Aanspraak June 2021 English

AanspraakAfdeling Verzetsdeelnemers en Oorlogsgetroffenen

June

202

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Louk de Liever on the ‘Lost Train’ from Westerbork transit camp on 13 September 1944

Contents

Page 3Speaking for your benefit.Coen van de LouwMember of the SVB Board of Directors

Page 5-6National Remembrance Day speech by André van Duin on Dam Square, 4 May 20212021, Commemorating the dead in the rain, the heavens weep with us...

Page 7-10I was a five-year-old orphan at the time, so it’s a miracle I survived the camps.Louk de Liever on the ‘Lost Train’ from Wester-bork transit camp on 13 September 1944.

Page 11-14How I almost lost my father.Peter Rufi’s father was brutally punished by the Japanese before his eyes.

Page 15-18When they started firing at the festive crowd, I ran for my life!Tom Gase was hit during the shooting on Dam Square on 7 May 1945.

Aanspraak - June 2021 - 2


Page 19-20Results of the client satisfaction survey.

Page21Questions and answers.

No rights may be derived from this text.Translation: SVB, Amstelveen.

Speaking for your benefit

COVID-19 is forcing us to reflect on every aspect of our lives more than ever before: the services we provide, our democracy, and our climate. It’s a time for reflecting on what’s truly important. The COVID-19 restrictions also affected us all during the official commemorations of the Second World War. For the second consecutive year, National Holocaust Memorial Day and National Remembrance Day had to be held in the absence of members of the public, with an adapted ceremony. The fact that these restrictions still apply on account of the contagiousness of COVID-19 is a bitter pill to swallow, but it does not stop us from commemorating the war in Europe and Asia. This June edition of Aanspraak contains the special speech given by André van Duin during the National Remembrance Day ceremony on Amsterdam’s Dam Square on 4 May.

Recently, there has also been widespread attention for major errors made by government departments in the execution of their tasks, at the cost of citizens. The many mistakes made in the communication with citizens with regard to childcare benefit, for example, are a powerful reminder of the fact that, we, as employees of the Sociale Verzekeringsbank, have a duty to fulfil. As an organisation, the Sociale Verzekeringsbank wants to listen to citizens; we want to know their difficulties and needs and help where we can. For this reason, we work with an independent research agency who conduct random customer satisfaction surveys for each of the benefit schemes we administer. We are pleased that these

surveys have shown that you, as clients of our Department for Former Members of the Resistance and Victims of War (V&O), rate our services so highly. Naturally, we would like to keep things this way.

We would therefore ask you to let us know if there’s anything we can improve upon, because all of our staff genuinely want to offer our clients the best service we can. Since COVID-19, we’ve noticed a decrease in the number of applications and claims we receive. During lockdown, it may have been more difficult for some clients to post letters, and some post offices were having problems, which meant that applications and claims were either not submitted or submitted late. Furthermore, because physical contact was no longer possible for physiotherapy and psychotherapy, V&O received fewer claims than they would under normal circumstances.

In these difficult times, we have made extra efforts to ensure that we are available by telephone every working day to be able to assist you with your applications and claims, and to answer any questions you may have regarding your personal situation. We’ll offer you solutions where we can, because that’s what we’re here for!

Coen van de LouwMember of the SVB Board of Directors


National Remembrance Day speech by André van Duin on Dam Square, 4 May 2021

2021, Commemorating the dead in the rain, the heavens weep with us…

When I was born in Rotterdam in 1947, just after the war, the city was working to rebuild itself. Clearing rubble and trying to recover from the enormous damage inflicted by the great Bombardment. On 14 May 1940, 60 German bombers raised the heart of the city to the ground in just under 20 minutes. More than 80,000 people homeless. Countless wounded, and hundreds dead... in just under 20 minutes. Der Luftwaffe returned home satisfied. With Amsterdam, The Hague and Utrecht threatened with the same fate, the Netherlands surrendered.

It was the beginning of 5 years of occupation, fear, uncertainty, hardship and repression. In Rotterdam – as in many other cities – all males between the ages of 17 and 40 were ordered to report for Arbeitseinsatz... Forced labour... Roads and bridges were closed so no one could escape. Those who went into hiding, or tried to flee, were shot on sight. It was the largest round-up of people in the history of our country. My father was captured too, and deported by train to Germany. Exactly what happened to him there, what hardships he suffered, he would never say. If I questioned him, as I did from time to time, he replied, “You don’t want to know, lad.” He had survived... But we were not to ask: How...

In our house, the war was never or hardly ever mentioned. It was only when I started primary school that I heard, for the first time, what had actually happened during those years. How many people had died... Hundreds of thousands dead. Citizens, resistance fighters, victims of the Holocaust, the

many who died or were killed in the camps in South-East Asia. And all the soldiers, sent to the front, never to return. Now, we say, ‘They fought for our freedom’, and that is true. But they were probably thinking, ‘How do we get out of this hell alive...? And if we do, will the Netherlands still even exist?’

I have lived in this city for more than 30 years. And yet, this is the first time that I have attended the 4 May Remembrance Day ceremony on Dam Square. I usually go to the ceremony at the Westermarkt, just a stone’s throw from here. There, on the little square behind the Westerkerk, there is another memorial to the war. Not as big as this one, but just as inspiring, the Homomonument. This evening, at 8 o’clock, the dead are being remembered there, just as here. The three large pink triangles on the ground symbolise discrimination and degradation. You will always find flowers there, any time of year. The monument is inscribed with a line of poetry by the Jewish writer Jacob Israël de Haan: ’Naar Vriendschap, Zulk Een Mateloos Verlangen’ (Such an endless desire for friendship).

The fact that, since 1987, we have had this monument, the first of its kind, here in the Netherlands, symbolises our freedom... The freedom for each individual to simply be themselves. Without anyone else having the right to judge. The Dutch constitution is steeped in benevolence and tolerance. For the most part, you can do what you want, or say what you want... Here, you are free. Free, with the negative image of the war contrasting with our vividly coloured picture of peacetime. And tomorrow, we celebrate that freedom.



In spite of all the limitations that have come with the coronavirus, we will celebrate our freedom... And so will I. But I do so with the conviction that I too bear a responsibility to pass our freedom on to a new generation. Because, as has often been said, ‘Freedom cannot be taken for granted’.

