I noticed there were periods of time when Piet would suddenly disappear for a while. I began to realize he was a fugitive to whom my parents were giving shelter.Miko Maciaszek/The Globe and Mail
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I'm back in the Netherlands, the year is 1992. My husband, Dave, my aunt and I are pacing back and forth, looking at the clock. We are excited; we're waiting for Piet and his wife. Piet and I are to meet again after nearly 50 years.
What's so special about this reunion? Let me take you back to the year 1943, to a day in June. It was the middle of the Second World War, and my country was occupied by Hitler's army.
Earlier that day, a young man of 17, a stranger, came to stay at our farm. Who was he? Why was he there? I was eight, and in those days a girl my age was just there – she didn't need to know the whys and wherefores of what happened.
I learned that his name was Piet. I liked him: He had a friendly face, blond wavy hair, rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes and a warm smile. I thought he might make a nice older brother.
Eventually, I noticed there were periods of time when Piet would suddenly disappear for a while. I began to realize he was a fugitive to whom my parents were giving shelter.
In those days, all young, able-bodied Dutchmen were required to give themselves up to the German authorities to work in munitions factories.
Many of those young men found places of refuge via the underground. My father, being a member of the underground, brought Piet into our home. My parents did this at the risk of their own lives. Had Piet been discovered, he and my father would certainly have been shot.
A hiding place had been made for Piet in the hayloft. Whenever there were enemy soldiers in the neighbourhood, he would stay there. A piece of string led from his hiding place to a spot in our living room. When the Germans left, my father would pull on the string to let Piet know it was safe to come out. It wasn't unusual for soldiers to enter the barn and start prodding with a pitchfork to see if anyone was in there.
Several months later, Piet was gone for good. Why? No one would tell me. He was gone; it was that simple.
In 1948, my family immigrated to Canada. Ten years later, I decided to take a trip back to the Netherlands. Piet was still in the back of my mind. I made some inquiries of friends and relatives, but no one could help me. Piet was the only name I had; no last name. What chance did I have of finding him?
Back in Canada, I sometimes talked about Piet to my parents, and we'd ask each other, "Where might he be now? Did he survive the war? What happened to him after he left us?"
It was on a much later visit to my homeland that some of these questions found answers. It was a warm June morning in 1992 when my husband and I, out on a bicycle ride, came across the farm that had been my home for the first 12 years of my life.
We stopped. I had never been inside it since we left for Canada so many years before. We were carrying a camcorder, and thought it would be nice to take some film around the outside of the farmhouse to take back to show our children. I would, of course, have to ask for permission.
I went to the side door and knocked. A tall, thin man with white hair answered. I explained who I was and why I was there. "But of course!" he replied.
Not only were we taken into the barn area, we also took a tour through the house. Memories came flooding back.
The warm welcome we received included a cup of coffee and some conversation. As we were talking, Mrs. de Boer mentioned that the previous summer they had had a visitor; a man who claimed he had lived there as a fugitive during the war. He was a nice fellow, she said, who wanted to see the place where he'd spent those anxious days of his youth one more time.
"He had coffee with us," she said. "And when he left, he said, 'come have coffee with me some time.' He left his name and address. Would you like to have it?"
"Would I like to have it?!"
I don't remember leaving the farm that morning, but I do recall riding to my aunt's house as fast as I could to check the phone book. Within minutes, the number was ringing. When Piet answered, we hardly knew what to say to each other.
The next afternoon, he and his wife arrived at my aunt's. It was an incredible moment that I shall never forget.
He related to us how he was captured by the enemy after leaving our farm, and nearly died in a prison camp. He managed to escape, and made it to the home of a relative, who could barely recognize him after the malnutrition and abuse he had suffered.
My "older brother" explained that the name Piet was a pseudonym – not even my father had known his real name. What you didn't know, you couldn't tell. I still call him Piet, though.
Since that day, Dave and I have made a number of trips to the Netherlands, and we get together with Piet every time. It's very special for both of us, as I am the only connection he has from that time and place.
Was our reunion serendipity, chance or a gift from God? I believe it was the latter. Piet thinks so, too.
Hilda Proctor lives in Brantford, Ont.