My Father's Survivor Games--a transcribed memoir of Robert A. Doorenbos 1928-2002

As promised, I am sharing my Dutch father's memoir about his life prior to his marriage to my mother. This document was written in 1991. He passed away in August 2002 after a long battle with hereditary cholesterol disease. I've only changed the grammar and will add commentary in italics along the way. Pictures, drawings from his memory, and so on will be included throughout this journey. 


And now, without further preamble, here begins my father's story. 

THE FAMILY DOORENBOS

An anecdotal history of me and my family. 

by Robert Alexander Doorenbos

THE START

This history starts with my birth on November 17, 1928 in Alexandria, Egypt. My father was employed by the International Commission for Harbors (a branch of the League of Nations as far as I know). He took care of the quarantine services for Suez, Port Said, and Alexandria.

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS

No memory remains of that first house I lived in. The second house I remember vaguely. Some things I remember  more clearly. 

My father going to an audience at the palace twice a year, dressed in a tuxedo with a red fez on his head. Our car with its balloon tires for desert travel and its front springs reinforced so its hood pointed upwards. 

Our Dutch nanny, Juffrow Bos. She wasn't a big hit with us and stayed only one year. The three of us must have been little terrors as far as I remember (Dad had two older siblings, Hetty and Willem. I never met Willem. He died when he was 26 of a heart attack).

Our nanny until we went to Holland in 1937. Madam Schura was Studeten German (the German part of Czechoslovakia), a devout Catholic, and I liked her. If a piece of bread fell, she kissed it before putting it back. If she wanted to get rid of a piece of food in her hand, she threw it out of the window, crying "Fur die Katzen." (for the cats). She was popular amongst the starving half-wild cats sitting under the kitchen window. Egyptians never kills cats, but they don't care about them either.

CATS

Why I like cats is beyond me. They have scratched, bitten and chased me since I can remember. I learned the hard way not to pick up half-wild kittens at a very tender age. After being scratched by a kitten, the mother cat chased me. 

My father has always loved cats. I think part of the reason is this Nanny. But he had an interesting relationship with them from the time he was young. My brother and I also love cats. Our first cat was a half-starved old stray who'd been turned out by her owners when they got a puppy. She was pregnant and had three kittens in my parents' bed. We found homes for two of them and kept the third. My mom named him Sloppy because he slobbered when he drank and he had a little black mark dotting his white furry bib.

BEACHES

Going to the beach was a daily occurrence during the long Egyptian summers. I learned to swim early while playing in the shallow water and never had instructions. I still prefer swimming on my side with an inefficient, but relaxing stroke. 

TRAVELING

We were a privileged family during the Depression years. My father had three months sabbatical every year and we had long holidays. I have vague memories of a trip to Lebanon and Syria. We visited the Great Mosque in Damascus, and stayed a few weeks in a house high in the mountains near Lebanon. We took a trip to Holland then spent four weeks in a chalet in Switzerland. I remember crossing the Mediterranean on my way to Athens. I vividly recall the Canal of Corinth and our train trip from Italy to Holland. 

Dad loved traveling and continued to find ways to explore the world throughout his life. He went to Holland many times after we immigrated to Canada, visited every western province, fished in the north and sketched his way through the tiny towns and lake villages throughout the area. He also went to Australia and rode the train all over it with my mom. Mom wasn't really the traveler Dad was, but she went along with him just the same.

He gave me a love of seeing and exploring the world. 

LANGUAGES

Alexandria was a polyglot city. Besides Arabic, the language of Egypt, there were large French, Greek, and English groups. My parents were fluent in French, Greek, German, English, Malay, and of course Dutch. My father also added a fluency of Arabic, a smattering of Greek and Italian to his repertoire. When I was six I was fluent for my age group in French (with our neighbors), German due to our Nanny, English via my Kindergarten, and Arabic via our servants. I remember having no trouble communicating with Swiss children when visited Switzerland. Dutch was my weakest language until I was sent to Holland. Then I quickly forgot most of the other languages and spoke only Dutch. My brother Wim (Willem) remained fluent in all these languages except Arabic.

Dad must have had an ear for language and dialect. I know I do, but I rarely get a chance to practice my skills. In my next post, you'll learn about his boarding school days. I still feel like those years must have been very difficult. I can't imagine sending my child away, but this was the normal thing to do back in those days. And the other thing that still boggles my mind is the wealth that once was part of my history. None of these privileges remained after the war. None were restored. Only now does my aunt receive recognition for these early years.

A New Story to Share: My Father's Memoir about His Life & Hard Times

I have written about my dad on this blog and I have shared some information about him. He was the son of a doctor who worked for the World Health Organization. Opa Doorenbos discovered phages and was stationed in Egypt where my father was born. During World War II they opted to skip returning to Holland due to the Nazi occupation. Instead, they went to Indonesia, once a stronghold and Dutch colony. During their stay in Indonesia, the Japanese took over the country and made it part of their base of operations. Dutch military/navy members took to the seas and fought in the Pacific War effort during this time. The women and children and civilian men were incarcerated in Japanese concentration camps. Both my parents were in the camps. My mom was 4, her sister 16 and Oma de Vries was about 50. My Opa de Vries and my uncle went to war. Opa came home. My uncle died in battle. On my father's side, all were incarcerated. Dad alone in a boys' camp. My Tante Hetty and Oma Doorenbos in a camp. My Opa Doorenbos in another camp and my uncle in a prisoner of war camp because he had sided with rebels and was captured.