It could easily have turned out differently... Then... 76 years ago. And I might have had to have given this speech in German. That is why I am thankful... Thankful that I am able to live in freedom, and so very proud to be living in the Netherlands.

Source: The National Committee for 4 and 5 May.

I was a five-year-old orphan at the time, so it’s a miracle I survived the camps

Louk de Liever on the ‘Lost Train’ from Westerbork transit camp on 13 September 1944.

On 13 September 1944, Louk de Liever was on the very last train to leave Westerbork for BergenBelsen concentration camp. Referred to as ‘Gruppe Unbekannte Kinder’ [‘Unknown Children’] by the Germans, the cattle wagon at the back of the train was carrying fifty-two undocumented Jewish orphans who were being deported. Louk explains that he owes his life to the care of his foster parents, the Veenstras, their nanny Henny Keuter, and many fellow prisoners in the camps. He has nothing but praise for the Russians who liberated him from Theresienstadt. Louk shares his wartime experiences by giving talks as a guest speaker in schools, and is now sharing them with us in Aanspraak.

Alone in hidingLouk: ‘I was a five-year-old orphan at the time, so it’s a miracle I survived three Nazi camps. My parents both came from devout Orthodox Jewish families. My father, Philip de Liever, and my mother, Heintje de Liever-van Gelder, had a haberdashery in Nijkerk. They worked in the shop together, selling textiles, spools of thread and pieces of fabric for clothing. I was born on 21 August 1939 in Nijkerk as Louis de Liever, but everyone called me Louk. During the war, in 1944, my parents had a second son, followed by a third after the war in 1946.

‘In early 1942, our family was forced to go into hiding because of the persecution of the Jews. Our neighbour, a teacher, told my parents that it would probably better for them to put me into hiding with a non-Jewish family, and that I could stay with his sister in Amsterdam. Shortly after, a lady called Annie, who was a member of the resistance, came to collect me. She put me on the back of her wooden-wheeled bicycle and took me to Agamemnonstraat

in Amsterdam South, where I was to go into hiding as a member of the Veenstra family.

‘I was two and a half years old when they took me in, and I stayed with them for more than two years. Like me, my foster parents, Dirk and Marietje Veenstra, had dark hair, so people genuinely believed I was their son. They would let me play outside with my slightly older, blonde-haired foster sister, Marijke. The nanny, Henny Keuter, cared very well for us. I got on very well with all of them from the start.’

Betrayed by the neighbour across the street‘In June 1944, a man who lived across the street betrayed me to the Germans. He received 7.50 guilders for reporting a Jew to the German intelligence agency, the Sicherheitsdienst. On 16 August, I was arrested by two Dutch SS officers dressed in long black leather coats. We lived on the first floor and they rang the doorbell. Just as Henny opened the door, I came to ask her for a sandwich. The SS officers took us on foot to the Sicherheitsdienst’s headquarters on Euterpestraat. The Sicherheitsdienst were housed in a building they had commandeered that was part of the Christian secondary school. Henny left via the back entrance and warned my foster parents. This meant the Veenstra family now also needed to go into hiding. The SS officers locked me up in a cell in the basement, where I, still only four years old at the time, had to await my fate. The head of the Sicherheitsdienst was SS Sturmbannführer Willy Lages, who treated me as a Jewish orphan and sent me to Westerbork transit camp.’

Camp Westerbork‘On 18 August 1944, the train I was transported on arrived in Camp Westerbork. I was assigned


to barracks 35, which was also referred to as “the camp orphanage”. The orphans were looked after by the friendly German-Jewish couple Otto and Hennie Birnbaum. Every school day, the other orphans and I attended the camp school run by the Birnbaums. They sang songs with us and we would take walks through the camp. There was a large sandpit and a swing. All we were ever given to eat was cabbage soup and swede, so I’ve never eaten either since. I missed my parents, but especially my foster parents and our nanny.

‘Fortunately, there were female prisoners who took pity on us. We were constantly looked after by different people, because prisoners would be transported to the camps in Germany by train every week. For my fifth birthday on 21 Augustus 1944, my carers gave me an inedible cake made of straw and potato peel. They sang birthday songs for me so it at least felt a little like a birthday.’

The ‘Unkown Children’‘In early September 1944, a banker’s wife, Truus Wijsmuller-Meijer, tried to save our group of orphans in Westerbork from deportation. She approached the Nazis and argued to camp commander Gemmeker that we were the orphaned Dutch children of Dutch women and German soldiers. Her plea was unsuccessful.

‘On 13 September 1944, Gemmeker ordered that all fifty-two Jewish orphans were to be put in the cattle wagon at the back of the very last train. Other than some straw on the floor and a bucket that served as a toilet, there was nothing in the wagon, and the soldiers would occasionally throw some chunks of bread inside. When the door closed, everything would go pitch black. The only daylight came through a small hatch at the top of the wagon, which had been left slightly open. I found it very stuffy, and the darkness made it feel eerie. We left for Bergen-Belsen in the wagon marked “Unknown Children”. Under normal circumstances, the train journey took four hours, but on this occasion it took almost four days. This was because the drivers had to keep filling in driving other trains, and because a lot of tracks, towns and cities had been bombed by the Allies.’

My time in Bergen-Belsen is a big blank‘I have no memory whatsoever of my imprisonment in the large concentration camp Bergen-Belsen. For me, that whole period is a big blank. After the war, I heard that, as orphans, we remained together and slept in overpopulated barracks. Typhoid was rampant, and I became seriously ill with it. Whilst many other prisoners died of hunger, typhoid or the cold, every single one of the “Unknown Children” survived.

‘On 15 April 1945, Bergen-Belsen concentration camp was liberated by the Allies. However, we had to wait longer to be liberated, because us “Unknown Children” had left Bergen-Belsen four months previously, in January, in a cattle wagon. Our initial destination was Auschwitz extermination camp, in German-occupied Poland, but when the railway line to Poland was bombed, we were taken to Camp Theresienstadt in Czechoslovakia, which was also under German occupation. On board the train, many prisoners had caught typhoid, which was contagious. One of our group of orphans, a girl, died from pneumonia during the journey.’

Gardens in Theresienstadt‘On 15 January 1945, we arrived in Theresienstadt, where we were made to put on black-and-white-striped prison fatigues. Upon arrival, a prisoner gave me a piece of bread. That felt like a feast! We slept in the brick Hamburg Barracks, where I lay in the tallest bunk bed.

