Spectators watch a mass parachute drop at Ginkel Heath, eastern Netherlands, Saturday, Sept. 21, 2019, as part of commemorations marking the 75th anniversary of Operation Market Garden, an ultimately unsuccessful airborne and land offensive that Allied leaders hoped would bring a swift end to World War II.

It’s a sad fact of life. Almost every day the media bring news of troops and civilians who have died in Ukraine or some other hot spot on this troubled earth, like Afghanistan, Gaza or Somalia. We shake our head in disbelief; experience a moment of compassion; then go about our day. For the dead, the fight is over. But what about the survivors? Do we ever ask ourselves how people manage to carry on while living in a war zone, hungry, cold and in constant fear of bombardments?

After D-Day, the successful WWII invasion at Normandy, June 6, 1944, the Allied forces made rapid progress moving north and east, liberating large parts of Nazi-occupied countries. That slowed in September, when the plan to cross the Rhine into Holland ended with the battle of Arnhem, a tragic loss for the Allies vividly depicted in the movie “A Bridge Too Far.” For the Dutch in northwestern Holland, it meant having to remain occupied by a huge number of German troops cut off from their home base and who plundered and terrorized the country in what was to be recorded as The Hunger Winter 1944-45. We were finally liberated on May 8, 1945. What happened during that time is etched in my memory.

The Germans had lowered the evening curfew to 8 p.m., and with blackout regulations strictly enforced, the streets at night turned into a ghostly setting for an as-yet-unwritten horror story, while indoors people practiced togetherness. We had no more coal for our stoves. There was no electricity or gas. And flashlight batteries, candles or kerosene had long since joined the list of black-market items that were beyond the means of ordinary people most of the time. In our area, people were sometimes able to get some used crankcase oil from the German motor pool maintenance buildings. We floated a wick in it, which provided a tiny sputtering flame with lots of stinky smoke. Some neighbors used a little wind-powered fan on the roof and tried to generate their own electricity, but for some reason that did not work very well in our house. I don’t remember whether the wind did not blow hard enough, or if the generator somehow did not hold the charge. Either way, the result was literally very dim.

But my always-tinkering father hit on the idea of putting an old bike upside down next to our dining table. He detached the bike’s headlight, lengthened the wire that connected it to the dynamo, and suspended it at eye level over the center of the table. By hand-turning the bike’s pedal a small circle of light was produced, and after a dinner of mashed sugar beets or tulip bulbs the four of us used to read, leaning forward, our books pushed towards the light. We took turns cranking the pedal, and the trick was to keep up a fast but steady motion so the light would shine as bright as possible and not flicker too much. Sooner or later your arm would get tired and you slowed down or stopped, and everybody wound up in the dark, which resulted in howls of protest.

I was one of those kids who get absorbed in a book to the point of total oblivion, and each time my story got very exciting it made me forget to turn the wheel, which was terribly frustrating to all of us. Dad, forever my protector, decided I just was not very good at this and to keep the peace he would often take my turn for me. I am ashamed to admit here that I not only let him, but when I was reading a really thrilling book, I’d purposely forget to turn the wheel until he relieved me of the hateful chore.

On weekends we got together with friends, and because of the early curfew we often spent the night at each other’s home. It was not unusual on a Saturday night to have our living room floor lined with the sleeping bags of friends staying over, and we would play games or make music together. My brother had rigged his banjo with a contraption that held a harmonica at face level, so that he could play both instruments at the same time. I performed on the mandolin, a couple of people improvised a rhythm and percussion section, and the others played or sang along, some with more enthusiasm than talent. Dad, who played the accordion and had a respectable tenor voice, would often join us, while Mom somehow managed to find some ersatz tea for everybody.

Air raids often interrupted these gatherings and temporarily dampened our spirits. We would stop whatever we were doing and, huddled together, listen for the telltale shrieking sound of a bomb coming down nearby. But as soon as the “All clear” sounded, we resumed the party until the cold and the hunger finally drove us to seek the comfort of sleep.

So much for life at night. What about daytime activities? Between bombardments these included trying to get to school, standing in endless food lines or trekking to farms in the country, begging or bartering for supplies, and hustling for wood or anything that would burn. Stuff for other stories.

Elisabeth Breslav is a regular essay writer for the Oronoque Villager magazine in Stratford.