us everything. It is unbelievable how they managed with wooden limbs and walk on it. Very impressing was also to see how cheerful and merry they were even though they had to wear wooden legs or arm stumps.
After that we also visited some woodcarving shops, where we bought our most beautiful African art pieces, new and old ones.
In the evening we had a Christmas dinner with also two nuns. They told us that they visited the sick and the insane in the local hospital to help out. One day they were at the local hospital again and when they looked in the mortuary they saw a white arm holding out. After checking, the owner of the arm, carefully they looked al over his body and by doing so, they saw that he was still alive. He was just terribly wounded and very thin. They had him taken out of the mortuary and put on a stretcher and brought him to an English doctor, who worked on him for hours. This young man was an 18 year Dutch old boy, who was sent to Nigeria by a volunteer organization, but this Dutch organization had forgotten to send him some money. He was begging the locals for some food, but they weren’t very generous. When he finally got the money he bought a motorcycle and made some trips. On one of these trips he had an accident near Lokpako and was given up by the local doctors and put in the morgue.
At last he recovered and had to be sent to Holland as soon as possible for further plastic surgery. At the Christmas diner we told the nuns that he could stay with us for 10 days before he would travel to Lagos and then to The Netherlands. They were deligthed and would tell him.
The trip home was on a Monday and there were no roadblocks, so it was a very cheap trip. Peter, the boy that was thought of to be dead, spent 10 wonderful days with us. He was a very nice boy and we had a great time with him, also making sure he had enough to eat, so he could further recover. Unfortunately he had to return to Holland because his whole back was full of scars and burnmarks. His face had also terrible scars and looked awfull. I often wonder how he is doing.
Dinkie
The next day we made a trip with Mike Steward in Lokpako, this was a Biafra area, where a terrible war had taken place. Also located here was a studio where artificial legs and arms of wood were made and where many disabled war victims worked. Mike, who knew the director very well, showed us everything. It is unbelievable how they managed with wooden limbs and walk on it. Very impressing was also to see how cheerful and merry they were even though they had to wear wooden legs or arm stumps.
After that we also visited some woodcarving shops, where we bought our most beautiful African art pieces, new and old ones.
In the evening we had a Christmas dinner with also two nuns. They told us that they visited the sick and the insane in the local hospital to help out. One day they were at the local hospital again and when they looked in the mortuary they saw a white arm holding out. After checking, the owner of the arm, carefully they looked al over his body and by doing so, they saw that he was still alive. He was just terribly wounded and very thin. They had him taken out of the mortuary and put on a stretcher and brought him to an English doctor, who worked on him for hours. This young man was an 18 year Dutch old boy, who was sent to Nigeria by a volunteer organization, but this Dutch organization had forgotten to send him some money. He was begging the locals for some food, but they weren’t very generous. When he finally got the money he bought a motorcycle and made some trips. On one of these trips he had an accident near Lokpako and was given up by the local doctors and put in the morgue.
At last he recovered and had to be sent to Holland as soon as possible for further plastic surgery. At the Christmas diner we told the nuns that he could stay with us for 10 days before he would travel to Lagos and then to The Netherlands. They were deligthed and would tell him.
The trip home was on a Monday and there were no roadblocks, so it was a very cheap trip. Peter, the boy that was thought of to be dead, spent 10 wonderful days with us. He was a very nice boy and we had a great time with him, also making sure he had enough to eat, so he could further recover. Unfortunately he had to return to Holland because his whole back was full of scars and burnmarks. His face had also terrible scars and looked awfull. I often wonder how he is doing.
Dinkie
Port Harcourt And A Christmas Trip
(NIGERIA AIRPORT PORT HARCOURT AND A CHRISTMAS TRIP
PHOTO OF THE AIRPORT UNDER CONSTRUCTION)
The large airport in Port Harcourt was almost finished and Willem completed the commercial and financial reports at the site. The project in the interior of Nigeria in the mountains had a quarry. The stones were crushed and used as a base for the runway. Near this quarry in Lokpako lived a nice Scottish bachelor, Mike Steward. He was the chief executive of the quarry and would, now that everything was ready, leave Nigeria in about two months.