‘Opposite the barracks was our school, where we were given drawing lessons by a Dutch artist, Ms Metz. In the Netherlands, her family had been part of the so-called Barneveld group – Jews who had been deemed indispensable to the worlds of art and science, and had therefore been granted a stay of deportation and were housed in a villa in Barneveld. They were eventually sent to Westerbork transit camp in 1943, from where they were sent to Theresienstadt instead of the extermination camps.

‘One of my duties was to spray the German guards’ vegetable gardens with water using a tin as a watering can. The produce was intended for the German


camp guards only, but I would secretly eat some of the raw fruit and vegetables: green beans, peas and strawberries. I thought they were delicious, which is why, even now, I prefer to eat my vegetables raw.

‘In February 1945, we were visited for the second time by a delegation from the Red Cross. I was chosen by the camp leaders to dress up in smart clothes. Together with several fellow prisoners I didn’t know from Adam – a man, a woman and a girl – I had to create the illusion of an average family living in a small house in the camp. Once the inspection was over, we immediately had to change back into our striped prison fatigues.

‘On 23 June 1944, the Red Cross visited Theresien-stadt at the behest of the Danish government to inspect the camp. In September 1944, the Nazis went so far as to have a propaganda film made to give the impression that Jews were being well treated there. The Red Cross allowed themselves to be misled by this propaganda, because immediately after the film’s completion the Jewish director and actors were sent to Auschwitz extermination camp.’

A circus train‘On 8 May 1945, we were liberated by the Russians. They were our heroes! We were in a bad way due to hunger and typhoid. The soldiers gave us delicious chocolate bars.

‘Together with fellow orphans Hans Reens and Willy Schrijver, I was allowed to return to the Netherlands with the Metz family. In Falkenau, a village southwest of Dresden, we stayed overnight in a nunnery. Before we went to bed, the nuns asked us to take our clothes off so they could wash them. We were awoken in the middle of the night because the Metz family had discovered that there was a train leaving for the Netherlands, so we quickly had to put on our wet clothes and sit down on the train with them. During the journey, our train stopped unexpectedly because a stationary circus train was blocking the tracks. We got off and saw that the train was carrying large cages containing elephants, tigers, monkeys and horses, but there was no driver. Years later, Hans Metz, the eldest son of the family, told me that it must have been the German circus Sarassani, who

had their own circus theatre in Dresden. The animals were being moved because of the many Allied bombings of the city. We had to wait a long time before our driver was able to move the stationary circus train off our track. Those wild animals made quite an impression on me.’

When I returned home, I wasn’t exactly received with open arms ‘On 12 June 1945, we arrived at Eindhoven rail-way station, where we were registered in a large building that belonged to the company Philips. My foster mother, Marietje Veenstra, had received a tip from the resistance that the very last train from Theresienstadt was due to arrive in Eindhoven, so she contacted the reception organisation there to find out whether she was allowed to come and meet me on my arrival.

‘My foster mother was delighted to see me and we travelled to my parents’ house in Nijkerk together on the back of an open lorry. When I returned home, I wasn’t exactly received with open arms. My father greeted us outside and gave me a bar of chocolate while I was still sitting on the lorry. “Thank you, sir!”, I said. “Don’t you recognise him?”, my foster mother asked my father. “He’s your son!” My father did recognise me the second time around, but my mother couldn’t believe it was me. “That can’t be our Loukie,” she said. “I’ll only believe it if there’s a scar on his big toe, because he stepped in broken glass when he was little.” They then took my shoes off, and when she saw my scar she had to concede that it was me.

‘My mother really struggled to accept me because she’d thought I’d been dead for all those years. All her attention was focused on her second son, who’d been born in 1944. We’d also been joined by another brother in 1946. She would take her bad moods out on me and, as the eldest child, she would scold and beat me more than her younger sons. When my foster sister, Marijke, came to stay with us, she couldn’t bear to see how my mother treated me. Towards me and only me, my mother had two faces. Many years later, Hans Metz told me that the Metz family had searched for me for years because they wanted to adopt me.’


A fantasist‘My parents had spent the whole of the war in hiding and didn’t believe my stories about the camps. They didn’t believe that I’d seen wild animals on a train, and my mother said there was no way there could have been a garden full of fresh vegetables in Camp Theresienstadt. She would tell me she had endured the Dutch famine of 1944, and called me a fantasist.

‘Because I’d survived three Nazi camps, I’d become very hard to handle – so much so that my parents were unable to cope with me at home. This led them to send me to the Paedological Institute in Amsterdam, where I learnt to alter my behaviour. During my assessment, Professor of Psychology & Pedagogy Jan Waterink told my parents, “If he’s still having delusions about wild animals, I’d recommend that we keep him here for another nine months!” My father thought my treatment had lasted long enough and took me home.

‘I would often visit my paternal grandparents in Nijkerk. My grandfather was the only member of our family who was genuinely interested in my wartime stories. My foster parents, the Veenstras, and their nanny, Henny, felt like my real family, and that has never changed. I still see their children every week. Years later, I ran into Hans Metz, whose parents had taken me to the Netherlands with them by train. He still remembered the circus train vividly, which truly delighted me. I told him, “I received years of therapy because my parents didn’t believe my story about the circus train!”’

When I’m with other war victims, I can be myself‘When I was fifteen, I met Mary de Vries in a Jewish holiday camp in Vierhouten. When I was twentyfive, I asked her to marry me, and we’ve now been married for fifty-seven years. I became a seller for a textile wholesaler in Utrecht. We had two daughters, and now have a greatgranddaughter. It’s wonderful for my wife and I to be able to experience this.

‘I’ve been back to Theresienstadt on two occasions: once with my eldest daughter, and once with the Dutch Ministry of Health, Welfare and Sport (VWS) and Chief Rabbi Binyomin Jacobs for the unveiling of a commemorative plaque. I wanted to go back to be able to show them that there really was a vegetable garden, and that I hadn’t made it up.

