Darkness into Light Box Set

by Michael Dean

  ‘How’s Ben?’ he called through, from the kitchen

  ‘Fighting fit,’ Manny shouted back. .

  ‘Good,’ Allegro said. ‘I’m glad he’s fighting. We all need to fight.’

  Manny made no reply. The Rotterdammers were more than entitled to their own special anger. When their undefended city had been bombed by the Luftwaffe, hundreds had been killed, hundreds wounded, hundreds more made homeless. Over coffee and home-made cake, made by Allegro’s wife, who put in a shy appearance, Manny outlined the reason for their visit.

  As he spoke, the plan sounded more far-fetched than it had in the knokploeg’s hideout, in Amsterdam. But Allegro, nodding keenly, did not pour scorn on the idea. He said he knew several men working at the docks, who would be happy to help. He would go and see people right now, he said. Meanwhile, his wife would make up beds for them on the sofa and on the floor.

  Tinie blushingly, but firmly, explained that only one bed would be necessary.

  ‘That’s nice!’ mevrouw Allegro said. ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Two years now,’ Manny said. ‘But it seems like only yesterday.’ He turned to Tinie.

  ‘Doesn’t it, darling?’

  Both the Allegros burst out laughing.

  ‘Are we as obvious as that?’ said Tinie, now red to the roots of her cropped blonde hair.

  ‘Love is always obvious,’ mevrouw Allegro said. ‘What’s that English saying? All the world loves a lover.’

  Later that evening, a tough-looking fitter from Schiedam docks was introduced to them as Johnny. Johnny was carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper, and wasted no time on small talk. He said that when refitting had started, all the Prinz Eugen’s armaments and ammunition had been stripped out, and put in a temporary store. The guard on what was little more than a complex of emergency huts was light, just as the Amsterdam KP had hoped.

  He, Johnny, had been in there that day, checking the state of the Prinz Eugen’s boilers, which were also stored in the complex, as were its turbines. As luck would have it, he had told the bosses there was more work to do on the boilers tomorrow. So, as Johnny put it, ‘You’re in, if you want to be.’

  Manny nodded, trying to stop himself feeling excited. ‘What ordnance is being stored?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no explosive on the docks,’ Johnny said. ‘But the Prinz Eugen carries depth charges. And she also has two limpet mines. Do you know them? They’re new weapons. You can drop them onto a sub. But they can be put on the hull of a ship and they stick. I think you want one of them.’

  ‘Yes, so do I.’

  ‘I can get you in, tomorrow,’ Johnny said. ‘I brought you some overalls.’ He nodded at the brown paper parcel. ‘They might be a bit big.’

  ‘I can take them in, overnight,’ Tinie said.

  Johnny stood. ‘Allegro, here, can take you to a side gate where we can let you in, without a check. Don’t carry any papers at all. Once you’re in, I’ll show you where the limpet mines are.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Manny said. He stood and held out a hand, which was enfolded in Johnny’s huge calloused paw.

  ‘You don’t have to thank me,’ Johnny said. ‘Our place was in the centre of Rotterdam. I live in a corner of a comrade’s room, now. And I won’t be seeing my mother or my sister again.’

  ‘He’s a communist,’ Arie Allegro said, when Johnny had gone. ‘So are all the others who will look after you tomorrow. They hate the Moffen as much as we do.’

  *

  A horse-drawn milk cart collected him from outside the Allegros’ building early in the morning. Manny, in blue overalls, hid himself among the churns on the back. As they approached a gate in the perimeter fence to the Schiedam docks, it opened. A blue-overalled figure closed it behind them, then disappeared. As the gate shut behind them, Manny glimpsed two black-uniformed SD sentries, armed with rifles, patrolling the perimeter.

  The cart stopped outside the back of the canteen; Manny dropped to the ground.

  Another overalled figure was waiting for him, his face smudged with oil. ‘I’m from Johnny,’ he said. ‘Where do you want to go first?’

  ‘Round the perimeter,’ Manny said. ‘Then work in to where the ordnance is kept.’

  The worker nodded and they strode along together. The Prinz Eugen, propped up in dry-dock, towered over the dockyard. They could hear the screaming of machine drills, backed by thudding hammering, as the refit proceeded.

