Darkness into Light Box Set

by Michael Dean

  Manny gave a sardonic laugh. He had bought a broken second-hand wireless set in the market, for Else to hand in to the Moffen. Their wireless was still upstairs, hidden. At five minutes to eight, Else fetched it from the loft, where it was covered with rags, near the water tank.

  She returned, puffing with the effort, holding the huge bakelite set like a baby. She put it on the dining room table, made sure the curtains were tightly drawn, and switched it on. They stared at it while it warmed up.

  Eventually, after some whirring, whining and the crackling of static, there came the morse sign – dot, dot, dot, dash; V for victory. After the news in Dutch, the Queen was introduced. Wilhelmina’s voice joined them at table, as familiar as a family member:

  She reviewed the murderous events of May 10th , 1940: ‘After our country, with scrupulous conscientiousness, had observed strict neutrality, Germany made a sudden attack on our territory, without any warning. It was the most flagrant breach of conduct practised among civilised nations.’ Then, making the weight of her decision clear, she issued an appeal: ‘I ask you to take up arms with utmost vigilance and with that inner calm which comes from a clear conscience …’

  Manny interrupted his monarch: ‘You hear that, Uncle Max? “With a clear conscience”. I wonder if you would recognise one of those? You’ll be taking up arms, then, will you?’

  ‘Oh, Manny, stop it!’ Else said.

  Hirschfeld’s face was blank.

  Wilhelmina now spoke of the need to hold fast until the government could return. In a flat, matter-of fact-tone, she announced that meneer de Geer had been replaced as Prime Minister by Professor Gerbrandy.

  This was greeted by a whoop from Manny. ‘She’s got rid of him! That old defeatist bastard de Geer’s gone!’

  ‘I know,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘I’ve known for a week. Gerbrandy himself told me, through Bruyns’

  But Manny wasn’t listening to him.

  Following on from the Queen, there was a message from the resistance, promising that any acts of sabotage would be supported from London. There followed a series of messages in code.

  One of them was ‘Steps are being taken to end the shortage of beetroot in Holland’

  Else wrung her hands together. ‘That’s Robert,’ she said. ‘Manny, did you hear that?

  That’s your father. Beetroot. That’s his codename. He told me.’

  Manny said nothing. His eyes were shining.

  ‘You’re still in touch with him?’ Max said to Else.

  ‘Manny is. He’s in London, isn’t he Manny? With the resistance.’

  ‘Yes. And he’s coming back. That’s what the message means. My father’s coming back to Amsterdam.’

  6

  The following Monday morning, Hirschfeld sat at his desk, in his office overlooking the Binnen Amstel. The overhead chandeliers, the standard lamp in the corner, and the green-shaded table-lamp on his desk were all turned on.

  The Occupying Authority had decreed that Holland was to run on Middle European Summer Time, the same as the Reich, so all clocks had been put forward two hours and forty-minutes. When work started, at seven in the morning, it was still dark outside. Hirschfeld felt this was a small price to pay for the trade benefits such uniformity would bring.

  Hirschfeld’s normally iron concentration faltered. Figures in tables, in front of him, usually so clear, usually so sharp, so reassuring, swam before his eyes. Over the weekend, rumours had been sweeping Amsterdam, regarding that death of the German Orpo. The de Beers, Leen and Mozes, had talked of nothing else on Saturday. It had quite spoiled the walk through Artis, with them and Else. The city was tensed for reprisals. He knew Rauter had been to see Himmler.

  Hirschfeld methodically combed the arguments for and against contacting Rauter. It would put him in a stronger position, psychologically, if he waited for Rauter to contact him. But if Rauter by-passed him, established other channels, his position would be considerably weaker.

  On impulse, he pressed the button on his desk, sounding a buzzer in the outer office, where his secretary worked. Mevrouw van Dijk’s full, even voluptuous, middle-aged figure had tormented him ever since he had ordered her transfer from the typing pool, at a generous increase in salary. She had politely resisted his advances, until, about a fortnight ago, he had asked her to stay behind after work. He had attempted to take her on the sofa, at the far end of his office. Annemarie van Dijk had resisted him for nearly an hour, though not wholeheartedly. Finally, with him tiring and her exhausted, matters had reached a more or less mutually agreed messy conclusion.