‘My wife, who is also Jewish, has her own experiences to contend with, so I don’t want to burden her with my wartime memories. That’s why I like to keep busy. Before the corona crisis, I did this as a guest speaker by giving talks about my experiences during the war. I’m also the chairman of the ‘Stichting Onbekende Kinderen 13 september 1944’, the foundation for the orphans who were on the very last train to leave Westerbork transit camp for Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. We have a reunion on 13 September every year, and are all in regular contact. Two of us are even married to one another. I see them as my brothers and sisters, because they have the same peculiarities as me. Trains make us feel claustrophobic, and we don’t ever want to have to stand in line again. When I’m with other war victims, I can be myself and speak freely about what’s on my mind.’

Remembrance‘On 4 May, my wife and I commemorate the war at home, together with our children and grandchildren. If there’s one piece of advice I would give to everyone, it would be to respect every human being of every colour and creed!

‘For me, the war will never be over. The past is sometimes too heavy a burden. For instance, I once worked as a volunteer at the zoo in Amersfoort. For the baby elephant’s first birthday, his keepers made him a cake from hay and potato peelings, and he thought it was delicious. This suddenly brought back my memories of the war, and I had to walk away. A keeper asked me why I was so upset. Later, when I told her about the cake made of hay and potato peelings I was given at Westerbork for my fifth birthday, she understood. On another occasion, I was waiting in my car at a railway crossing, when a cattle train drove past. Deep in my thoughts, I found myself back in that dark cattle wagon as it left Westerbork for Bergen-Belsen. Suddenly, someone tapped on my window: “Sir, would you mind moving on, because there’s a whole row of cars behind you?!” That’s just the way it is. You need to pick yourself up and carry on, but as a war victim you sometimes dwell on the past for longer than others.’

Interview: Ellen Lock


How I almost lost my father

Peter Rufi’s father was brutally punished by the Japanese before his eyes.

For civilian war victim Peter Rufi, the memories of the war in the Dutch East Indies can never be erased: ‘In early 1942, when the war with Japan started in the Dutch East Indies, my father, who was a factory manager for the Batavian Oil Company (BPM), was ordered by his employer and the Royal Netherlands Indies Army (KNIL) to destroy his oil refinery in Sumbawa so it could not be used by the enemy. He followed the order but was arrested by the Japanese.

Every day, Peter lives with the memory of the brutal punishment that followed, because his family was forced by the Japanese to watch his father’s beheading: ‘The images of that day are forever burned into my memory.’ However, the story took a different turn, which is why Peter wanted to share his wartime experiences.

The execution of Peter’s father‘My father, Rudolf Rufi, was the manager of a BPM fossil fuels plant in Bima, on the island of Sumbawa. My mother, Wilhelmina Rufi-Duran, was a housewife. I was born on 6 May 1939 in Banjarmasin, followed by my sister, Reeneke, on 20 February 1941. We had a Roman Catholic upbringing.

‘In early 1942, when the war with Japan started in the Dutch East Indies, my father, who was a factory manager for BPM, was ordered by his employer and the KNIL to destroy his oil refinery so it couldn’t be used by the enemy. Together with his second-in-command, Mr De Ceuninck van Capelle, he blew up as many installations as he possibly could using explosives. This led to them both being arrested by the Japanese and being tried as war criminals before a court martial, who sentenced them to death by beheading.

‘The execution was to be carried out in the presence of their wives and children. My mother, my sister and I were collected along with Ms De Ceuninck van Capelle and taken to the execution site, where my father and Mr De Ceuninck van Capelle were each made to dig a hole before saying their goodbyes to us. After that, the Japanese tied their hands behind their backs and blindfolded them and made them kneel in front of the holes they had dug. On the order of the Japanese commander, they were beheaded with a samurai sword by two Japanese executioners. Their bodies both rolled forwards into the holes, disappearing from view. My mother and Ms De Ceuninck van Capelle screamed and fainted. I’m still confronted by these horrific images daily.’

En route to Celebes‘After the execution, we were taken home and told to get ready to be transported to Celebes. The following day, we were loaded onto a lorry, which then drove to the prison to collect other prisoners. To our great surprise, we discovered that my father and Mr De Ceuninck van Capelle were there waiting for us and were, in fact, alive. My mother and Ms De Ceuninck van Capelle were overjoyed and fell into their husbands’ arms. My father and Mr De Ceuninck van Capelle explained that it had been a mock execution. They had both been knocked unconscious with a single blow from the flat side of the sword, and had fallen forward into the holes they had been made to dig for themselves. Out of view of the women and children, they had been taken and thrown back into their cells. It wasn’t until years later that my father was able to tell me that he almost went mad when he regained consciousness and discovered that he was still alive.


‘Together with the other Dutch prisoners, we were taken by boat to Makassar, on the island of Celebes. On board, we were allowed to speak with our father some more, but once we were ashore the men were separated from the women and children. The men were then taken to the prisoner-of-war camp in Parepare, north of Makassar, while the women and children were taken to the women’s camp in Malino. In Malino, we were allocated a small house, which we shared with Ms De Ceuninck van Capelle. When we were in Malino, we were allowed to walk in and out of the camp freely. One day, my mother bought some food from locals, but she got caught. For punishment, she was beaten by a Japanese guard and locked up in a cell for three days.’

Camp Kampili‘In May 1943, the Japanese soldiers took us by lorry to Kampili women’s camp in South Celebes, which lay approximately twenty kilometres southeast of Makassar. It had previously been a TB sanatorium and was now a barbed-wire-fenced women’s camp. Japanese guards patrolled the perimeter of the camp day and night. The camp commander was called Yamadji. To access the camp, you had to cross a guarded bridge traversing the Berang River. There were twelve 6 by 60 metres barracks for the Malino prisoners and ten small houses that had previously been for staff, where the prisoners from Ambon were later housed. Each barracks housed around a hundred prisoners. We slept in bunk beds. Our cutlery, plate and mug were our only possessions. The first brick house was the camp commander’s, while the second house was home to the camp doctor, the priest and the pastor. There was also a barracks that only housed nuns.

‘Almost all of the women had to work the land in the burning sun, but my mother was fortunate in that she had been assigned to work in the kitchen. This meant she was sometimes able to keep some of the food for us that she had cooked for the Japanese. Each prisoner was given just a bowl of rice a day, with vegetable juice. There was a roll-call every morning at 7 a.m.. We had to bow before the Japanese flag and stand in rows to be counted. If you did even the slightest thing wrong or didn’t bow deeply enough, you’d be savagely beaten. For a price, local couriers would smuggle letters from the

female prisoners in Kampili women’s camp to the men in Parepare men’s camp and vice versa.

