Arnhem

She went out to find bread and on her way home had to take shelter behind a wall. ‘A shell hits it and I fall flat on my stomach. When the attack stops I race home like a hurricane with the bread still tucked in my arms. I am completely out of breath when I reach the cellar, just as a really heavy attack begins. We hear an enormous whistle and bangs all around. Everything trembles. Tiles are falling from the roof. All we can do is wait, without moving, for the next attack. We are in the midst of the battle and it is terrifying. Only a few days ago I was running around with friends outside and now I am running for my life. I don’t want to die and be put under the earth with all the other pale, dead people. I have so much living still to do, things to see, things to experience.’ But she was unstinting in her praise for the paras. ‘The British fight like devils in their desperate longing to defend us and themselves. They cry over beautiful Oosterbeek that is ruined by others. They cry over Dutch civilians, wounded and killed. They think of us all the time.’

There was loud knocking at the back door, and everyone’s first, fear-filled thought was that it must be the Germans. It turned out to be friends, the Aalbus sisters, who had gone to help at a casualty station. ‘They are in an awful state. The shells we heard came down right on top of the school where they were looking after patients. A British doctor shoved them underneath the desk and put himself in front of them to protect them from danger. When the shelling stopped there was just terrible chaos around them, blood everywhere, groaning people, the wounded hit a second time by this bombing and lots of them killed. So the girls tell us. They are broken and have fled to us.’ From outside, the thunder of the German bombardment of Oosterbeek started up again, ‘a cacophony of devilish noise that goes on and on. The house trembles and things fall down. It is so frightening. It is as if the world has come to an end. I can’t bear it any more. I am sure the Devil is outside and I am so scared and I can’t think of anything else but the shells and death.’

At night, the claustrophobia of the cellar made sleep difficult. ‘Daddy’s feet are beside my pillow, so close I could bite his toes. Aunt Anke sits on a chair and dozes off and on. Mr Aalbus lies in a wine rack and snores lightly.’ As Anje fretted the night away, she was fortunately unaware of the full extent of the horror unfolding around her as, under relentless German pressure, the Oosterbeek perimeter contracted still more. But she must have had an inkling, because she recalled ‘a vague restlessness among us, a worry that something horrible is happening and we can’t do anything about it, but sit and wait. I try to pray and eventually fall asleep next to my daddy’s toes. Is this our last night in the house?’

It was. The next morning, the doorbell rang, and outside were dozens of desperate paras needing to barricade themselves in. The Germans were closing in, and they had to turn the Maanens’ home into a redoubt. ‘We ask if they could go somewhere else? Must our house be used as a fortress? Is it really necessary? They tell us yes. They need it badly. They tell us too that it would be better if we left. There is going to be a fight and if the Germans find out we have stayed hidden in the cellar they may well kill us.’ Then came that same old refrain that was supposed to deliver reassurance. ‘They say Monty will be here any moment now and we’ll be able to come back tomorrow.’ But the gloss had worn off this promise. As the family picked up their suitcases, buckets of water, blankets, pillows and coats and trudged down the road to the Tafelberg, the only place left to go, Anje was sceptical. ‘I think to myself, Monty can go to hell. He will never come.’