  The next day, she had refused even to approach his desk. He had assured her of his deeper feelings for her, and apologised for their clumsy expression. She appeared mollified. After much cajoling, she accepted his apology.

  She did not, he noticed, seek a transfer to another job. Her husband was currently unemployed. This meant the couple were dependant on the money from her salary, but also that he was liable to be sent to the Reich, to work in a factory.

  She appeared, in response to the buzzer. His eyes were on her breasts, as she walked toward him. Her gaze was on the coffered ceiling, until she reached his desk.

  ‘Yes, meneer Hirschfeld?’

  ‘Annemarie, has there been any word from Rauter this morning?’ It was a ridiculous question, as Hirschfeld knew only too well. He had arrived at the office well before her, and in any case, Annemarie would hardly have failed to mention such a contact.

  ‘No, meneer Hirschfeld.’

  ‘Right.’

  Hirschfeld’s sensual mouth, with its curved, almost feminine, upper lip, pursed with worry and disappointment.

  Annemarie van Dijk was still there; a measurable thawing in her attitude; only last week she would have stalked out by now. ‘Do you want some coffee?’ she said.

  He smiled at her. ‘Will you join me?’

  ‘No, I’ve got rather a lot on, at the moment. But I’ll make you some.’ She turned to go.

  ‘Annemarie.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it? I’ve bought you something. May I take you to lunch, to present it.’ He smiled. ‘Somewhere elegant, but far away from here. We could both do with getting away. A break … We could talk …Have a nice chat ...’

  ‘Alright.’

  The telephone rang. It was the summons to Rauter’s office.

  *

  It was just getting light. There was a great-coated German sentry in the ornate red and white sentry box at the top of the stone steps leading up to the old Colonial Building. The sentry recognised Hirschfeld and presented arms.

  Inside the wrought iron gates, pushed open flush against the heavy wooden inner door, was a vestibule. A desk, with a sign over it, said Anmeldung. But there was no need for such formalities for the Secretary General. The staff-sergeant at the desk knew who he was. He called a runner to take him up to Rauter’s office, without Hirschfeld having to say a word.

  Rauter sat at a Javanese teak desk, taken over from the original occupant of the office. He had his back to the huge windows, overlooking Mauritskade. No Dutchman would have hung net curtains at these windows, as Rauter had. However, he had left the typically Dutch tafelkleed – the table covering which looks to foreigners like a carpet – on the second desk in the office, where the secretary or stenographer sometimes sat.

  An office said a lot about a man, in Hirschfeld’s opinion. This one spoke of an understanding of the Dutch, which in the context of the occupation meant a willingness to go with the grain. Hirschfeld knew very well that this was not due to any moral quality, on Rauter’s part, rather to an intuitive understanding of the quickest way to get things done. He was a pragmatist, Rauter was, as was Hirschfeld.

  This alignment of attitudes, however, stopped short of an alliance. There was no bond, no fellow feeling, between them. Such a bond would have been inimical to both of them. It would also have threatened the very pragmatism which had enabled it in the first place.

/>   Even so, Hirschfeld counted himself lucky that Rauter was his point of contact with the Occupying Authority. Other Nazis he knew well – Böhmcker, Schmidt – would have been much more problematic to work with. So the sight of Rauter’s face tense with anger caused the Secretary General no little anxiety.

  After the briefest of greetings, Rauter came straight to the point. ‘I’ve been to see Himmler. Your Jews have fouled their own nest. Two of them have murdered a German, and drunk his blood in one of your Jew rituals. One of the two was your nephew, apparently.’

  ‘What? Are you sure?’ Hirschfeld was shaking.

  ‘Yes. We’re looking for him. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No. We lost touch years ago.’

  ‘Just as well. Anyway, steps are now being taken to rein in the Jews. It’s your own damn fault. Here’s the order.’

  Rauter threw it across the desk. It was badly typed, on Himmler’s notepaper, and signed by the Reichsführer-SS himself. Hirschfeld read it as slowly as possible, giving himself a chance to recover from the news about Manny:

  An order has been issued to establish a Central Office for Jewish Emigration in the Occupied Netherlands, which would serve as an example of the solution of the Jewish question for all European countries. The Central Office for Jewish Emigration will be in charge of concentrating all Dutch Jews, supervising their everyday life, and of the centralised processing of emigration.