The Allied bombings of Kampili‘For the final six months of the war, Camp Kampili was attacked repeatedly by Allied bombers. They would first circle the camp, and then return to firebomb it. The firebombs contained phosphorous, which would make the wooden barracks catch fire even quicker, and a large part of the camp would be razed. During the bombings, we were allowed to leave the camp. When the first bombing hit, my mother was working in the kitchen. Hand in hand with my sister, I ran between all of the mothers, who, in panic, were running in all directions, fleeing the camp with their children. We couldn’t see our mother anywhere.

‘As my sister and I ran past the Japanese camp commander’s house, we saw that his desk was on fire. I remembered that desk all too well. On one occasion, I’d forgotten to close the gate. As a result, the goats escaped, and were found kicking around the nuns’ white clothing on the bleaching field. Mother Superior had taken me to that desk to punish me by giving me a Japanese-style stick-beating, but in the end that didn’t happen. Instead, I had to stand still on top of it. We saw how the pigsties were being hit by the phosphorous bombs and immediately bursting into flames. The screams of the locked-up animals as they caught fire were heartbreaking.

Major panic‘Amid the panic, I lost my sister. She was with a friend and her family. I hid under the bridge with one of the Japanese, but it didn’t feel like a safe place, so I ran into the forest to where everyone was gathering. There, I found my mother, who hugged me with joy. When she discovered that my sister was missing, she went into a blind panic. Together, we tried to find her. My mother ran up to a girl the same age as my sister who was wearing an identical dress, but it turned out it wasn’t her. My mother was now extremely worried and scared that my sister was dead, but in the end we managed to find her.

‘The whole camp had been bombed to smithereens. Everything had been destroyed and burnt. The kitchen, the barracks, the livestock houses and


the other buildings were all gone. In the ashes of our barracks, my mother did manage to find her silverware. It’s a wonder that we survived the bombings, as many were wounded and five were killed.’

The Forest Camp‘On 17 July 1945, we were moved to a temporary location called the Forest Camp, where the Japanese had already had bamboo barracks built for us. We were to live in those barracks until Camp Kampili was rebuilt. The Forest Camp was primitive; there was no drinking water and there were no latrines, which meant that the women and children had to carry a lot of water.

‘There were feral dogs in the camp, which had come from the kampongs, and three people were bitten and died from rabies. One day, the Japanese camp commander chopped down all the banana trees, probably following the news about the bombing of Nagasaki. In the period from 1943 to 1945, there were 1,651 prisoners in Camp Kampili, thirty-three of whom didn’t survive the internment. Another five died in the bombings, along with the three who died of rabies.

‘We were separated from my father for three and a half years. My sister and I had little to no memory of him. My mother would often tell us stories about my father, and would try to explain what kind of man he was and what he did. The only men we saw in the camp were Japanese, and through my child’s eyes they weren’t real men, but monkeys. Throughout our internment, my mother told us our father was in Camp Parepare. For the final six months of the war, we were unable to correspond with my father.’

Liberated, but not yet free to leave‘On 15 August 1945, Japan capitulated, and the war was over. The head of the camp called us together and told us that Japan had capitulated, but that we needed to remain there for our own safety. So we were liberated, but not yet free to leave the camp. The women spontaneously started singing the Dutch national anthem. I didn’t know it, but I pretended to sing along. The women started crying and laughing as they sang, and I sang, cried and laughed along with them. I’ll never forget that feeling of great joy.

‘Whenever I sing our national anthem, I think about the emotional and solemn liberation in Kampili. All of the women and children from Camp Kampili were taken to Makassar by lorry, where we were allocated a house, which we shared with the Prins family. We didn’t know where my father was and whether he was still alive. At the distribution point of one the soup kitchens, where we were able to get food once a day, the Red Cross had set up a small office where we could enquire about missing family members. My mother left our address with them in case my father should come and ask about us.’

The reunion‘One day, I was playing in the front garden, when a white man with strawberry blond hair, a red moustache and beard, and blue eyes asked, “Young man! Are you Peter... Peter Rufi?” “Yes, sir!”, I replied, to which he responded, “Well, in that case, I’m your father.” “No, sir. That’s not possible”, I said, shaking my head, but he insisted. “I am, really!” “No, sir. That can’t be. My father’s in Parepare”, I answered, because this was what my mother had been telling me for three and a half years. My mother, who was busy with my sister, heard us talking and ran outside. She threw herself into my father’s arms, screaming and crying. I was very shocked by this, as I thought my mother was being attacked. I took a clog and started hitting the man on his back and head. This really made my mother and father laugh, and I very soon realised that he really was my father. So after three and a half years, I finally had my father back.

‘My father started working for the BPM again. My parents also took in a foster child – the daughter of one of my mother’s sisters. From day one, she was genuinely a part of our family. In South Celebes, the now-infamous Captain Westerling was responsible for keeping the peace. My father was transferred to a BPM refinery in Kupang on the island of Timor, where there was little to fear from freedom fighters. This is how we survived the post-war period. In 1949, we arrived in Batavia via Surabaya. My father had strong connections with high-ranking Indonesians who would arrange protection and security for him for his work and family where necessary. This enabled my parents to live in Indonesia for a long time after.’


Moving to the Netherlands‘After the war, my parents had two more boys: my brothers Hans, born in 1948, and Huib, born in 1953. In 1955, I was in my second year of secondary school. From the third year, I was supposed to be taught in Bahasa Indonesian, but my father thought it would be better for me to finish my education in the Netherlands. My father arranged a flight for me and enrolled me in a school and boarding school. In August, I arrived unaccompanied at Schiphol Airport. I attended Don Bosco Catholic boys’ boarding school in Rijswijk and the Jesuit College in The Hague and acquired my secondary school certificate. My parents and brothers arrived in the Netherlands in 1959, but that coincided with me having to go into military service. During my military service, I heard about the course at the Royal Military Academy in Breda and became a professional soldier. I wanted to become independent as soon possible.’

