Moving beyond the war years

I am really impatient to leave the war years and move on with my story, so I'm compressing the last year 45 and 46 into one significant event. In 1946 my parents moved me to Canada. My Mom was going home and my Dad was returning to the country he loved. I didn't have much to say about it. I was six. I had been well prepared to accept the move from all the wonderful stories my dad had made up about Canada. I knew we were going to a special place.

My father was returning to the country he was forced to leave years earlier. Only now he was returning not as a farm labourer, but as the first representative for KLM Airlines in Canada. He was assigned the responsibility of opening and effectively launching the Canadian KLM air service. International air travel was going to be a big thing and KLM wanted to be in on the ground floor. My father, with his past Canadian experience, his Canadian wife, and his performance record during the occupation was the logical choice to head up this branch operation. A couple of years later he requested that his good friend Gert van den Steenhoven be sent to Canada to assist him. Thus my Oom Steen arrived back in our lives in Canada.

On reflection now, as an adult, I realize that our departure must have been a very sad blow for my dear Dutch family. It meant the tearing apart of a closely knit unit that had supported and helped each other survive during some of the worst years in Dutch history. Oma would no longer play an important role in the development of her only grandchild and my Tantes, the teachers, would not play any role in my education.

On departure day, I was upset because Winky would not be coming with us. Since my birth Winky was part of my life. That cat and I had become inseparable and leaving him broke my heart. I was inconsolable. While the adults bade each other tearful farewells before the ride to the airport, I was in a corner hugging and kissing my cat.

Arrangements had been made for Winky to live out his life at a friend's home in the country where he would be able to go outside and hunt to his heart's content. Later letters told us that Winky had indeed settled well into country life and that he lived to the ripe old age of sixteen.
He was a true survivor.

My grief was soon forgotten in the excitement of a plane trip. At six, I was quickly swept up in all the new adventures. The tearful goodbyes were quickly forgotten and I was into a new chapter of life. Children are virtuosos at living in the moment and I was no exception.