It was Christmas 1978/1979 and we decided to visit Stewart for the holidays. It was a trip of about 230 km. We left with our driver Andrew at 7.00 o’clock in the morning and drove through the bush on narrow winding road and past small waterfalls. Slowly we went up into the mountains. Suddenly after a sharp bend along a deep ravine, there were three soldiers with Uzis pointed at us in shooting position. We stiffened, stopped the car and waited in deadly silence. One of the soldiers approached us and yelled that Andrew had to come with him and so our driver disappeared. Another one checked our passports. I was terrified that he would keep them. Without a passport it is extremely dangerous over there. Our papers and the car were thoroughly investigated. Our spare tire was removed, which was supposedly out of order. All this took three quarters of an hour and their guns were pointed at us all the time. We sat waiting silently. I was afraid that one of them would trigger his gun by accident. Andy was white as a sheet. I said: “oh, God what now”. “Calm down”, Willem said. It is probably all about money and I have enough with me. All we have to do is stay calm and not let on that we are afraid. Suddenly the third man came back with our driver, who had a gun pointed at this back. He yelled that we had to pay 200 Naira, which is about 400 Euro, because there was something wrong with our spare tire and also our papers were not in order. All three rifles came closer, so we quickly paid the money. Happy and relieved we took off. After another 100 km the next roadblock," Oh no, not again!" "Do you still have money," I asked Willem. "No, I don’t have a lot more". Again we silently stopped the car. Again everything was checked. Andrew spoke with a sad voice and we kept quiet. This time we had to pay 60 Naira, which we luckily still had. 520 Euro poorer we arrived at Steward’s place in Lokpako, we were deadly tired, swetty and very hungry. He had a lovely house and was happy to see us. His servants prepared a delicious meal for us. Steward drank a lot of whisky and we had beer and tea. We had a very nice evening and became friends with him after many a wiskky's
Will be followed up. Dinkie.
PHOTO OF THE AIRPORT UNDER CONSTRUCTION)
The large airport in Port Harcourt was almost finished and Willem completed the commercial and financial reports at the site. The project in the interior of Nigeria in the mountains had a quarry. The stones were crushed and used as a base for the runway. Near this quarry in Lokpako lived a nice Scottish bachelor, Mike Steward. He was the chief executive of the quarry and would, now that everything was ready, leave Nigeria in about two months.
It was Christmas 1978/1979 and we decided to visit Stewart for the holidays. It was a trip of about 230 km. We left with our driver Andrew at 7.00 o’clock in the morning and drove through the bush on narrow winding road and past small waterfalls. Slowly we went up into the mountains. Suddenly after a sharp bend along a deep ravine, there were three soldiers with Uzis pointed at us in shooting position. We stiffened, stopped the car and waited in deadly silence. One of the soldiers approached us and yelled that Andrew had to come with him and so our driver disappeared. Another one checked our passports. I was terrified that he would keep them. Without a passport it is extremely dangerous over there. Our papers and the car were thoroughly investigated. Our spare tire was removed, which was supposedly out of order. All this took three quarters of an hour and their guns were pointed at us all the time. We sat waiting silently. I was afraid that one of them would trigger his gun by accident. Andy was white as a sheet. I said: “oh, God what now”. “Calm down”, Willem said. It is probably all about money and I have enough with me. All we have to do is stay calm and not let on that we are afraid. Suddenly the third man came back with our driver, who had a gun pointed at this back. He yelled that we had to pay 200 Naira, which is about 400 Euro, because there was something wrong with our spare tire and also our papers were not in order. All three rifles came closer, so we quickly paid the money. Happy and relieved we took off. After another 100 km the next roadblock," Oh no, not again!" "Do you still have money," I asked Willem. "No, I don’t have a lot more". Again we silently stopped the car. Again everything was checked. Andrew spoke with a sad voice and we kept quiet. This time we had to pay 60 Naira, which we luckily still had. 520 Euro poorer we arrived at Steward’s place in Lokpako, we were deadly tired, swetty and very hungry. He had a lovely house and was happy to see us. His servants prepared a delicious meal for us. Steward drank a lot of whisky and we had beer and tea. We had a very nice evening and became friends with him after many a wiskky's
Will be followed up. Dinkie.
dinsdag 4 januari 2011
The scary neighbour true storie of my earley days
THE SCARY NEIGHBOUR
In Indonesia, in Surabaya we had, as my mother called her, a very scary neighbour. She had some kind of bats in cages on her porch and we were not allowed to speak to her. Nothing is so exciting for a child as a creepy neighbour.
