Revelations in a Box
Where are those damned vaccine records, I thought as I rummaged through boxes of old files? It was more a matter of curiosity than anything else, as my recent records were available online. The ones I wanted were from when I was a child. I exhausted the usual places but to no avail. Opening another cabinet I spotted the metal lockbox...perhaps the records were there?
It was the metal box where my father kept all his documents, which I inherited when Mom passed away in 2014. It is about 14 inches long by 10 inches wide and 7 inches deep with a lock on the lid that opens on the long side. Based on how heavy it is, I assumed the box is made of steel, probably double-layered. The stress of her death, mixed with the subsequent responsibilities of settling the estate, clearing her house, and then selling it, I hadn’t taken the time to fully explore its contents. When it left Mom’s house, it went to a closet in Olympia, ultimately ending up in our house in Surprise, Arizona. Each time I moved it I knew I needed to look through it and take inventory of the contents. Several cursory looks yielded the usual stuff that I already knew, and it made sense that the early vaccine records could be in there. I lifted the box from the cabinet and set it on the floor.
I kept the key to the strongbox in my desk drawer, along with several others (including a few that I had no idea where they went, but they were in my mother’s desk and I couldn’t part with them), with a tag labeled as “metal safety box” in my father’s neat printing. I smiled as I thought of his meticulous recordkeeping as I held the key, and then I opened the box.
There was the stuff I already knew was there, and I lifted the documents out and laid them on the carpet. Opening each envelope, I confirmed what I knew was already there, and pretty soon I was ambling down memory lane. Each item held a memory, and a piece of my father, so it didn’t take long for me to become a tad emotional. I realized I missed him.
There were expired passports and old photographs of the times he was with Royal Dutch Shell, as well as his divorce decree, which occupied a lot of time as I read through it. It was in Spanish, with a certified translation into English attached to it. There were what looked like postage stamps affixed to the documents, as well as embossed stamps attesting to their authenticity. Perhaps this needs to be in the book I’m writing? Maybe book two?
As I continued to rummage through the contents of the box, a small envelope caught my eye. The paper was brittle and old, so I carefully opened the flap. Luckily it was not sealed. Inside were papers folded in quarters, and I delicately unfolded them. The paper was thin and yellowed. The words were in Dutch, and I saw Dad’s name mentioned. It was the date that especially caught my attention. 24 January 1945, in the upper right corner. Though my knowledge of Dutch is rudimentary, there were many words I would need to look up. It was an official document that bore the signatures of six people. The title at the top was Landelijk Herstel N.B.O., which I translated to read National Recovery Office, which was in Eindhoven.
Thanks to Google Translate (which I acknowledge is not perfect, as my cousins in Holland will say when I tried to speak their language), I learned the document formally attested to his Resistance activities during World War II. I had always known this, so seeing it in print was no surprise, yet it somehow felt validating to see it in print. The pride I felt for my father filled me with renewed joy.
However, it was the second piece of paper that surprised me. This was a letter, on someone’s official letterhead and written with an old typewriter. Though the ink had begun to fade, I could still feel some of the indentations from the type as if it had just hit the flimsy paper. It was from H. A. M. Scholman, Officer of Health in the town of Oirschot, Netherlands, dated 26 January 1945. The letter also bore a certificate and stamp attesting to the authenticity of Mr. Scholman’s signature, probably akin to our notary public. In this letter Mr. Scholman describes the resistance activities of one Elibartus Kluvers…my father. Apparently, Mr. Scholman and my father worked together in the Resistance during the war, and several of the examples cited contained the word “we”, implying their joint actions.
Examples of their work included cutting German communication lines, smuggling weapons, hiding fugitives from the Nazis, and various sabotage efforts. Among the examples of the actions by my father, Mr. Scholman recalls one Flying Sergeant R. F. Conroy, a Canadian pilot who was shot down in the area and helped by my father and Mr. Scholman. Conroy was sheltered by both and then taken to the border with Belgium.
I was stunned! In my hand, I held tangible proof of my father’s resistance activities. Growing up with the stories told by Dad, I sometimes wondered if some hyperbole or exaggeration crept into those accounts, though I had to admit Dad was never given to such exaggerations. Perhaps his downplaying of the stories made them seem less exciting to me. Yet here I could see someone else’s version of that time and it painted a different picture of my father.
The Conroy episode grabbed my attention, and I wanted to know more about him. I googled Flying Sergeant R. F. Conroy. What are the chances, I thought. To my surprise, I got a hit immediately. I found the records of the Bison Squadron of the Royal Canadian Air Force, based at a location in England, of which he was a member. There were other links that I dutifully followed until I hit the mother lode. It led me to the British Archives, which required me to register, and found it was free. Perhaps my muse was leading me here.
Flying Sergeant R. F. Conroy's Report (Page 1 only)
Once I registered for the Archives, I was led to a document, labeled “Most Secret”, a three-page typed account of FS Conroy’s bombing mission from England to Dusseldorf. The account was an incredible narrative of his ordeal, starting when he took off from RAF East Moor at 11:00 PM on the 11th of June 1943, then shot down in Holland where he parachuted into a field. He goes on to describe his hiding in fields and ditches, then being helped by the Dutch Resistance, though not naming any names. The account describes staying in a Dutch man’s home before being driven to the Belgian border, and ultimately his journey through France and then into Spain, eventually finding his way back to England.
My eyes teared up as I read Conroy’s account. Between his and the letter by Scholman, my father’s wartime experiences went from abstract and distant memories to irrefutable truth. That person helping Conroy was none other than my father. Waves of emotion washed over me as I pondered this information. One was regret, wishing I had been more persistent in hearing those stories of my father. I wished I could ask him again to tell me, and then tell me more. Another was the unbelievable pride in the man who had bestowed his DNA on me. There was also a hint of sorrow, as I missed him terribly.
To say this provided incredible fodder for the story I began more than twenty years ago would be an understatement. Another emotion that would rise in me was profound gratitude. I was thankful for his bravery in fighting against tyranny. Many like him made the world safer for me, and many like me. I was also grateful for his saving those documents, perhaps to be found at just the right time.
