Every Day of My Life. Beeb Birtles

      Beeb in Sloterdijk, Amsterdam

      1945, the end of World War 2 and the citizens of Amsterdam were dancing in the streets celebrating their freedom from Nazi German occupation. It was there that my parents met. I don’t know how long they dated or what set off the spark between them but I do know they were married on January 7, 1948. I was born later that same year on November 28.

      My parents gave me exactly the same name as my father: Gerard Bertelkamp. No middle name, just my first name and surname. During my younger years they called me Gerardje, the je tagged on the end of one’s name in Holland meaning ‘little’ or ‘small’, similar to the English meaning of junior.

      Dad was a man of few words but I remember him telling me that the Nazis had singled him out on the streets of Amsterdam, as they did with many young Dutch men, and put him on a train to Germany to work as forced labour. However, somewhere between Amsterdam and the German border he jumped off the train at night, so he wouldn’t be seen, and walked back to Amsterdam.

      For a short time, my parents lived on a small boat on one of Amsterdam’s canals. I remember being on it maybe once or twice and going through the canal lock system. More than likely, my parents decided that a boat was not the ideal place to live when starting their family. I have a photo of me in a rowing boat on a farm somewhere when I couldn’t have been more than four or five years old. From that moment on I felt an instant love for being on the water because it gave me a great feeling of peace.

      The sound of Sunday mornings in Amsterdam were of church bells ringing, tram wheels screeching and the ring-a-ling of bicycle bells from people coming up behind you, warning of their approach. I had a wonderful extended family and it was not unusual for us to go for Sunday walks and visit Tante (Aunt) Riek and Oom (Uncle) Jan. After a few hours visiting them I would be treated to a snack from the street vendors. Carts were set up with big pump jars of mayonnaise and mustard and I was allowed to buy hot and crispy patate frite (French fries) to eat on the way home. They were served in paper bags, open and round at the top, tapering down to a point at the bottom. It made them easy to hold for small hands. The fries at the top of the bag were smothered in either mayonnaise or mustard, whatever your choice.

      For New Year’s Eve celebrations family and friends gathered at someone’s house, usually drinking more than they should, until midnight struck. With church bells ringing, fireworks going off and horns and whistles blowing, everyone stopped what they were doing and hugged, kissed and wished each other a Gelukkig Nieuwjaar! Happy New Year. When the festivities were over, we went home by taxi. More than a few times I can remember being carried, half asleep and half awake, by my father into a Mercedes taxi. Mercedes taxis were always my favourite.

      We were closer to my grandparents on my mother’s side. We didn’t have a lot to do with Dad’s parents as my grandfather was an alcoholic. When my dad was a young man my grandmother made him go get my grandfather from the local cafés and bring him home for dinner, sometimes having to support him along the way because he was so inebriated. Of course, I never saw any of this but I imagine it was humiliating for my father.

      Dad was fourteen when he left school to help support his family and he worked as an apprentice carpenter. He was taught his trade by the older Master carpenters and he turned out to be an excellent wood craftsman; he could build anything with his hands.

      No matter where we lived in Amsterdam Dad always made improvements to our dwellings. He provided well for us, and his work became his life. He never owned a car in Holland but drove to work on his BMW motorbike.

      My parents loved to sing and were involved in performing in amateur operettas. When I was still very young, Oma Deubel (my grandma on my mother’s side) took me to see an operetta in which my parents were performing. On recognising my mother up on stage I yelled out, “Mama!” Oma’s hand over my mouth quickly shut me up. This is my earliest recollection of seeing a live performance of any description.

      Our first home was on the Wittenkade 93, overlooking one of Amsterdam’s canals. Looking out the window one winter morning, I watched a daredevil kid trying to be the first one to cross the frozen canal. It was rare to see someone fall in, but it did happen. Once the canals froze over, scarf-wrapped skaters took to the ice and skated for hours on end. Some people even used the canals to skate to work in the mornings and back home again at night.

      It was here on the Wittenkade that my sister was born on September 17, 1952. My parents named her after my mother, Elisabeth Hendrika Bertelkamp. Why on earth did they repeat their names with their offspring? I don’t get it! My sister’s name was quickly shortened to Elly.

      My