48 Days

It was March 21, 1945 when he was killed. A mere 48 days from VE Day. Had he survived, I would have probably known my grandfather. As it is, I never knew him. My father was only 15 years old at the time of Opa's death.

I have a diary, written by "Oom Peter" who married my dad's cousin "Tante Henny" in 1947. Oom Peter was an "onderduiker" -a man who went into hiding in order to escape deportation to Germany. In his diary, there is an entry that reads, "On the way home we hear the sad news that the Allied have bombed the trenches and the men who were working there in the neighbouring town Varsseveld. It happened at 10 o'clock this morning. Oom Johannes Wikkerink and Mr. Huitink have died. When we come home we hear that many more men have died, one of them, Oom Johan Hoornenborg."

Johannes Wikkerink was my Opa. Or should I say "would have been" my Opa. Johan Hoornenborg was an uncle of my mother.

They, along with a number of other men from the town of Aalten were rounded up by the Germans and given a choice. Either they were to go to Germany and dig trenches, or be killed. I don't know how long they were there or how they were treated. The family doesn't talk much about those dark days near the end of the war except to say that they were the hardest.

For many years I thought that Opa was killed by the Germans and I suppose you could argue that it is true. However, it was the Allies-Canadians-who dropped the bombs that killed him.

Friendly fire.

Opa was buried 3 days later. Oom Peter's diary reads, "Looking ahead of us we see bombers dropping loads of phosphorous bombs which fall on farms and homes. To our right the village of Aalten is burning and to our left, the Jabos are diving left and right, up and down, shooting like mad. When we get closer to home, we meet Houwer, who says that at the funeral of Oom Johann (who was buried last) bombs were dropped.
I cry when I hear this. Nothing is safe, any movement is suspicious and will be attacked. This is why the funerals of today are held separately and no funeral processions are allowed. Everyone has to go on their own, sometimes from tree to tree to reach the cemetery safely."

I cannot imagine what it must have been like for my Oma and her seven children. Dad tells me that he was told not to cry-nobody was-because that showed weakness. Imagine having to sneak to your own father's funeral with the very real possibility that you too may die. And not being allowed to express the fear and terror that causes your heart to race and your blood to run cold as you hear the bombs falling around you.

If that doesn't change a person, I don't know what would. Sometimes I wonder, if Opa had lived to a ripe old age, would my dad's life have been different? Would my father's temper not have been so volatile when I was growing up? Might he have better understood and allowed tears to be shed and sadness expressed in our home? Would he have stayed in Holland and not immigrated to Canada? Would he have married my mother?

I know that it's not a good idea to dwell on questions like this but sometimes my mind wanders and I wonder "What if?" I believe that even though he doesn't talk about them, Dad thinks about these things often. And I know that these life events have molded him into the man he is today, warts and all.

I'm going to visit him this summer when he and mom will be celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. Some of the dutch relatives will be there and maybe, if we're lucky, they'll start reminiscing about days long ago. I'll be there with my ears wide open and my tape recorder ready to roll.