  Hirschfeld breathed deeply. He had no doubt what emigration meant. It meant forced labour, probably in the east. He moved in his seat, shifting his shoulders into position, his body mirroring his mind’s acceptance of his load. He was thinking so hard, his head was bursting, but outwardly his demeanour was mild and respectful.

  ‘I wouldn’t use the word emigration in the title,’ he murmured.

  ‘Agreed. I thought the same.’

  ‘Joodsche Raad – Jewish Council?’

  Rauter made a note. ‘Yes. Agreed. You’ll head it, of course.’

  Hirschfeld pretended to think about it. ‘It would be better if I didn’t.’

  Rauter raised an eyebrow. ‘Because …’

  ‘In the Jewish community, I’m perceived as being too close to the Occupying Authority. Figures with greater independence would … meet less resistance.’

  Rauter nodded again. ‘Who?’

  ‘Let them choose their own board, their own …’

  ‘No! Take too long. We’re not waiting for a load of chattering Jews. Names. Now.’

  Hirschfeld took his time. ‘I’d use two leaders,’ he said, finally.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Keeps the organisation weak.’

  Rauter permitted himself a half-smile. ‘You should have been an Aryan, Hirschfeld. Which two?’

  ‘I’d use Abraham Asscher.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Diamond merchant. Has his own company. Leader of the business community. He’s also head of the Netherlands-Jewish Board of Deputies. And … for moral authority … Professor David Cohen. ‘

  Rauter rang for a stenographer to take minutes. A lady in a severe costume appeared instantly, and sat at the second desk, typing onto a soundless keyboard, placed on the tafelkleed – something no Dutchman would have done.

  ‘Give Frau Uhlig the details, addresses and so on, before you go,’ Rauter commanded.

  Hirschfeld nodded.

  ‘We’ll set up a newspaper,’ Rauter said. ‘So we can get proclamations to the Jews quickly.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hirschfeld said. He had heard of this being been done in other cities under Nazi occupation - Prague, Warsaw. ‘I know someone who can edit it for you.’

  ‘Name,’ Rauter barked, nodding at the silently typing Frau Uhlig.

  ‘Simon Emmerik.’

  Rauter asked no questions. The meeting was coming to an end. Hirschfeld decided to make his big play – to save as many Jews as he could. He shifted in his chair again, squaring his shoulders.

  ‘Herr Rauter, as you know, my colleague meneer van Tonningen and I are agreed on the overall strategy for the integration of Holland into the Reich. That strategy is to maintain Dutch economic independence as a full trading partner, serving the Reich’s interests. Now, I would hate to see this put at risk by the actions of a couple of Jewish hotheads.’

  ‘One of whom is your nephew.’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes.’

  ‘Alright. Get to the point, Hirschfeld.’

  ‘The point, Herr Rauter, is this: There are Jews in key positions in the economy in nearly every industry …’

  Hirschfeld shut his eyes for a second, thanking God that Rauter had not invited van Tonningen to this meeting. With him there, he could never have got away with that assertion.

  There were virtually no Jews in major sectors of the Dutch economy, like construction and agriculture. The Jews were concentrated in the diamond industry, retail trade, clothing and food. The overwhelming majority of them – unlike in Germany – were working- class. Only the diamond industry would be noticeably affected by ‘emigration.’ But fortunately Rauter was not an economist.

  ‘Rather than damage the economy, and cause disruption, by willy-nilly emigration, let us protect those who are essential to our well-being. I propose a list, Herr Rauter. You could call it the Hirschfeld List, of Jews in reserved occupations, needed by the economy, and therefore not subject to deportation.’

  ‘The Hirschfeld List?’ Rauter was silent for a moment. ‘Alright,’ he said, eventually. ‘But in return, I want an increase in output from the shipbuilding yards. Van Tonningen and I stuck our necks out to get the H class cruisers built in Amsterdam. Construction of the Arminius is falling behind, owing to sabotage by your Jews. Can you deliver what I am asking for?’