Sometimes we peered through the fence at her and then my brother and I made each other even more afraid. She fascinated us, she had a very harsh hoarse voice and very loud. She was tall and in her long skirts and long black, grey wild hair, she really looked terrible scary. Her voice made us shiver. One day we had enough courage and while everybody took their afternoon nap, we crept to the fence and with some wood and stones we could hang over the fence, to have a good view at her porch. There were large cages with lots of hanging bats. Suddenly she stood beside us, I almost died, to our surprise she asked in a gruff voice, if we wanted to come into her garden, we did, even though we rather would not.
Shivering we stood before her porch while she began a long story about bats. But the only thing we were thinking about was how to get out of her garden and as quick as possible we took a run to the gate and to our house, still shivering. We never came close to the fence anymore.
Two years later, we were interned in concentration camp Solo, where it was far too hot for my mother, who was asthma patient. She was more in than out of the camp hospital. Through devious plans the nuns managed to get us and my grandmother on transport with them to camp Moentilan in the mountains. In that camp there were a lot of Navy women who shared everything with each other not with us. We went by train in crowded freight wagons without food and light, taking us three days full of doom and gloom and the last part we had to walk for hours in the mountains. That was killing, especially for my grandmother who was in her fifties. The thought of giving up was often on our minds, but the consequences of doing that were even worse, so on we went.
Finally, there was the camp, groups of women stood there waiting for us, helping to give us some water and some food. We were surprised when we heard someone calling our names, Dinkie, Jonkie and Gwen come over hear, loud and clear and who hugged us as if we were her children, it was the scary neighbour we had. She took us very tired people to her own great spot at the camp, a sort of private cabana with all sort of things. She welcomed us and shared everything she had with us, also taking care that we had a bath and could sleep for a long time without being disturbed and she fought like a lioness to get us a spot in one of the barracks. She also managed that my mother got a job in the kitchen. The scary neighbour turned out to be a lovely fairy for us and a wonderfull person who did everything that nobody ever did for us,
Dinkie
In Indonesia, in Surabaya we had, as my mother called her, a very scary neighbour. She had some kind of bats in cages on her porch and we were not allowed to speak to her. Nothing is so exciting for a child as a creepy neighbour.
Sometimes we peered through the fence at her and then my brother and I made each other even more afraid. She fascinated us, she had a very harsh hoarse voice and very loud. She was tall and in her long skirts and long black, grey wild hair, she really looked terrible scary. Her voice made us shiver. One day we had enough courage and while everybody took their afternoon nap, we crept to the fence and with some wood and stones we could hang over the fence, to have a good view at her porch. There were large cages with lots of hanging bats. Suddenly she stood beside us, I almost died, to our surprise she asked in a gruff voice, if we wanted to come into her garden, we did, even though we rather would not.
Shivering we stood before her porch while she began a long story about bats. But the only thing we were thinking about was how to get out of her garden and as quick as possible we took a run to the gate and to our house, still shivering. We never came close to the fence anymore.
Two years later, we were interned in concentration camp Solo, where it was far too hot for my mother, who was asthma patient. She was more in than out of the camp hospital. Through devious plans the nuns managed to get us and my grandmother on transport with them to camp Moentilan in the mountains. In that camp there were a lot of Navy women who shared everything with each other not with us. We went by train in crowded freight wagons without food and light, taking us three days full of doom and gloom and the last part we had to walk for hours in the mountains. That was killing, especially for my grandmother who was in her fifties. The thought of giving up was often on our minds, but the consequences of doing that were even worse, so on we went.
Finally, there was the camp, groups of women stood there waiting for us, helping to give us some water and some food. We were surprised when we heard someone calling our names, Dinkie, Jonkie and Gwen come over hear, loud and clear and who hugged us as if we were her children, it was the scary neighbour we had. She took us very tired people to her own great spot at the camp, a sort of private cabana with all sort of things. She welcomed us and shared everything she had with us, also taking care that we had a bath and could sleep for a long time without being disturbed and she fought like a lioness to get us a spot in one of the barracks. She also managed that my mother got a job in the kitchen. The scary neighbour turned out to be a lovely fairy for us and a wonderfull person who did everything that nobody ever did for us,
Dinkie
Living in barracks for the first time in my life.
LIVING IN BARRACKS FOR THE FIRST TIME
Magnificent Indonesia, 1941. Our beautiful house with two servants (baboe’s in Indonesian), a butler (djongos in Indonesian) and a gardener. A wonderful pavillion for guests. We always had guests and every Saturday my parents, formally dressed, went to the Simpang club to dance and have dinner with friends. When they were out one of the baboe’s took care of us, slept on a doormat next to my bed untill my parents came back late at night. We made many trips into the mountains, where we regularly rented a house with swimmingpool. We loved it there, enjoyed that beautiful scenery, horseback riding, swimming and the delicious indonesian food. My grandmother often came with us, as well as the rest of the family. True extravagant times.
Then the war started and everything finished. It became a time of anxiety and fear. One day after many months, we had to leave everything behind and were interned in camps. With some luggage on our backs and a small suitcase, as much as we could carry, we travelled through Java in closed freight wagons driving through the heat, with a lot of women and children, no toilets for hours, sometimes standing still on platforms, with no water or food, fainting children and adults. Sometimes we had to walk for miles, tired completely exhausted, until we once again came to a monastry, where we were greeted lovingly and were offered food and drinks. We slept all together on mattresses on the floor in corridors and rooms. Not knowing where the journey would bring us and when it would be finished. One day we arrived completely worn out in Solo in a huge empty insane asylum. In those times they were very different then they are nowadays. They were places of hell, full of high fences and many large bathrooms and dark hallways, cold and very scary. There we were put in a chapel with mattresses on the floor. The shock was enormous. Amazed and deadly tired we looked around us, seeing all those women and children, listening to all the noises, the moaning, crying, arguing and yelling.
We spent hours in queue to get some food, to wash and use the lavatory. No own room, no own house, utterly bewildered with a half sick mother and a grandmother, who was also desperate. My brother and I were taken to the hospital department in the asylum with severe diarrhea. After three days I noticed that my brother, also ill from homesickness for my mother, became worse instead of better. His fever became worse by the day. At night I dragged him out of bed and with my hand over his mouth and with our pillows we crept back to the Chapel. There he became better.
Reports emerged that the new parts of this large camp were being opened and that we were going into the new barracks. What is a barrack? One day a piece of the wall, serving as a fence of the asylum, was taken down and we saw a large camp with huge barracks, a lot of barracks with big spaces between them. Each barrack existed of two rows with beds with in the middle a line for luggage. There were also a shower and two toilets. In one barrack were about 80 women and children. There we were sitting on our cots, looking around us, thinking that this was home now, 45 inches of space, with women and children everywhere. Hours I sat there looking around in amazement. The first days I was too bewildered to be able to sleep. You saw everything of everyone, nothing remained a secret anymore. Mothers who hitted and children who were annoying and spoiled. There was so much to see and experience, standing in line everywhere, going to the lavatory in time because there was always a queue.
All those things happening around you was at the same time also thrilling.
Playing outside was limited, too many women walking around with laundry and wash tubs with dishes and everywhere hung clothes to dry. At night you heard people coughing, moaning, talking and also angry people, sometimes so angry that bibles were thrown back and forth, others tried to keep peace and drew up rules that were ignored. It took weeks before it slowly became calmer and more peaceful, also because everyone got dazed by lack of food and sleep.
