I thought, thank God, at least I am a love child!

The story of Conny Latoel, Warlovechild

When I was thirteen, I heard a conversation between my grandfather and grandmother with an uncle. My father had just deceased, and I stayed with my grandparents, who lived in a barrack in the Moluccan camp in the Netherlands. And while I was sleeping behind the curtain, I caught that conversation. My uncle said in a slightly derogatory way: well, she’s not his anyway. Until that moment I knew no better than that Latoel was my real father. He was always very loving to me, and I'm sure he considered me as his daughter. But I was not.

I asked my mom about it. She did not want to talk about it. At first I thought she would have gone through something bad, so she suppressed it and did not want to know? I loved both  my parents an awful lot, so I did surely understand her attitude. When something bad has happened to you, you do not want to be reminded.

This went on for years and years. At times I asked for it, and always got the same answer, “let’s forget about it” or “maybe he has already deceased.”

With my father Latoel I never could talk about it, because I only found out when he was already deceased. My grandmother once was a bit loose, “he was called Harry or Arie or something.” Willems or Willemse or so. But my grandmother spoke Dutch rather crooked, so I did not take it really serious.

In 2005, my mother got cancer. She lived nearby in a nursing home, so I went to her very often. And then I asked again, “Mom ... nothing you can really tell?”

Shortly before her death, she was deceased March 13, 2006, my granddaughter and daughter came with me to Granny. And they asked, “Grandma, can’t you teel anything about your husband, or uh ... Mom’s dad?” She looked at me and said, “Yes, when I see her, I see him before me. Because he was relatively long.” I am quite long for an IndoEuropean girl. And she finally began to tell. “I was a nurse,” she said, “and I've worked in Malang, Java, in the military hospital.” And she nursed him. Some spark went over, and they had an affair. She was really in love. For I also said, "Mom, you really haven’t experienced something bad? You're not raped or anything, so that you never wanted to tell?" "No, she says. We loved each other, we would get married. And I see him for my eyes again."And how she told this, with a twinkle in her eyes! I thought, thank God, at least I am a love child.

One day, het got transferred. That was common in those days. She waved him godbye at the station as he drove away by train. But he promised he would come back. That was the last time she saw him. She has never seen him again.

It was the first time I heard this story, just before her death.

I asked her: Grandmother Dana always said he was called Harry and Arie. Is that his name? "Well yes, it's all so long ago," she said, "it may well be so." But you do not forget something like that, do you? It was always difficult to ask for names.... Well, okay, at least I have a name, I thought anyway.

Well, there she was, 29 years old, with a child. There was probably a marriage arranged for her with Latoel. Because it used to be a shameful thing those days. Latoel was ten years older than my mother. He was also a servicemen, a KNIL soldier 1st class, born 1910 in Ambon. He was transferred to Borneo, Banjarmasin. I am born April 9, 1949, and they married on October 26, 1949. My grandmother said that my biological father experienced my birth. My mother said that too in the end. But I am still not sure. It remains all very confusing. In any case, I was baptized on November 14 in Banjarmasin, by the legerpendita, the pastor of the army. “Jacoba Cotjie Latoel. Born in Bandjarmasin in Borneo. Father: Elsius Latoel. Mother: Clara Serhalawan. So maybe I'm indeed born in Borneo, and my biological father at Malang has never seen me....

Latoel and my mother had two boys, my brothers. After the death of my mother we were together here in my house. And then my brother said, out of the blue, “Gosh Con, are you never curious about your biological father?” I was shocked. I said “do you know?” “Of course we know”, they answered.

I never knew that they were aware. I had always kept my different roots for myself. I thought they maybe would not like it when I told them I am not their sister, or if I wanted to go looking for my father. So I was always taking care of everyone except for myself. With the feelings of my mother, the feelings of my brothers. My husband used to say: if you're still so eager to know...  For I had moments when I was really sick. I was sometimes so tense that I do not let go, and I longed to know.

I'm a paleface, a blonde. I am strikingly different. In the Moluccan camp here in the Netherlands, I was teased a lot. Only three children in the camp were very light in color. So it was always: 'blanda' and 'white girl'. Children can sometimes be so cruel. But my grandfather is also very light in color. He could be a Jew when you see him. With very bright eyes. So if someone said “how can that be, you're so pale? And your brothers are so dark.” Then I always said I have the color of my grandfather. Because I didn’t want my mother to be sad by admitting that I knew. But my whole family knew I was not a Latoel officially. But me!

And now my brothers asked: you would not want to know? Of course I wanted to know! It was a relief for me that I no longer had to do so secretive. And also a reassurance, it felt as a permission to start looking for my father. And so I started my quest.

I wrote a letter to the television magazine ‘Spoorloos’. That was so exciting! I'm not very good at computers, so I asked for help at my daughter. I had to type in anything, there were all questions. And I kept doubting all the time: "Will I go on, will I stop?" Finally I pressed 'send'! It was gone! It was November 4, I still remember.

We had to wait more than one year for an answer. I will never forget: "too many requests, they had to make a selection, so my case had fallen out."

Then I read .... as if it was meant to be. I read no newspapers, have no subscription. But occasionally I buy a single newspaper, and that day also. The Telegraaf. I read the article on the site Warlovechild. I still have the newspaper clipping. So I thought: that's what I do, I post there! I thought it was so great, that site! Now I knew, oh, I'm not alone!

Because you'd come today for an interview, this morning I wanted to find some old photographs from the papers of my mother. And then I found this photo of a soldier, with a name at the back side: Bert van Wijngaarden, born 12.21.1922. Just that. But that does not look like Arie or Harry Willems or Willemsen. I thought: huh? That name I do not know. Might this be my father? My mother was born on May 3, 1920. She has always said he was just three or five years younger. But just now, today, I found this picture! Bert van Wijngaarden. Mysterious. I have always lived in the belief: it will probably be ‘Arie’. Therefore I posted on this website ‘Arie or Harry Willemse’. And now suddenly .... Yes, of course you can not just mention a name without knwoing .... But .... might it be so that this man on the picture, Bert van Wijngaarden, is my father?

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