  The canteen was breezeblock, the workshops corrugated iron, but most other buildings were shaky-looking sheds which looked as if they had been thrown up only long enough to serve their purpose. While they were walking, Manny saw one or two unarmed SD walking about, presumably off duty, but no guards.

  ‘This is where the ordnance is. Wait here.’ The worker walked off. The large ramshackle shed was unguarded, but heavily padlocked, with its windows barred.

  Johnny appeared. Without a word, he unlocked the padlock and they went in.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Manny said. In the gloom of the cool, dark shed, he pulled sketch paper from under his overalls, a pencil from his pocket, and rapidly sketched an elevation of Schiedam docks, showing the buildings he had seen.

  ‘If they catch you with that, we’re dead,’ Johnny said.

  Manny nodded. ‘I know. But I can’t keep it all in my head until we get back.’ He looked round the shed. The cruiser’s guns had been dismantled and stored for the refit.

  ‘SK guns and flak guns,’ Johnny said, nodding at them. ‘There’s no ammunition here. It’s been taken away.’

  Manny nodded. He peered round, then stopped to clean his spectacles on a handkerchief. He saw a stack of torpedoes.

  ‘They’ve been disarmed,’ Johnny said, following his gaze.

  Manny had a cold feeling, wondering if this was all for nothing.

  ‘The depth charges and limpet mines are over there.’ Johnny nodded at a corner of the shed. ‘They can’t de-activate them without a lot of trouble. They’re live.’

  Manny looked at the limpet mines. He took in the cylindrical body, the two bung-like protuberances, top and bottom, the two metal wings each consisting of three bars. He was reminded of the Torah, the scroll of the law, half opened-out so that day’s portion of the service can be read.

  ‘We haven’t got all day,’ Johnny said.

  ‘Sorry.’ Manny pulled out another piece of sketch paper. He drew the limpet mine, to scale, resting the paper on the card at the back of the sketch pad.

  Outside, Johnny locked the padlock, which he had left hanging by its hasp, and took Manny’s arm, pulling him away from the shed. He left him by the side of the dry-dock, with a muttered ‘Wait there.’

  Within seconds, another figure had appeared, saying ‘Follow me,’ as he walked by. He was led back to the waiting cart, now piled with empty milk churns. Again, Manny hid in the back. The carter took him back to the Allegro place.

  12

  When Hirschfeld was arrested by van Tonningen, on Jonas Daniel Mayer Plein, and bundled into a car, he feared he would be taken to NSB headquarters, or even directly to the Orange Hotel, in Scheveningen. He puffed out his cheeks in relief when he saw they were heading for Rauter’s office, in the old Colonial Building.

  Even then, he feared he may be taken straight to a cell by his WA guards. But he was shown to an ante-room he had not seen before, on the ground floor. Van Tonningen ordered him to sit down, then left without another word. The WA guards remained, silent, standing by the door. They let him wait there for over two hours.

  When he was finally escorted to Rauter’s office, he found the Obergruppenführer looking tired. His face was grey, his huge frame crumpled. Van Tonningen was sitting next to him. Rauter sighed, tilted his chair back, and looked back out through the huge window over Mauritskade, as if wishing he were elsewhere. He dismissed the WA guard, but did not ask Hirschfeld to sit down.

  ‘Doesn’t look good, does it, Hirschfeld?’ he said, eventually. ‘You turning a rabbi back
on the way to the Assembly Point; aiding and abetting Jews to flout our orders – which, by the way, they did in some numbers. The turnout for the deportations on a voluntary basis was minimal. Himmler won’t like it. What have you got to say for yourself?’

  ‘May I sit down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sitting across the massive expanse of Rauter’s desk from the Obergruppenführer, Hirschfeld glanced at van Tonningen. His dark eyes were shiny with triumph; he clearly believed his hour had come. Hirschfeld blinked, then lost control of the blinking, his eyelids fluttering furiously.

  ‘Herr Rauter, you were kind enough to give me discretion to create a list, which bears my name, of Jews in key economic positions, whose withdrawal at the present time …’

  ‘Withdrawal!’ Van Tonningen sneered.

  ‘ … whose withdrawal at the present time would not be conducive to Germany’s wider interests.’

  ‘You mean the Reich’s wider interests,’ van Tonningen spat out.

  Hirschfeld ignored him. ‘I did indeed happen to see one or two …’

  ‘One or two? Or was it three? Come on, Hirschfeld, you are supposed to be an economist. Is that how you handle figures?’

