It was the second day of the teachers’ study week, who had totally robbed us totally because of not reading the newsletter, and had made me so wing lamb that there was nothing else to do but to arrange in the facts as they lay, jumped, jumped and shouted. I decided on a whimper to be the last Dutch to all go to the musical Soldier of Orange to go. When we were almost at Katwijk I said we were on our way to a surprise. Especially at that moment the oldest daughter (9) saw a traffic sign with ‘Duinrell’ on it. Deeply disappointed and hurt, they got out of the car at Valkenburg airport.
We were just in time to take a seat in the rotating stand. The people around us were very Dutch. An employee of the theater came whispering that it was an exciting musical and that we were allowed to leave the theater, but were only allowed to return during the break. The same also applied to pee and shit breaks. We were introduced to the protagonists. Queen Wilhelmina was even more brave than I had already thought, she hurled to fight with the front. At the first bombs, the oldest and middle daughter (8) cried against me. The youngest daughter (4) was not affected by it, she put a wet winegum on the lady’s head in front of us.
I emphasized that it was all theater and that what I saw was certainly not more horrible than Harry Potter 2where they had been fond of that morning.
“I don’t find it terrible at all, I just can’t stand the bang.”
The oldest: “I don’t think it’s nice songs.”
The youngest: “I don’t think it’s nice songs either.”
It was sisted around us if it could be quieter, which did not help was that I have a familiar face. I heard my name go backwards.
During the break, just when it was our turn at the snack corner, the sandwiches were up.
“Just like in the war,” I joked.
“Oh-Hooo!”, Said the Middle Daughter. “Mama!” She shouted at Eva, “Dad makes jokes about the war!”
After the break they picked up, with a bag of paprika chips it was suddenly digesting. At the landing of the resistance heroes in Scheveningen we experienced another low point, two unpleasantness came together for the middle daughter.
“And popping and kissing, I don’t watch this anymore,” she cried.
When afterwards the protagonists bowed to the public, there was extra hard clapping around us for Queen Wilhelmina, not necessarily for acting performance, but for the symbol of Dutch inexpiability. The daughters cheerfully ran out of the hangar, the youngest had the bad luck in the arms of an elderly person who said she also hated bombs.
Despite the administered overdose of patriotic love, they have not left it.
Marcel van Roosmalen Writes a column on Monday and Thursday.