We weren’t allowed to leave‘I married in September 1960, and my wife and I had two daughters. We divorced in 1982. I was in the army from 1960 to 1994. In 1962, I was stationed in New Guinea, but by the time we arrived the fighting had already ended, and we were instructed by the United Nations to withdraw. In 1982, I married my second wife, who already had two sons from her previous marriage. I’m now great-grandfather to the children of my daughter’s children. My job with NATO led me to move to Germany with my family. In 1994, I retired from NATO as a lieutenant colonel. In retrospect, I’m extremely thankful that I only experienced a cold war during my military career, and that we didn’t go to war with Russia.

‘Because I couldn’t sit still, I took a posting in Zaire in 1995 with the UNHCR through the Netherlands Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I was responsible for liaising with local authorities to ensure that this international aid organisation was able to deliver food aid safely. My contract meant I was away from home for four months of each year. This type of logistical work for charity organisations suited me much better. It involved working with refugees, whose lives mirrored my own. I saw refugee women carrying bales of clothing on their heads, walking hand in hand with their children, just like us when we were on our way to Camp Kampili. They also slept crammed together in appalling conditions. I would sometimes say to my Zairian colleagues, “You get food, water and a roof above your heads, and you can also leave the reception camp. Like you, I was in a camp, but as a prisoner. We were imprisoned there for three and a half years, and the women were beaten by the Japanese camp guards.

‘I worked with refugees until 1997, with great interest. Before the corona crisis, I would always attend the annual Kampili reunion. It was glad to find out more about life in the camp by hearing the stories of others who were also children at the time, but older than myself, and remembered things in greater detail. Even though I was very young at the time, my wartime memories from Bima and Camp Kampili – and, in particular, how I almost lost my father – still continue to haunt me. I see the image of his mock execution before me every day.’




When they started firing at the festive crowd, I ran for my life!

Tom Gase was hit during the shooting on Dam Square on 7 May 1945.

On 7 May 1945, thousands of people came together on Dam Square in the centre of Amsterdam to celebrate the liberation of the Netherlands and cheer on the approaching Canadian troops. Following the German surrender on 5 May 1945, a podium had been set up in the square for the official transfer of power. The German soldiers wandering through the city were still armed. The Domestic Armed Forces (BS) were also still carrying their Sten guns, contrary to the orders of Prince Bernhard, their Commander-in-Chief, in the expectation that they would surrender their weapons peacefully to the Canadian army.

Suddenly, the festive mood vanished. Some women who were known to have consorted with the enemy were punished by having their heads shaved and the atmosphere turned grim. Then, as the Germans were being disarmed by the BS, a shot rang out. Immediately, a German soldier on a balcony to the left of the Royal Palace turned his machine gun on the assembled crowd and started firing. For the next hour and a half, the BS and German soldiers engaged in a shooting match. By the time it was over, 32 people were dead and 200 wounded, including nine-year-old Tom Gase. “I immediately dashed behind a barrel organ to shield myself from the bullets. The only thing to do was get the hell out of it!” In this interview, Tom Gase describes how Liberation Day in Amsterdam marked him for life.

Everything revolved around food!‘On 7 May 1945, when I was nine, I went into the centre of Amsterdam with my friend Wim Nipper to celebrate the liberation of the city. We had gone through months of starvation at the end of the war, when I would walk through the streets endlessly with my friends in search of food. We scraped the rest of the soup and leftover food from the vats in the soup

kitchens using a long spoon tied to a stick. Everything revolved around food, so when we heard that the Canadians were about to arrive in Dam Square, we went along hoping they would give us chocolate.

In September 1944, the Dutch railways went on strike at the request of the exiled Dutch government in London. The allies had already liberated the southern part of the Netherlands, but the occupying forces subsequently blocked all food and fuel transports to the western provinces. This six-week blockade had resulted in the Dutch famine of 1944-1945, known as the ‘Hunger Winter’. We had to build our own cooking stoves and constantly hunt for wood to burn. My father and I knocked out the wooden blocks from the railway tracks or the banisters from deserted houses. I would collect driftwood from the banks of the river IJ that we dried and used for fuel.’

Father was sent to a work camp‘My father and I went on a hunger march that ended at a farm near Medemblik in the province of North Holland. We slept in farm buildings along the way and traded our family silverware and bed linen in exchange for vegetables and sacks of flour. As we drew near to Medemblik, my father walked into a Gestapo trap on one of the country roads. He was arrested and sent to work in Germany, leaving me all alone at the age of nine. Complete strangers helped me make the long journey back to Amsterdam, giving me lifts in handcarts or on the back of bicycles with wooden tyres. We didn’t hear or see anything more of my father until after the war.

My father was a road worker and my mother an ordinary housewife. I was born in Amsterdam on 24 October 1935 at number 40 Hembrugstraat, a street named after the railway bridge over the river IJ.

The railway embankment was to the south of our street. The Netherlands was mobilised on 28 August 1939, shortly before Hitler invaded Poland. My father was called up immediately to serve with the engineers who were stationed in Gouda, so my mother had already been left alone with me as a toddler in 1939. We often stayed with her mother in the next street, Spaarndammerstraat. There was nearly always something to eat there, even during the Hunger Winter, because they would distribute food from the Maria Magdalene church opposite her house.

In July 1943, the Allies bombed the Fokker aircraft factories that had been requisitioned by the Germans, killing more than two hundred people. We often played on the railway embankment near the factory, and now we took tins with us to collect remnants of the phosphorous bombs which made wonderful fuel. At the end of December 1944, the weather turned freezing cold so we needed more food and fuel to keep warm. In Amsterdam, people started dying from starvation and you would even see their bodies lying in the street. I had a goat called Mieke that we were eventually forced to kill. But she was mine and I couldn’t bring myself to eat her even though I was starving.’

A better view from the Palace‘On the morning of 7 May 1945 my friend Wim Nipper and I made sure we got to Dam Square in plenty of time. When we arrived, it was already packed with grown-ups so we grabbed the iron bars over one of the Palace windows and pulled ourselves up onto the sill to get a better view. From there, we could look down on the celebrating crowd. Directly in front of the Palace was a wooden tent with a podium set up for the speakers at the hand-over ceremony. We saw three British armoured reconnaissance vehicles drive through the crowd, greeted by cheers. A few metres away from them, trucks belonging to the Grüne Polizei and Waffen SS also drove past. Then the British unit left the square. All this time, an organ grinder was playing cheerful Dutch songs.