Women and children were ill and slowly the misery penetrated in everyone’s mind. You could die here. We only had one female doctor, doctor Engels. Drugs were hardly available. Slowly it became quieter and more peaceful. After several months it was almost nice. Women started making cookery books and others learned children to embroider. In that camp I made many embroidered handkerchiefs and made clothes for the only doll I had. Everyone was sourceful and so life became a little easier. But the first weeks of that bizarre life in the barracks, I will never forget.
Dinkie
Magnificent Indonesia, 1941. Our beautiful house with two servants (baboe’s in Indonesian), a butler (djongos in Indonesian) and a gardener. A wonderful pavillion for guests. We always had guests and every Saturday my parents, formally dressed, went to the Simpang club to dance and have dinner with friends. When they were out one of the baboe’s took care of us, slept on a doormat next to my bed untill my parents came back late at night. We made many trips into the mountains, where we regularly rented a house with swimmingpool. We loved it there, enjoyed that beautiful scenery, horseback riding, swimming and the delicious indonesian food. My grandmother often came with us, as well as the rest of the family. True extravagant times.
Then the war started and everything finished. It became a time of anxiety and fear. One day after many months, we had to leave everything behind and were interned in camps. With some luggage on our backs and a small suitcase, as much as we could carry, we travelled through Java in closed freight wagons driving through the heat, with a lot of women and children, no toilets for hours, sometimes standing still on platforms, with no water or food, fainting children and adults. Sometimes we had to walk for miles, tired completely exhausted, until we once again came to a monastry, where we were greeted lovingly and were offered food and drinks. We slept all together on mattresses on the floor in corridors and rooms. Not knowing where the journey would bring us and when it would be finished. One day we arrived completely worn out in Solo in a huge empty insane asylum. In those times they were very different then they are nowadays. They were places of hell, full of high fences and many large bathrooms and dark hallways, cold and very scary. There we were put in a chapel with mattresses on the floor. The shock was enormous. Amazed and deadly tired we looked around us, seeing all those women and children, listening to all the noises, the moaning, crying, arguing and yelling.
We spent hours in queue to get some food, to wash and use the lavatory. No own room, no own house, utterly bewildered with a half sick mother and a grandmother, who was also desperate. My brother and I were taken to the hospital department in the asylum with severe diarrhea. After three days I noticed that my brother, also ill from homesickness for my mother, became worse instead of better. His fever became worse by the day. At night I dragged him out of bed and with my hand over his mouth and with our pillows we crept back to the Chapel. There he became better.
Reports emerged that the new parts of this large camp were being opened and that we were going into the new barracks. What is a barrack? One day a piece of the wall, serving as a fence of the asylum, was taken down and we saw a large camp with huge barracks, a lot of barracks with big spaces between them. Each barrack existed of two rows with beds with in the middle a line for luggage. There were also a shower and two toilets. In one barrack were about 80 women and children. There we were sitting on our cots, looking around us, thinking that this was home now, 45 inches of space, with women and children everywhere. Hours I sat there looking around in amazement. The first days I was too bewildered to be able to sleep. You saw everything of everyone, nothing remained a secret anymore. Mothers who hitted and children who were annoying and spoiled. There was so much to see and experience, standing in line everywhere, going to the lavatory in time because there was always a queue.
All those things happening around you was at the same time also thrilling.
Playing outside was limited, too many women walking around with laundry and wash tubs with dishes and everywhere hung clothes to dry. At night you heard people coughing, moaning, talking and also angry people, sometimes so angry that bibles were thrown back and forth, others tried to keep peace and drew up rules that were ignored. It took weeks before it slowly became calmer and more peaceful, also because everyone got dazed by lack of food and sleep.
Women and children were ill and slowly the misery penetrated in everyone’s mind. You could die here. We only had one female doctor, doctor Engels. Drugs were hardly available. Slowly it became quieter and more peaceful. After several months it was almost nice. Women started making cookery books and others learned children to embroider. In that camp I made many embroidered handkerchiefs and made clothes for the only doll I had. Everyone was sourceful and so life became a little easier. But the first weeks of that bizarre life in the barracks, I will never forget.
Dinkie
zondag 2 januari 2011
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