by Michael Dean
Gerrit sniffed and put the cross in his pocket. ‘I’m your wingman, Joel. You’re my job.’
‘I’m proud to fight alongside you, Gerrit.’
*
Rauter ordered the hostages to be gathered in Jonas Daniel Meyer Plein, in front of the synagogue. The NSB/ WA raiding party was put under the direct command of Rost van Tonningen. Rauter put over a third of Amsterdam’s five hundred Ordnungspolizei on standby, for the duration of the razzia.
As an afterthought, the Obergruppenführer ordered two battalions of SS-Totenkopf Infantry Regiment 4, one based in Zandvoort, one in Amersfoort, to stand by their vehicles, ready for action. He then got on with other work, while awaiting developments.
Just as Rauter turned his mind to other matters, the Rapenburg sub-group, under Ben Bril, took up their positions, under a slate-grey curved sky. They noticed some women, including Protestant and Catholic nuns, gathered in the street. Ben walked along
Rapenburger Straat and went over to them.
‘Ladies, we’re expecting the NSB to attack here any minute. I suggest you move on. For your own safety. Please.’
‘We know there’s going to be fighting,’ said a middle-aged woman. ‘That’s why we’re here.’
‘Pardon?’
‘We’ve come to take the children,’ said one of the nuns. ‘We’ll keep them safe.’ She nodded at the tenement building, rearing up over them, in the narrow street. Over the doorway, there was a mezuzah containing a scrap of the scroll of the law. The words Jewish Orphanage were carved into the stonework, above it.
The big wooden door opened, and more women came out, escorting Jewish children, holding hands, two by two, huddled into coats. They spilled onto Rapenburger Straat. Each was carrying a regulation-issue battered suitcase. One or two had managed to cling onto a favourite toy, in addition to the suitcase.
Ben Bril cleared his throat. ‘Take them out over the Blaauw Brug, please mevrouw,’ he said, to the woman who had spoken to him. ‘We don’t expect the NSB to come that way. I’ll send of couple of my men to go with you. Where are you taking them?’
‘To the Begijnhof,’ said one of the nuns. ‘Some of them can stay with us there. We’ll find families for the rest - people who will hide them. We’ll make sure they’re safe, rest assured, meneer.’
By now, the narrow Rapenburg was solid with children. Ben motioned to two of his small command to go with them, then watched the crocodile out of sight. The children were silent as they walked off, disciplined beyond their years by fear.
The four knokploeg groups took the positions Joel had given them. And nothing happened. They waited so long, they began to wonder if the intelligence about an attack on the Jewish Quarter was wrong. In fact, not expecting any resistance, knots of black uniformed NSB and WA had drifted into the Jewish Quarter any old how, mainly from the north, through the newly completed Gelderskade checkpoint.
From there, they had started seizing young male Jews on the streets. They were taking them toward Jonas Daniel Meyer Plein. All the NSB and WA were unarmed. They had not yet come up against any of the waiting knokploeg groups, who were to the south and east of them.
However, a large group of NSB, led by Rost van Tonningen himself, had decided to ‘teach the Jews a lesson’ by attacking the Waterloo Plein Market. This force had come into the square via Weesper Straat, to the south of Joel Cosman’s group, who were at the top end of the market. More than twenty of them charged at the centre aisle of stalls, just as Old Mother Bril was going back to her supplier for more apples.
With whoops of glee, the NSB fell on the old lady, smashing her cart, trampling her fruit, beating her until she fell to the ground, then kicking her, as she lay there. Some of the traders ran to her aid, but they were beaten back. Hartog Mof, the rag dealer, his face streaming blood, was seized by two NSB, his arms pinned behind his back. He was frogmarched through the market toward Jonas Daniel Meyer Plein.
Cross-eyed Ko, the watch dealer, put his hands in the air. ‘Don’t hit me!’ he said.
‘Don’t hit me. I surrender.’ They did hit him, but he was saved from a bad beating by his stock of clocks and watches, which the NSB plundered.
‘Take them to the Collection Point,’ shrieked Rost van Tonningen, furious at the distraction this looting represented. ‘Take the Jews to the Collection Point!’
By then, Joel and his group had heard the commotion, as the screams rent the air. Joel sent Manny as a runner to Ben’s group, then he and Gerrit and another four men ran into the market from the north.
They encountered the two NSB holding Hartog Mof by the arms, dispatched them with a couple of punches and told Hartog to run for it. Hartog shook his head. ‘I’m staying,’ he said. He joined them.
A wedge of over twenty NSB came running down the central aisle of the market, straight at the Jews. Joel and his little group, outnumbered four or five to one, took them head on. Joel was swinging a stave, two others had chair legs. Gerrit Romijn caught the leading NSBer in the face with an iron bar, smashing his jaw and the lower part of his skull.