Suddenly, an open lorry drove into Dam Square carrying women and girls who had consorted with the Germans. They were forced to have their heads

shaved while the crowds jeered and spat at them. Then they were beaten until they were bleeding and smeared with red lead. It was an appalling sight. The city had suffered so badly from hunger, it was hardly surprising if these young girls would have done anything to get food. But now the people’s fury was focused on them.’

The shooting‘Suddenly, the atmosphere turned grim. To the left of the Palace was the building that housed the men’s club ‘De Groote Club’ where the German Navy were waiting to surrender their weapons to the Canadians and return to Germany, as agreed between the Allies and the German military leadership. In the square, there were still German soldiers and members of the BS in their blue overalls, whose duty it was to make sure everything went peacefully.

Suddenly, there was a gunshot. I wasn’t sure at first where it had come from. Immediately after that, at about 3 p.m., one of the German soldiers on the balcony on the corner of Kalverstraat turned his machine gun on the crowd and people started falling to the ground. There was complete panic as everyone burst into action. The rattle of the machine gun was followed by the terrified cries of people trying to escape. Wim and I jumped down simultaneously from our high perch to find somewhere to hide. In the tumult that followed, I lost sight of him. I would love to talk to him again now, if he is still alive. Some people hid in a line behind a lamppost - nine of them, one behind the other. You can even see this on photos and film. Others tried to shelter behind a kiosk. The side streets off the square were crammed with people trying to get away. I ran for my life and ducked behind the barrel organ in the middle of the square, in front of the Bijenkorf department store. I shielded myself by crouching down behind it with about twenty other people. But we weren’t safe because the BS soldiers, who were practically untrained and couldn’t shoot straight, started to fire back. We were caught in the crossfire.’

Hit by a bullet‘To escape the firing line, we ran towards the church known as the Nieuwe Kerk. The door that opened onto the square was locked. We found a low side


window to the right of the building that had already been kicked in and I climbed in after the others. But during the dash to the church, I had been hit by a bullet that had gone straight through the thick of my thumb and shattered the bone in my left thigh. My hand was bleeding heavily, but I hadn’t yet started to feel the wound in my leg.

Suddenly, someone threw a couple of hand grenades into the church, which was already full of people fleeing the shooting outside. Quick as a flash, I ducked behind the monument to the Dutch naval hero, Michiel de Ruyter. A red cross nurse in a white uniform saw how bad my hand was bleeding and bandaged it up. By now, the hospitals were full with the seriously wounded from the shooting, so she sent me home. Amazingly, I managed to walk there. The weeks that followed were terrible. I lay in bed in great pain. My wounds didn’t heal and got badly infected. Our doctor gave me a new miracle drug called penicillin. My mother cut up her corset to make an elastic sleeve to hold the leg bandage in place and my arm was put in a sling to rest my hand. My mother had to change the bandage several times a day.’

The morphine brought everything back to me‘Eventually, I had my first operation in the children’s hospital Emma Kinderziekenhuis. One of the doctors said, “I’m afraid the leg will have to come off.” Fortunately, my father had returned shortly before, walking all the way back from his forced labour on a farm in Ludwigshafen am Rhein. He insisted the doctor spared my leg, so he did. I was in hospital for months with an inflammation of the left leg. I remember having to eat lots of different types of cabbage. The leg wound refused to close, and I had to have ten more operations. Shards of bone kept coming loose which would cause another infection. While I was in hospital on morphine, the worst moments of the war kept coming back to me. Suddenly I was on that country road in Medemblik again and my father was being taken from me. Or I was jumping down from the Palace window again with Wim and hiding from the bullets behind the barrel organ. At last, I was operated on successfully by a plastic surgeon who covered the wound with a layer of skin so that it finally healed. He really saved my leg.’

Their things were still there‘In 1949, my father’s brother Evert, who had managed a plantation in the Dutch East Indies, returned to Amsterdam. He came to live in our house with his East Indian wife Rosario and their six children. The only one I could talk to was my uncle, as his wife and children didn’t speak Dutch. Although we already had a flush toilet, they would insist on rinsing the toilet bowl with water from a bottle. When I was thirteen, I was keen to work in Artis, Amsterdam Zoo. My father knew one of the keepers and I was chosen by the director out of 350 applicants. I worked with the head keeper to look after the aviary, the ape house and the snake house. A number of Jewish people had gone into hiding in the attics above the elephant house and the aquarium. Their things were still there and I helped to store them away in wooden crates.’

We picked up where we had left off ‘When we were young, my current partner Jannie lived opposite the entrance to Artis. We became friends when I was fifteen. When I was nineteen, I married someone else and we had two children together. Then, one day, my wife left me. So when I met my childhood friend Jannie again, who was by that time a widow, we picked up where we had left off and have been together now for 42 years. In the war, she was so hungry she sometimes stole a sugar beet from the elephants. Eventually I became a road worker, like my father. This kind of work usually means kneeling down on both knees but because of the wound in my leg, I worked for years on one knee. I also suffered from osteomyelitis, which made my leg grow longer. They shortened the bone by 2 centimetres and put in an artificial knee which kept me at work until my pension. I started at the municipality of Landsmeer, and later I set up my own road works company. I have paved a lot of courtyards for Monumentenzorg (a monument preservation society). I also laid and then varnished the flagstones for the floor in the Amstelkerk (church) in Amsterdam.’

I go to Dam Square every week‘At the time, I didn’t understand why they were shooting. Years later I heard that that same morning, in an alleyway leading to the square, some members of the Domestic Armed Forces (BS) had used


unnecessary force to confiscate weapons from a group of Germans, one of whom had died as a result.

The BS was made up of young resistance fighters and ordinary working men eager to get back at the Germans by removing their weapons themselves. This ran counter to the agreement that the Germans would surrender their arms to the Canadians. Suddenly, instead of enjoying the celebrations as we waited for the liberators, we were watching the grim spectacle of ‘traitor’ women and girls forcibly having their heads shaved. It still amazes me how quickly the whole atmosphere changed and turned into a shoot-out. I can’t stop thinking about how crazy the war was. I am so grateful that I survived, and in the hope that others can perhaps learn from my story, I often tell it to schoolchildren or groups of tourists. People are usually astonished to hear that the

shooting of 7 May happened two days after Germany had actually surrendered.

