Yesterday I went to interview three men for my WWII book with the working title “Snow on the Tulips”. It’s the one set in the Netherlands. My dad went with me because I am so stinking shy I could have never done it on my own. He was a great support and terrific help.

First I interviewed two men who were in their late teens and early twenties during the war. They had to hide for the last three years of the war because the Germans rounded up all men over 18 to go to work in Germany. The Allies were bombing German factories and too many Germans were being killed. Dutch men were expendable. Germans came to each of their homes looking for men that age. One had a hiding place in the hay mow in the barn, the other had a small hidden closet in one house he hid at and a hole in the ground under the front room in another house. The rats kept him company down there. They subsisted on potatoes, turnips and carrots. One man lived on a farm (or far-um, as they say with their accent, just like my grandmother 🙂 so they had some milk and some meat, but the Germans took much of what they produced.

The men, though both in their upper 80’s, were so willing to share their stories. I appreciate that because I know it couldn’t have been easy. At one point, one of them shared about someone he lost during the war. He told a little, then said he couldn’t say any more about it. What they had to endure was awful. And this same man had just put his wife in a nursing home that morning. Amazing that he came, but he said she needed her rest and he wanted me to know his story. And I feel it’s so important that I do. And that I share it with the world.

I then went to visit another man who lived in the same area during the war. He was 10 when it started and 15 when it ended, but he had vivid memories and was also able to give me some important information. He remembers Allied planes dropping guns for the Resistance. He remembers the Germans coming to his home looking for any boys who were of age. And he remembers little details like the fact that yes, they did wear klompen (wooden shoes) during the war. He speaks so fondly of his native country.

Conditions in the last year of the war were horrible. People were rounded up all over the place. The Nazis confiscated everything, cleaning out businesses, shops and factories, leaving the country desolate and poverty stricken. And yet these men could praise God for his mercy and provision for them. I stand in awe of them.

Two of the men I visited with were from Friesland, a province in the northern part of the Netherlands. They have their own language, Fries. It’s similar to German and to English. My grandparents were from Friesland, having immigrated in 1927 and their native language was Fries. My father doesn’t speak it, but he understands it. When the first man spoke Fries to him, he started to cry. He hasn’t heard the language in almost 23 years, since my grandmother died. I’m so glad I was able to give him that gift. I have to admit, I cried when I heard the men’s accents. It was like listening to my grandparents all over. Such a sentimental journey.

Even if this book never gets published (and please pray that it does), I have learned so much about my culture, my heritage, and the indomitable spirit of people of faith that writing the book has been worth it. Now, off to edit and incorporate some of what I learned yesterday.