Dad wrote a brief history of his life before he was incarcerated, the time in the camps, and the reintegration of his family back into Dutch society. A lot was lost during those years. Most importantly, his youth and his father's descent into anger and bitterness. Shortly after my dad's mother died, he met my mom. I think what called them to each other was this shared "otherness" of having experienced the camps.

They married and along came my brother and me. They were ill-equipped to parent having little or no understanding of "normal" kid problems. My mom more so due to many issues arising from losing important developmental bridges from child to teen to adult. They muddled through--failed on countless levels--but with the perspective of my own age and a reflective looking glass, I do believe they gave the best they could give given what little they had to work with themselves.

The greatest gift to me was their long marriage. The gift of showing that despite everything that can and will go wrong in a marriage, if you work hard you will stay together and have a rewarding relationship. Another gift to me was their intense cultural awareness and curiosity. I believe that curiosity has undergirded my writing. Finally, they gave me an intense education in the diversity of human nature and character. That these two individuals survived the camps, went on to become productive members of society, raised two children to the best of their abilities, and had the capacity to forgive their captors is an inspiration.

No they weren't heroes, nor were they perfect, but they did try. And that's all any of us can do. Try.

I've wondered what to do with Dad's Life & Hard Times Memoir. The American history professors hadn't much use for it when I first brought it to a professor at the local university. This wasn't an American story so not worth following up. But what has always bothered me about that response is that it is an American story. It is MY American story. My parents might not be alive today ergo I might not have been born had it not been for the American government deciding to bomb Hiroshima.

So after sitting on this story for many years, I have decided (with my brother's permission) to share my dad's memoir on this blog. I will include memories my Oma de Vries shared with me as well as insert my comments about how certain events might have impacted my upbringing and family life.

Maybe no one will read Dad's story, but finally I feel I have a way to share this piece of history and that's all that matters to me.

Stay tuned.

Birthday Wishes and Memories of My Dad

My dad, Robert Alexander Doorenbos, was born in Alexandria, Egypt November 17, 1928. He passed away August 20, 2002 in Winnipeg, Canada. It's been a little over 8 years since he died, but I still miss him. He wasn't a perfect man, nor a perfect father, but he was a good man who loved me. He loved my husband, and he loved my daughter. There are days when I think to myself, wow, I wish Dad was here because he'd really enjoy this movie, this book, this drive, this scenery, this weather, this meal, this celebration.

I haven't written too much about him because how do I encapsulate his life? I missed a lot of years from the time I was 16 until I married at 22. Those years were lost for many reasons. Reasons that I don't discuss publicly. Suffice to say that he contributed to the reasons as much, if not more, than I did. I understand why and I have forgiven him, too. And in the forgiveness, I bought back a lot of years. Years filled with good memories, fellowship, love. Years where I shared my grown up life with him. Years where he became a friend, a father-in-law, an Opa.

One paragraph in my dad's memoir, written in 1991, describes his personality really well. He'd just been released from a Japanese concentration camp and was finally able to reunite with his mother and sister. He'd been in an all male camp for quite some time and in Camp 7. He wrote:

Back in Camp 7 it was not as crowded as when I arrived a few months earlier. Approximately 800 men and 110 boys had died in those six months. Rations had been so poor that diabetics did not need their insulin and they could not get it anyway. I went to see mother and Hetty in Camp 6, four miles away, a long walk. That night, on my way back, I got a lift in a truck with Japanese soldiers. Standing between them was a weird experience. All I owned in the world was shorts and a shirt, both tattered. My head been shaven at one time and grew back in irregular patches due to malnutrition. I weighed maybe 90 pounds and was covered with infected sores as every scratch festered. My arms and legs were wrapped in old dirty bandages which made me look like something pulled out of an Egyptian tomb. I must have been an awful sight and mother fainted when she saw me. It did not bother me too much. I felt fine after a week of adequate rations and had not looked in the mirror for six months.


I guess you could say I get my ability to find the silly in the serious from my Dad.

So now, as a memorial to him, I'd like to share my impressions of Dad's life based on how we authors tag/brand ourselves. Here are some words that I believe best describe my Dad.

Robert Alexander Doorenbos.

Survivor, artist, calligrapher, painter, cross country skier, adventurer, bibliophile, intellectual, engineer, architect, explorer, traveler, photographer, writer, cook, baker, Mason, toastmaster, cat lover, loner, humble, curious, generous, gifted, husband, brother, son, uncle, father, father-in-law, friend, Opa, man

I miss my dad. I miss our talks, our trips to the museums, and our mutual curiosity about life. Most of all I miss all the memories I still want to make with him.

Happy Birthday Dad. May your room in Heaven have an easel, a map, and a walking stick.