Dear Opa

           My Opa (Dutch for Grandfather) passed away on the 23rd of December at 97 years old (1926-2023). Almost exactly one year ago (December 28, 2022) I visited his brother Johan in Grijpskerk Netherlands, and wrote about our time together. Today I revisited that writing and I want to share it in remembrance of my Opa—Louwe Feitsma.  This is my writing from December 30, 2022. (I have made minor edits since then but it is mostly untouched).

Have you ever had a feeling that was difficult to express? Perhaps an emotion was bubbling up, but you didn’t know how to let it out(?). Sometimes the feeling is a mystery that makes you tilt your head and look at the world from a slightly different angle. I believe that it is important to allow these feelings to move through you. And I think if we don’t allow these feelings to express themselves, they can get caught in our bodies and make us stiff. Today there is a feeling that wants to find its way to form. There is a message that wants to come to life. A certain feeling started to arise most notably two days ago, and I wonder if I can capture it in my writing. Who knows if I can, but I will try.

           I am currently working on a farm in Northern Netherlands with some Dutch relatives. On December 27, 2022, I was handed the keys to the farm. The owner (Heilke Fietsma) and his family took a vacation to Norway; I became responsible for feeding the animals and chopping some wood. On December 28 I got invited to coffee by Heilke’s Father (Johan)—the youngest brother of my Opa. Of course, I accepted the invitation to coffee, and on Wednesday morning, I took a 20-minute bike ride to Johan’s house. I was greeted by a lovely couple and a beautifully decorated house.      

           As we talked over coffee, my interest in my Dutch heritage became apparent and Johan’s wife (Aafka) suggested we visit the farm where my Opa grew up. The farm where my Opa grew up was about 10 minutes by car. Everything in the Netherlands seems closer together and I get to see a lot of history on our 10-minute drive. I saw the road where 8yr old Johan used to walk to school; I saw the church where Johan and his brother Louwe (my Opa) used to attend; and I even learn something about the history of the Netherlands levee system (If it were not for this levee system, 33percent of the Netherlands would be underwater).

Soon we make a turn and head down a long country road. Further down the road to the right is a large farmhouse. As we approached the house, I learn this was the house where my Great-grandfather raised his family. Johan stops the car near the house and his demeanor becomes more serious.

A typical Dutch canal separates the house from the road and red bricks build the farmhouse. The structure holds three large windows that face toward the road. I can feel a heaviness fill the air as Johan turns to my direction and faces his old home.

“That is where the Germans came to our farm.”

He points to a small bridge that stretches over a canal and connects the road to the farmhouse.

I can sense heartache as he recalls what took place behind those three large windows.

“My father had a loudmouth you know…He talked negatively about the German occupation.”

He pauses. (It was not uncommon—in those days—that people who opposed German occupation would be made into an example. That is to say: they would be shot). 

Johan soon continued the story.

“And Louwe—your Opa—was 19. He was supposed to work in a German labor camp.”

By now, my two-day-old memory holds more emotion than specific wording. However, I recall that his voice connected deeper with his message and he got into the spirit of his story. An emotion held by a frozen past seemed burned within him.

“The Germans came around the house and we knew something was wrong.”

For a moment our attention shifted as a car squeezed past us. The car drove on and Johan continued his story.

“Our father and Louwe hid in the cellar there.” Johan pointed to a wall behind three glass windows.

“When the Germans came in…” He paused to build up the courage to speak through the emotion that was choking him.

“When the Germans came in,” He continued, “They locked my pregnant mother and my oldest sister in the bedroom. Then they took Simon (his 17-year-old brother) and demanded that he tell them where his older brother was.”

The air became heavier. Tears came to his eyes.

“They hit him in the head.”

He shrieked and hit his steering wheel. It feels like I can feel his emotion and I swallow a small cry that is creeping up my throat (I can feel it still). 

“You understand!?” He says, “We can’t let this happen!”

The emotion felt too strong and the subject simmers down. For a few moments there was no talking and Johan drove on in silence. Just a few meters down the way he took a right turn and told me a story that the old road held. “It is the road,” he tells me “where your Opa got his first car stuck in the snow—he had to get two horses to pull it out while he sat on the hood of his new automobile.” It is also the road my mother would walk on as a child. (They called it “De kleine zandweg”—”the small sand-road”).

By now it is almost Lunch; we could not be late for lunch. When we got back, we ate a typical Dutch meal of mashed potatoes mixed with vegetables(—its native name is stamppot). After lunch, Johan read me a quote attributed to Einstein.

“The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.”

The next day I took a 2-hour drive to visit my Opa Louwe (he is now 96 years old). He has just lost his wife (they were married for 70+ years) and bringing up the past didn’t seem like a good idea. We just drank tea and talked about potato farming.

I wish I could have talked more with my Opa. As I got older he started to lose his ability to speak English. And, when I moved to the Netherlands and learned Dutch he started to lose his hearing.  He wrote a small book about his experience during the war and his time on the potato farm though. (I am reading it now. But very slowly because my Dutch is not very good). Louwe was very smart and wanted to be a lawyer. Unfortunately, his father insisted he keep the family tradition and become a farmer. Opa was part of the first generation to make the switch from horse to tractor in farming. He is also part of a dying breed that lived in close confrontation with the Germans as they occupied much of Europe during the last World War. 

To my Opa: Dear Opa Feitsma. I love you. Thank you for showing me how to woodwork when I was 6 years old—it is a love and hobby that I will take with me and—lord willing—share with my children one day. Thanks for going on bike rides with me. Thanks for the financial support during my years at University. Thanks for the hundreds of cups of coffee and tea. Thank you for the time spent gardening: digging up potatoes I remember best.

This is the way of life. We get old we move on. Who really knows for sure what happens after death(?). But I know that I’m happy to have been a part of your lineage. And I will do my best to make the world a better place.