  Hirschfeld nodded. ‘Yes, consider it done. I’ll speak to the shipyard workers. I’ll need a letter from you, authorizing me to put people on the Hirschfeld List.’

  ‘Frau Uhlig will draw one up, before you leave this office this morning.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Rauter.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Hirschfeld.’

  *

  Back at his office, Hirschfeld sat at his desk, dry mouthed. Annemarie van Dijk came in.

  ‘Your sister telephoned. She said she would telephone you again.’ Hirschfeld nodded. ‘She sounded upset.’

  Annemarie was still speaking when the telephone on his desk shrilled, making him jump. Else was indeed upset. She was crying. ‘Leen’s been round. You know her boy works at the Town Hall?’ Hirschfeld did know. ‘There’s a warrant out for Manny. They’re looking for him.’

  ‘Else, there’s nothing I can do. They think he’s implicated in the death of a policeman, a German. I can’t protect him.’

  ‘You knew about it?’ She was screaming down the phone. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since this morning.’

  ‘And you’re just sitting there? Max, go and warn him. Go round to his room, now.’

  ‘It’s too late for that.’

  ‘Max, if you leave Manny in the lurch, don’t bother to come back home. I’ll change the locks, so help me God! Go there! Now!’

  Hirschfeld nervously fiddled with the plaited cord of the telephone. ‘Alright, I’m on my way.’

  He had felt cold in Rauter’s office. On his way out, he took his coat, hat and his hand-knitted brown muffler from the hat-stand. In the outer office, Annemarie, at her desk, looked up from her work.

  ‘I’m going out,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘Personal business.’ Annemarie looked surprised, but said nothing. ‘Telephone Peter Lambooy at the NSM. Tell him I wish to address the shipyard workers.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘What do you mean, where? In the canteen.’

  ‘They won’t all get into the canteen. There’s over a thousand of them.’

  Hirschfeld nodded. ‘Correct. There’s actually 1,360 of them. OK, make it outside on the docks, where they are working on the Arminius. Let’
s hope it doesn’t rain. Tell him I’ll need a megaphone, or something.’

  Annemarie was making notes in shorthand. ‘What time? After they finish work?’

  Hirschfeld allowed himself a bleak smile. ‘No. Half an hour before. Four-thirty.’

  As he left the ministry building, Hirschfeld passed his official car parked in the courtyard. His chauffeur, in shirtsleeves, was washing it, lovingly dabbing at the coachwork with a chamois cloth.

  ‘Goedemorgen, meneer Hirschfeld!’ The chauffeur, an old soldier with a handlebar moustache and grey hair, straightened, practically coming to attention, embarrassed at being seen in his shirtsleeves.

  ‘Dag Hendrik,’ Hirschfeld snapped, walking on briskly, before the driver could offer him the use of the car. Attempting to help his nephew evade the authorities was hardly official business. Hirschfeld could feel the driver’s puzzled stare on his back as he strode away.

  A number 14 tram rattled past him and stopped. The 14 ran through the Jewish Quarter, but he decided to walk. He needed to clear his head. He tried to recall the last time he had left his desk to subvert the Occupying Authority. He couldn’t. There hadn’t been a last time. Above him, dense grey clouds gathered, lowering, threatening fog.

  Hirschfeld crossed the Amstel at the Blaauw Brug. A six-wheeled armoured car overtook him. He had never seen an armoured car on the streets before. The hatch of the turret was open; a coal-scuttle helmeted Orpo peered out. For a second, their eyes met, before the armoured car swept on, into the Jewish Quarter.

  Hirschfeld recalled seeing a corps of Orpos marching through the centre of Amsterdam, three abreast, just after the German invasion. They were called police, perhaps to reassure the civilian population, and their uniforms were green, like the police in Germany, but they were soldiers alright, in their jackboots and steel helmets. And Manny had apparently killed one of them. Or at least the Occupying Authority thought he had, which came to the same thing.

  At the end of the bridge, an even bigger shock awaited Hirschfeld. Two poles had been erected about eight feet high. Nailed to them, forming an arch, was a broad wooden sign with black lettering on it. In capital letters it said: