Sixty-five years ago today, my mother was not yet three months old. She was born near the end of the war, in a country house. But in early May, she slept in a basket, in what was probably an old ice house—a tiled underground space, where her mother and other relatives took shelter from combat between the Allied Forces and German troops. On the morning of May 5th, they opened the shelter’s door and looked up to see a huge Canadian tank. Holland had been liberated.