Jaap’s Silence
Monique van Dongen
“I asked if that MUSIC COULD BE TURNED DOWN!” he practically shouts.
In the newspaper he’s reading, the letter z in the word “Nazi criminal” seems to twist into something sharper, an aggressive symbol of the Nazi era. While Jaap sits quietly behind his newspaper, as he so often does, a small irritation about music that’s too loud (the Beatles, of all things) suddenly erupts into a burst of rage. The cozy family moment evaporates; no one understands what has come over their father.
It is 1966. Jaap is a moody, irritable father. The family doesn’t see him much; he works long hours. And when he is home, he often hides behind his newspaper. Whenever “the Breda Three” or other war criminals from the Second World War appear in the news, he sleeps badly. He can explode out of nowhere – and over nothing. The family has learned to live around him and to avoid his unpredictable moods.
Fast‑forward to 1995. His daughter now has a daughter of her own, Else. During a visit to Papa/Grandpa, it becomes clear that the relationship between father and daughter is strained. They try their best, but small irritations keep bubbling up. When Else asks her mother why Grandpa speaks so little, her mother replies: “I don’t know. He was already like that when we were little. Maybe it has something to do with the war. He went through terrible things, but he never talked about them. And we didn’t ask. Nobody asked.”
At that moment, Else decides that she will ask. She suggests interviewing him about the war. After some hesitation, he agrees. During the interview, Else first has to break through a series of evasions. Jaap struggles to truly tell what he experienced: he claims he has forgotten things, slips into the tone of a schoolmaster reciting facts, offers tea, offers cookies, more tea…
Eventually he opens up and tells her what happened. When Else leaves hours later, she asks one final question: “Grandpa, what was it like to finally come home after the war?”
In the days that follow, that question triggers a process of reliving, nightmares, and ultimately insight and catharsis. He realizes that no one back then had truly wanted to hear what he had been through. Worse still: because of the reactions of those around him – and of postwar politics – he had developed a sense of shame. He made himself small and invisible. The fact that Else wanted to hear his story – and even received an A for her school project – felt like the beginning of recognition.
The news Anchor on television: Today, at the age of 71, Joseph Kotalla died in his cell in the prison of Breda. Kotalla, also known as…
Jaap: the Executioner of Amersfoort! That was about time!
Jaap starts talking like a schoolteacher reciting facts, but as he speaks, he grows increasingly furious.
Jaap: Lovely, sweety.
Jaap, thinking by himself: And even though we stood there with dozen – hundreds – of people…
I felt utterly alone.
Fast‑forward to today. The Second World War is now 81 years behind us. And yet this story still resonates deeply. Knowing that roughly 20% of the Dutch working population during the war were forced labourers, nearly every family was affected. And again and again I hear the same thing: “My father/grandfather was a forced labourer too, and he never spoke about it either.”
With everything happening in the world right now, this story teaches us something: silence does not help; painful memories do not disappear because we avoid them. Asking questions and listening to someone’s story is a modest gesture, but it can help someone feel seen – and may help, even a little, in processing (war) trauma.
Monique van Dongen