  ‘Shut up, van Tonningen. Let him finish.’

  Van Tonningen shot Rauter a furious look. But he did shut up.

  ‘I believe there were two,’ Hirschfeld said, addressing Rauter only. ‘Neither of whom was a rabbi.’ He snickered, as he realised that was true. Abraham Katz was a cantor, not a rabbi. ‘In fact, one of them is a vital member of the financial staff, in the Verschure Fabriek, which you will recall is currently re-tooling to make torpedoes for U-boats. The other has a key role purchasing wool at Du Croo en Brauns. To lose either would significantly affect production, and thus the war effort.’

  Rauter nodded, wearily. ‘Van Tonningen?’

  The NSBer stared at Hirschfeld. ‘Hirschfeld,’ he said, ominously quietly. ‘It was mid-morning, on a work day. What were you doing there?’

  ‘Making sure nobody on the Hirschfeld List appeared for voluntary deportation in error.’

  Van Tonningen laughed. ‘Names of the two Jews you warned off and sent home. Now, Hirschfeld! Now!’ Van Tonningen seized a blank piece of paper from Rauter’s desk and waved it at Hirschfeld.

  ‘Very well. But I would be obliged if you would address me in a tone befitting that of a colleague, which is what I am. There is no reason for this rudeness, van Tonningen.’

  ‘I’ll see you in a KZ, Hirschfeld. I swear I will. And when they whip your Jew arse, I’ll ask them, ever so politely, if I can join in. Now give me the names of the Jews you warned, or I’ll have you arrested on my own authority.’

  Rauter shot him a warning look. Van Tonningen had used the visit to Wewelsburg to establish his own, independent, line of communication to Himmler, which was what Himmler had intended when he invited him. Rauter didn’t like it; but then Rauter wasn’t meant to.

  Hirschfeld hoped that van Tonningen had just overplayed his hand. He fished his fountain pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, and wrote the names of two men and their positions, in the two factories he had just named. He had seen neither of them for weeks. He caught himself hoping they had volunteered for deportation, which would make checking his story considerably more difficult.

  Rauter leaned over and took the paper, just as Rost van Tonningen was reaching for it.

  He glanced at the names. ‘That satisfies me,’ he said. Van Tonningen started to speak. ‘Case closed, van Tonningen!’

  The NSBer snapped his tight little mouth shut, like a turtle.

  ‘However, Hirschfeld,’ Rauter continued, ‘there was another issue I wanted to raise with you. If this issue is not concluded satisfactorily, van Tonningen’s desire to visit you in a KZ may be fulfilled sooner, rather than later.’

  *

  Rauter took his time, looking Hirschfeld in the eye. ‘Off your own bat, Hirschfeld, you offered the shipyard workers building the Arminius more money. Would you like to know their latest response?’

  Hirschfeld licked his lips. ‘I know there have been incidences of non-co-operation.’

  ‘Non-co-operation?’

  ‘Sabotage.’

  ‘Are you aware of the results of the Arminius’s first sea-trials?’

  ‘No.’ It was not in Lambooy’s report. It meant that the Production Manager had gone over his head, to Rauter. No doubt with encouragement.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you,’ Rauter said. ‘The Arminius is expected to have a speed of 30 knots. At its first sea trial, it was expected to reach 20 knots, top speed. I am informed that the cruiser struggled to reach 10 knots. Any idea why that was, Hirschfeld?’

  ‘No. But I assume from the tone of this interview, Herr Rauter, that the cause was sabotage. And that for some reason you are holding me responsible.’

  ‘Correct! Sabotage it was, Hirschfeld. The propellers had been over-filed. This is an act of sabotage that is particularly difficult to detect. It was an expert job.’

  ‘And an act of sabotage that causes maximum damage,’ van Tonningen chimed in.

  ‘The propellers have been rendered effectively useless. New ones must be forged from scratch, in Essen, then brought here. The delay will be considerable.’

  ‘Which leaves us with the Arminius at anchor in wet dock, on the Ij, while we mark time. Reichsführer Himmler is furious. A fury, Hirschfeld, that will soon make itself felt among your Jews, that I promise you. So what do you intend to do about it?’

