Dutch Families Uprooted.
Although the immigrant photo dates to an earlier time, in the summer of 1957, my parents also followed their dream for a better life and stood in this same hall.
In June, they packed a large crate known as a kist with as many household goods as they were allowed, and left their home in Naarden with three children—my two brothers and my sister, Ineke. I was born later in Canada. Armed with only a small amount of cash—the Dutch government only allowed a small amount of currency to leave the country—they said goodbye to relatives and friends, boarded the SS Waterman, and set sail for the North Atlantic Ocean toward Halifax.
While writing this article, I wondered why they left the Netherlands. It had been post-WWII.
My years researching the war in Holland for my manuscript led me to a deeper perspective about that war. I can only imagine the heartache from the bombed cities, the loss of life, especially the 18,000 to 20,000 who had died of starvation during the Hunger Winter of 1944.
The Netherland’s infrastructure was broken and would take years to rebuild. And what about the empty stores? With a bit more digging, I discovered after WW2; the Netherlands struggled economically, and everyday living was a challenge. This could be why the Dutch government sent their citizens to other shores. Fewer families to support would reduce some of the pressure. Countries like Australia and Canada opened their arms to Dutch Immigrants.
I’ll never know the heart of the matter as to why they left. Only God knows. But WW2 took its toll. This seemed reason enough.
Still curious about their grand leap into the unknown, I asked my sister, Ineke, what her experience was of the journey she took with our parents. This story is best told by her, eight years old at the time.
An Eight-Year-Old’s Testimony.
Ineke. She remembers it well.
“The ship wasn’t at full capacity and was nice. It was less crowded than most. But the ship had been in an accident months before and we were the first ones to take it again. Maybe people were afraid to board a vessel that had recently crashed.”
With a bit more research to write this article, I discovered the ship my sister mentioned was carrying 800 immigrants and had collided with another ship somewhere in the Atlantic. It managed to reach shore with no fatalities.
“As children,” Ineke continued, “we saw the journey as an adventure, but I think our parents saw it more like a trip, sitting on the deck in comfortable chairs, warming in the sun, the seagulls flying over top of them.”
“The workers on the ship were Indonesian. I’m not sure why, but at dinnertime, we were served food we weren’t familiar with. I still remember having some kind of tomato soup that was the best I’d ever tasted, and was so good.
Many older people didn’t fare well on the ocean. One of them got sick over the railing. Dad warned him to watch out for his false teeth.
Oh, the man said. They are already gone.
Later on, dad retold the story with a chuckle, but at the time, it wasn’t funny.
I remember someone pointing out where the Titanic sank off the coast of Newfoundland.
We finally arrived in Canada at the end of June. The voyage took ten days.
Landing was a highlight. Mom had spotted land in the distance after ten days of being surrounded by water. In her excitement, she got us up early and showed us. Not long after, we arrived at Pier 21—Halifax harbor. We were greeted by nuns who gave all the little girls a small doll in a homemade crib—a salt box doll and cradle—the cradle made out of round cardboard salt containers. They must have cut them up and made them into little beds. Really cute. I’m not sure what the boys got.
We arrived in a large hall, went through customs, and then boarded an old steam train that was hot like crazy. They came along with ice cubes to cool us down. As the oldest, I had to sleep on a little bench by the toilet. The boys who were smaller could go with my parents to a booth, but there had been no room for me. That’s where I sat and slept for three days as the train headed toward our final destination in Ontario.
Arriving at the train station, we quickly discovered things weren’t as they seemed. “The birds are flying with tears in their eyes,” my mother said as she looked into the foreign skies. I sensed then, if she had half a chance, she’d go back. But the Dutch government had paid for our trip. There’d be no going back.
At least not yet. To be continued.
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