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Boom 1943, and Blood
- Northwestern University Press
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67 First Name: Henry Also Known As: Henri Kappendyk Last Name: Stark Date of Birth: May 25, 1938 City of Birth: Antwerp Country of Birth: Belgium Boom 1943 Henry Stark My mother, father, sister, and I are living on the top floor of an old apartment building on the Schelde River in the industrial town of Boom in Belgium. Carl Defuchs owns the building, and in exchange for money, he provides shelter and a minimal amount of food. Our toilet is an oil drum. We are living there because we are hiding from the Germans who have occupied Belgium. At low tide, the mudflats between our house and the river are where we empty the oil drum, whose contents are swept away at high tide. On this particular night, large numbers of Allied warplanes are bombing the city. They are probably aiming for the large Gevaert factory that is making photographic instrumentation for the Germans. The sky is red, and the beams of dozens of searchlights are dancing across the clouds. After a while the wail of the all-clear signal goes on. The bombers are gone, but the sky is an even brighter red. It is the reflected light of all the burning buildings that have been hit. But the droning of the warplanes is gone and the spectacle, as seen from our window, is over. We have lived through one more day. Within the year, however, Defuchs and his wife become too frightened of the risk of hiding Jews. We are forced to leave and find a new shelter. 68 Blood Henry Stark I am six years old. The Allies have recently liberated Antwerp and we are free to walk the streets. But we do so tentatively, like a patient learning to walk again after a long stay in a hospital bed. On this day my mother and I are on the tram on Avenue de Belgique, Antwerp’s equivalent to Fifth Avenue in New York City or Michigan Avenue in Chicago. Here and there we see collapsed buildings, and there are many people on the street, walking in disregard of traffic rules, and the tram has to proceed slowly. I see crowds of people talking excitedly. Suddenly there is an ear-splitting crash that comes from somewhere nearby. “It is one of those pilotless bombs,” someone says. The Germans are not finished yet. They have been throwing their “vengeance” bombs, the V-1 (air-breathing subsonic missiles) and the V-2 (the world’s first ballistic missile) at Antwerp, London, and other places to interrupt the Allied supply line. The tram edges forward and, sure enough, we see the dust and smoke rising from the building that’s been hit. The building has been pulverized. In the midst of all of this, a British soldier is directing traffic by giving arm signals. Arm extended, and we can proceed; arm at right angle, and we must stop. His face is covered with blood. He has probably been hit by flying glass. “Er is vervounded (He is wounded),” I say. “Geit er schterben? (Will he die?)” I don’t remember what my mother says. People are asking if he needs help, but he remains quiet. Maybe he doesn’t understand Flemish. Nothing can distract him from his task. We wait in the tram, looking at the blood on his face, until we see the extended arm. Then the tram proceeds. I don’t remember what happens next. ...