There is a war monument behind my garden in Landsmeer, made from a propeller from a British plane that came down in the fields after the pilots had bailed out over the North Sea and drowned. That’s where I usually go on Remembrance Day, on 4 May, with my partner Jannie and the children. I like to talk about the war to the English and American tourists who come to watch the ceremony. Once a week, I cycle to Dam Square to sit on a bench and gaze at the place where I almost lost my life in the fatal shooting on Monday 7 May 1945. The war was over, we were already celebrating the Liberation in Amsterdam, and still it was able to flare up again!’




Results of the client satisfaction survey

Every two years we conduct a sample survey to assess our clients’ satisfaction with our services. We do this to get a good idea of what you think is going well or could be improved. In a year when measures taken to combat COVID-19 have neces-sarily changed the way we work, we wanted to know how you have experienced our services and whether you feel our usual standards have been maintained.

At the end of 2020, 20% of our client base was contacted by an independent research agency and invited to take part in the survey. The selection of the sample took into account the number of beneficiaries for each scheme, those whose entitlement is based on their own war experiences as opposed to surviving relatives, and those living in the Netherlands as opposed to abroad. By the closing date, 30% had responded, of whom a small number (8%) had used the online response option. The number of responses was more than sufficient for a representative and reliable result.

In order to compare the results with previous surveys, questions were asked about:• our service in general;• the timeliness and accuracy of our payments;• the way in which we inform and communicate with you;• how we handle applications, reported changes,

and client dissatisfaction;• contacts with members of our staff.

For the first time, this survey also included questions on the use of the internet, email and other digital means of client communication. Due to the COVID-19 measures, more of you have had to resort to using digital channels where available and we wanted to know whether they also met your needs and requirements.

ResultsGeneral satisfaction with the service remains high and has again increased slightly compared to previous surveys. In this survey, our services were rated with an average score of 8.6 satisfaction on aspects such as applications, payments, changes, how we provide information and how we handle client dissatisfaction has also increased compared to previous surveys.

Results of the client satisfaction surveyOur service in general: 2020: 8.6 2018: 8.5 2016: 8.4

Pension/benefit applications: 2020: 8.0 2018: 7.6 2016: 7.6

Handling of changes: 2020: 8.4 2018: 8.4 2016: 8.1

Questions and information: 2020: 8.5 2018: 7.9 2016: 7.6

Handling of complaints: 2020: 7.4 2018: 6.5 2016: 5.3

Results in more detailIn particular, a high service rating was given for aspects regarding the timeliness and accuracy of payments and the careful handling of questions and requests. The survey also showed that it is important to clients that we maintain our knowledge of the past and empathize with them. The vast majority also indicated that they were treated with respect, that agreements were met, that they were listened to and helped proactively.

Most clients prefer to communicate by telephone (68%), followed by letter or email (15% each) and a personal interview (2%). Information provided in


the form of announcements/notices, leaflets, our magazine Aanspraak and answers to client questions was judged to be clear and satisfactory. As far as official decisions are concerned, some people indicated that they did not always understand why their application had been rejected and would like to see this explained in more detail in future.

Although we already offer a fair amount of general information in two languages (Dutch and English) clients living abroad who do not, or no longer, have a good command of Dutch indicated that they would like to receive all our correspondence in English.

Although half of our clients state that they use email, with or without the help of others, only 56% (mainly Wuv beneficiaries) indicate that they also want to arrange their affairs via email. Most clients prefer to arrange their affairs in writing or by telephone.

What next?The results of the client satisfaction survey have been discussed with our staff and with the members of the Pension and Benefit Board (PUR) and the Client Council. We will carry on doing what we do well. Where you have shown that there is room for improvement, we will investigate further and make whatever adjustments we can. In particular, we will look at ways to expand our English-language correspondence, allow clients to manage their affairs online if they wish, and provide a more detailed explanation for why an application has been rejected.

We would like to thank all our clients who took part in this survey. If you would like more information on the results of the survey, you can contact the editors of Aanspraak by email at [email protected] or by telephone on +31 71 5356888.

mailto:aanspraak.wvo%40svb.nl?subject=

Questions and answers

Why was I not invited to participate in the recent customer satisfaction survey regarding the services provided to victims of war?The customer satisfaction survey is conducted by an independent agency who select the respondents randomly. This agency has contacted 20 per cent of our clients by letter. In doing so, they have made sure that the various schemes, the war victims and surviving relatives of war victims who are entitled to receive benefits, and clients based in and outside the Netherlands, are all equally represented. The Pension and Benefit Board and the Sociale Verzekeringsbank are in no way involved in making this selection. We are therefore unable to say whether you will be invited to participate on a subsequent occasion.

Why can’t I submit a claim under the Benefit Act for Victims of Persecution 1940-1945 (Wuv) for costs I incurred years ago?Reimbursements under the Wuv and the Benefit Act for Civilian War Victims 1940-1945 (Wubo) commence on the first day of the month after the application was submitted. The Pension and Benefit Board of the Sociale Verzekeringsbank can only deviate from this rule in your favour if this is deemed necessary in light of your circumstances. However, a claim can never be backdated further than 1 January of the year before you submitted it, as laid down in the Decision on the commencement date of benefits under the Wuv scheme and the Regulation on the commencement date of benefits under the Wubo scheme. We would therefore advise you to apply for a reimbursement before you incur any costs. If you do

submit a claim after you have incurred the costs, we will assess whether your circumstances prevented you from submitting the claim earlier. In such cases, the claim is often rejected and the costs are not reimbursed.

In recent years, I’ve spoken with various officers, whereas in the past I had a fixed contact person. Is this still possible?Due to the decreasing number of V&O clients, there are also increasingly fewer V&O officers. When a V&O officer leaves, their duties are taken over by other members of staff. In some cases, it may be necessary to divide duties between the available officers. As a result, it is becoming increasingly difficult for us to guarantee our V&O clients a fixed contact person. Furthermore, since our offices closed due to the COVID-19 measures, our staff have not been available directly on their own extension numbers. They can be reached via our general telephone numbers, but this means that when you call the V&O department, you may speak with a different officer than usual.

What do you do with the results of the customer satisfaction survey regarding the services provided to victims of war?It is imperative to us that the standard of the services we provide to victims of war is maintained and, where possible, improved. As well as comparing the results with those of previous surveys, we look for ways to make improvements. In this edition of Aanspraak, we explain in greater detail what we do with the results of the customer satisfaction survey.


Aanspraak June 2021 English

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