One day, radio broadcasts announced that the war was over. There was great rejoicing[8], but more hardships were still to come. The German forces that had occupied and terrorized our country for five long years started to withdraw, battalion by battalion.[9] But as they pulled back, some soldiers deserted and fled toward Germany, sacking and looting as they went.[10] There was much destruction, and the Dutch people still faced grave dangers.
My grandfather, Arnoldus, looked at his pale, thin children and realized that the hunger could continue for a long time as the war left poverty in its wake[11]. He wondered if it might be time to feed his precious bulbs to his children. Certainly it would be better than losing the bulbs to the marauding bands of fleeing German soldiers.[12] After hours of agonizing[13], he made his decision. He seized a shovel and went into the garden. There he found my mother, Albertha, then just seven, looking flushed and agitated.[14]
“Papa! Papa! I must tell you something,” Albertha said. Over her shoulder, Arnoldus saw a band of drunken, looting soldiers coming toward them down the street. He whispered to Albertha to run inside the house and frantically began digging for his bulbs. Over and over his shovel came up empty. He was too late. Someone had already stolen them.
Crazed with grief and rage, he ran toward the street screaming, “They have stolen my tulip bulbs!” Albertha, watching from the doorway, cried out and ran to stop him. Before she could reach Arnoldus, a German soldier raised his pistol[15] and shot him. Although the German surrender had been signed, a curfew[16] was still technically in effect, and my grandfather had violated it.
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