YOUR BEST BUDDY
Written by Bert Plomp
Tromp lived in my stairwell. He wasn’t just any officer; he was a chief police officer. Unlike me, my parents always had great respect for everything related to the government, especially for government officials dressed in uniform. It was almost as if they would salute such officials on the street. In front of Tromp, they behaved quite subserviently. It made me nauseous from time to time. My father’s respect for the chief officer was partly due to a certain degree of kinship he felt for Tromp. In those days, my father was an insurance agent.
As many people know, many police officers were ‘seriously wrong’ during the war. The Nazis were delighted to be able to manipulate the established order in the Netherlands. They could deploy national agents without significant resistance to carry out various dirty deeds for them. These officers were overly active in arresting Jews and members of the resistance. In return, these traitors received a handsome bonus from the occupiers.
When the war was over, it was back to ‘business as usual.’ Most officers remained in their positions. After all, they had maintained order during the war, according to the authorities. Government officials without any self-reflection. Obedient to the commander, no matter who the commander was.
Former members of the NSB (Dutch National Socialist Movement) had a very different fate. In the post-war years, there was no mercy for them. It didn’t matter whether a person had been ‘good’ or ‘bad’ during the Nazi regime. Every ex-NSB member was scorned and pursued. Entire families, from large to small, suffered. Meanwhile, the people still had a lot of respect for the police, even for those who went astray during the occupation. From that time comes an ode to the police: The police is my best buddy because they always stand by you with advice and action.
This misplaced respect for the police probably stemmed from the same source as the ‘warm welcome’ for returning Jews. Returning compatriots who had barely survived the concentration camps. Physically and mentally abused souls. People who, to this day, have to litigate to regain the property seized from them during the war. Possessions, such as valuable art objects and paintings, which in many cases disappeared behind the doors of royal palaces, banks, and museums.
Various governments even didn’t hesitate to present these survivors of the extermination camps with a bill. A bill for overdue taxes for the period they spent abroad. Utterly disgusting.
At that time, my parents sometimes took pleasure in handing me over to the authority of the police. On the one hand, to demonstrate their goodwill towards those officers, and on the other hand, to teach me a lesson, whether deserved or not. They once left me indifferent in a police station for a whole afternoon simply because I had played football with friends on the grass field. On that beautiful, green meadow along the river Kromme Rijn. A meadow that children were only allowed to look at and explicitly not play on. Unfortunately, there was no father or mother to stand up for me. No outraged parent who went to ‘Het Ledig Erf’ (police station) to scold those uniformed individuals and free me from my predicament.
A few years later, I was about fifteen years old when I bought a worn-out moped from a friend. Once again, I was handed over to the police. This time, I was accused of buying stolen goods.
My friend was about to entrust his rusty ‘Kaptein Mobylette’ to the bottom of the Kromme Rijn. He had already pushed the moped halfway over the railing of the Prinsebridge. I found it so wasteful and environmentally unfriendly that I asked him if I could take over that bike from him. The answer was affirmative. For a resounding guilder, I could call myself the new owner. With this good news, I hurried home. There, my mother, after a day’s work, was enjoying the summer sun on the balcony. From the street, I shouted to her the beautiful deal I had made. I immediately added if she was willing to give me an advance on my pocket money. That was fine. The silver coin, with the image of queen Wilhelmina, was thrown down, and the deal was sealed. That same day, sitting on the luggage rack of a police bicycle, I was taken to ‘Het Ledig Erf’ police station. The moped I had bought turned out to have been stolen several years ago. Those tough officers now claimed that I was a buyer of stolen goods. I had no idea what they were talking about. The way I was interrogated brought back memories of the Gestapo. There, as a little boy, I had to defend myself against a bunch of cops. People who themselves carried mountains of guilt on their heads. The man who had brought me in was neighbour Tromp. As they say, better a good neighbour than a distant friend. My parents, in agreement with the law-abiding chief officer, believed that I should be severely punished for this dealing in stolen property. Unfortunately, I was not bold enough at that time to defend myself with the argument that my mother was the major financier behind this shady transaction. That I was just an unknowing minor. It was also not in my nature to betray others or burden them with my problems. In short, I sat in a police cell until late at night and was treated like a dangerous criminal.