  ‘I am not an engineer. Neither am I responsible for production at the shipyard. You have two choices: You either back Lambooy in finding the culprits responsible for the sabotage, or you fire Lambooy, and start again with a new Production Manager. If you decide on the latter course, I will happily advise on Lambooy’s replacement.’

  ‘I bet you will,’ van Tonningen muttered.

  ‘Enough!’ Rauter banged a fist on his desk. ‘You will address the shipyard workers again, Hirschfeld. You will tell them that if there is one more act of sabotage – just one – work on the Arminius will be transferred to Bremen. This will render all the shipyard workers unemployed, and therefore liable to deportation to the Reich for forced labour. The saboteurs themselves will be shot. If we cannot ascertain exactly who they are, a representative cross-section of the workers will be shot. One in ten. That is the message you are to deliver, Hirschfeld.’

  Hirschfeld was pale, but composed. ‘Very well, Herr Rauter.’

  ‘I believe that is all, Hirschfeld,’ Rauter said.

  Hirschfeld stood up to leave.

  Van Tonningen gave a strange high-pitched giggle. He was leering, his mouth twisted. ‘No, I believe there was something else, Herr Rauter,’ he said.

  Hirschfeld stopped. They were playing with him. It was like a comedy double-act at the Tip Top.

  ‘I’m sure there was something else,’ van Tonningen said, overacting. ‘Something else …’

  He was sounding more and more odd. Hirschfeld shot him a curious glance. The NSB leader started chewing the clenched knuckles of his right hand, trying to suppress his giggling.

  ‘Sit down, Hirschfeld,’ Rauter said. ‘There’s somebody I want you to meet.’ Rauter threw a switch on his desk and spoke into the intercom that connected to his outer office. ‘Send Major Giskes in,’ he said.

  The intercom crackled, Rauter’s door opened and a middle-aged man in SS uniform walked across Rauter’s extensive office, stopping when he reached Hirschfeld. He held out his hand.

  ‘Hermann Giskes. I’m in the Abwehr – military intelligence.’ He looked cultured. Likeable.

  Hirschfeld shook his hand. ‘Hans-Max Hirschfeld. Secretary General for Trade and Industry.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Giskes gave van Tonningen a nod – he clearly knew who he was – and drew up a chair on Rauter’s side of the desk.

  Rauter spoke to Hirschfeld. ‘Major Giskes wishes to brief you on an Abwehr operation, with which we at
Sipo/SD are assisting.’

  Giskes nodded. He spoke to Hirschfeld as if briefing someone of equal rank from another department. He looked uneasy in his ill-fitting uniform – Hirschfeld knew the Abwehr often wore civvies. His soft Rhineland accent reinforced the unmilitary impression.

  ‘Herr Hirschfeld, not so long ago, we captured a Dutch agent working for the English SOE, by the name of Huib Lievers. We persuaded him to co-operate, to the degree that we could relay information from his transmitter back to N Section, SOE, in London. So far, we believe we have been able to block his attempts to embed signals in his messages, secretly warning the SOE of his capture. Either that, or London have been reassuringly lax. But at any rate, we are sure that they are not, so to speak, on to us.’

  Hirschfeld nodded.

  Giskes went on. ‘We then used Lievers to capture more agents, who we also played back to London. We have now reached, so to speak, a saturation point. We have six German operators working flat out, sending whatever information we wish to London, in the name of Lievers, and twenty other SOE agents. We cannot train any more radio operators, and to protect the health of those we have, we have had to ask London to slow down activity in the Netherlands. We are quite sure that all Allied espionage activity in Holland is completely under our control.’

  Hirschfeld went white. He nodded again.

  ‘So far, as well as a lot of disinformation, we have used our control to request gun and ammunition drops, and some explosives, which we have captured. Plus more transmitters. English transmitters are superior to ours, and we can do with them. We also ask the SOE for drops of 10,000 guilders, now and again. We tell them the agents are running out of money.’

  ‘Get to the point, Giskes,’ Rauter murmured.

  ‘Zu Befehl, Herr Obergruppenführer, Giskes gave the faintest of smiles. ‘We now wish to send London a list of economic targets to bomb. Factories set up to support the war effort, and so on. These factories will of course be fictitious. We will be constructing some cardboard edifices, visible from the air, in rural areas. We want you to supply credible data, based on real factories, and what they are doing. The reason for the data having a basis in reality is, I think, obvious.’