History of Sorts

This is one of my most personal blogs. Even after stating that—there still will be people saying it is fake news.

The date in the title, the 6th of December 1944, means little to most, but it means a lot to me. It was the day that one of my uncles died. What makes it special (to me) is that my mother always told me I reminded her of him. We had the same mannerisms and even way of talking, although I was born long after he died.

His name was Johannes Jager, and he moved with my grandparents and his siblings from Friesland in the north of the Netherlands to Limburg in the southeast of the country. They settled in the town where I was born, Geleen, in the suburbs of Lindenheuvel.

There are no pictures of him because my family were—basically—immigrants, even though it was in the same small country. In the 1920s and 1930s, it was the equivalent of moving across the globe. They had to leave everything behind.

All I learned about him was he was a kind and generous man. He had poor health. I am not clear on what his ailments were, but suffice it to say, his parents worried about him.

When war broke out—he wasn’t allowed to serve in the army. It would not have done much good anyway. But he did his bit as much as he could.

He did not join any organized resistance group. He would do individual actions by sneaking onto farms of well-to-do farmers (some that actually did well under German occupation), and he would steal a chicken here or there, eggs or grain and flour to make bread. He would give it to his parents but also to others who were in need.

He knew that if he would ever get caught, he would face dire consequences, potentially death. One day, he nearly was caught when he and a friend were out stealing things, and they came across a German patrol.

They literally had to run for their lives. They encountered a few empty barrels and jumped in them.

The Germans shot the barrel that held my uncle’s friend, and he was killed immediately. There was a stroke of luck—Johannes’s barrel was left alone. When the coast was clear, he jumped out and went home.

He never stole from the farmers again.

On September 18, 1944, Geleen was liberated, and Johannes saw the liberation. The strain of the war and his ill health proved too much, and he died on December 6, 1944, the day the Dutch celebrated St Nicholas.
I would have loved to have met him, although I never did—I feel a part of him lives in me. He will forever be one of my heroes.

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