After moving from the fourth floor of a very old warehouse in the harbour area of Rotterdam, we moved to a very small housing site, a five-minute walk from where we lived before.
It was a big event for me because I could play outside.
One day in early May 1940, when I was about seven years old, my world fell apart. All of a sudden, there were a lot of planes in the air, and then the world around us was filled with explosions and fire. All around us, buildings were on fire and collapsing.
My dad came home panting from running, and he told my mom to put Peter, my younger brother, in the pram. My mom took the pram, and my dad took my sister’s and my hand, and we ran towards a still-passable street. Then it became hair-raising to find a way out of downtown. Streets were on fire, other streets had big bomb craters in them, and the sickening sound of bombs whistling as they came down was followed by big explosions.
It was hell, but we did get away from downtown.
My parents had no other choice than to go to Uncle Adrian and Aunty Lena, who lived in Yselmonde, a very small village about 15 km from Rotterdam. They took all five of us in and helped us find a place to rent or sleep.
It took a couple of days, and we moved to a very nice house with a garden. People gave us blankets, pots and pans, chairs, etc.
After a month or so, my dad was allowed to go to the area where we used to live to find out what was left.
When he came back, he told us the tire business was a still-smouldering pile of rubble, but the place where we lived was miraculously saved. He said bombs were dropped as close as three buildings away, and that took care of most of the window glass.
As kids, we loved where we lived, in a house with a big garden and a basement where we could play. My youngest sister was born there, and by September, I went to the Princess Juliana Elementary School.
The village of Yselmonde was built along an old dike that must have followed the shore of an old river or lake, so it had a lot of curves. To get to school was a 10-minute walk along the curvy dike.
One curve was shaped in a half circle that was enclosed by a fence that kept people away from a mean goat. It took a dare to climb over the fence, run across the little meadow and cross the fence again. Being a new city kid, I accepted the dare, climbed over the fence and ran. But just like in a nightmare, I heard the goat getting closer, and then, there I was, laying in horrible pain, a hole in my bum, bleeding, with a mean goat staring at me.
Bert de Vink is a regular Observer contributor. Part 1 of Bert’s story was published in the April 4 edition of the Observer.