The stalls around the Jews were being torn down in the battle. Ben Bril and his group came running, with Manny scampering at the head of them. They threw themselves at the NSBers, relieving the vastly outnumbered Jewish fighters, one of whom was now on the ground, unconscious. Ben took out two WA with as many punches.
Rost van Tonningen had taken a glancing blow in the face. It had taken him a while to recognise and accept that Jews were putting up a fight. When he did, he radio’d the other NSB commanders in the Jewish Quarter for help. The seizing of individual Jews was abandoned. Nearly a hundred NSB made their way to the top end of the Waterloo Plein market, where the fighting was concentrated.
By now, the other knokploeg groups had joined Joel’s and Ben’s. The restricted space between the stalls favoured the outnumbered Jews. But some had already been too badly hurt to fight on. Joel himself was bleeding from a slash in the face. Gerrit, who was fighting like a dervish at Joel’s side, had killed the man who had slashed Joel, but his left arm was broken. Manny had taken hard blows to the body, but was flailing and windmilling with a stave, and had done some damage.
The knokploeg was surrounded. Slowly, inexorably, more and more of them were battered to the ground, as more and more NSBers and WA arrived. One of Gerrit’s boys was dead. Another was on the ground, clutching his side, screaming from a knife wound. Joel was about to try to surrender, before they were all killed, when the press of NSB around him suddenly grew lighter.
Manny heard yells and shouts, coming nearer: ‘NSB bastards!’ ‘They’re attacking the Jews!’ ‘Get them!’ ‘Come on, come on!’ Through a film of blood on his face, Manny saw that the man fighting next to him was not from the knokploeg. And then, suddenly, he was surrounded by strangers, most with bits of pipe, chunks of machinery, staves …
‘Who are you?’ he gasped.
‘We’re from the Klattenburg Raincoat Factory,’ said a giant next to him, swinging an iron bar in front of him. ‘Come on! Let’s get them!’
The NSB ran for it. They did not bother to protect their commander, van Tonningen, who was forced to leg it out of the market. Ducking into a side-street, he radio’d to Rauter that he was handing over to the German authorities the task of the taking of Jewish hostages, owing to the presence of ‘undesirable elements’ in the Jewish Quarter. These elements, van Tonningen continued bitterly, were better armed than his own men, since Herr Rauter, in his wisdom, had decided to disarm the NSB and WA.
In his office, Rauter, a half-smile playing around his face, ordered a hundred and fifty armed Ordnungspolizei into the ghetto – the order to take effect that afternoon. He confirmed that the two SS-Totenkopf battalions were standing by their motor transport.
*
The Klattenburg Raincoat Factory had some First Aid equipment, and even a First Aid Officer. Joel, Gerrit and many other knokploeg fighters were treated as they lay on the ground, among the collapsed canvas roofs
and abandoned and smashed goods of the market. Some were helped to the Joodse Invalide hospital, at the end of Jodenbree Straat.
One of the factory workers said he was in the CPH, the communist party. He said he would find more CPH men to join in the fight, when the fascists came back, which they surely would.
As they lay there, a steady trickle of workers came to join them. More Jewish traders and other young Jewish males also appeared. Their NSB captors had run off, after holding them for a while, outside the synagogue. It was now clear that they faced a plan to take hostages, and bring them to Jonas Daniel Meyer Plein.
Joel got to his feet. He was groggy from the slash to his face; his mouth was bleeding.
‘Listen,’ he croaked out. ‘They’ll send in the Orpos next, and they’ll be armed. If we go up against them, unarmed in groups, we’ll be slaughtered.’
‘So what do we do?’ Manny said.
‘If they want hostages, they’ll have to go into homes and get them. We work in ones and twos. Ambush them when they go up into the flats.’
‘Should we warn people?’ said Ben Bril.
Joel shook his head. ‘There’s no time. And anyway, what can people do? There’s no easy way out of here.’ Joel turned to Gerrit, whose left arm was hanging uselessly down by his side. ‘Gerrit, go to hospital.’
‘I’m staying with you.’
‘You’re no use to me with one arm. You’re going to pass out any minute.’ Joel called to one of Gerrit’s boys. ‘Cor, go with him.’
Cor Smits nodded and helped Gerrit to his feet. Gerrit grinned, then groaned at the pain in his arm. ‘Give ‘em hell, Moze.’
Joel managed a lopsided grin back, coughing as he swallowed some blood. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Say a few Hail Marys for us,’ Manny called out, to the departing Gerrit and Cor. ‘As my old booba used to say: You can’t have too many friends.’
‘Right, now, disperse,’ Joel yelled, his voice hoarse. ‘Disperse, hide and ambush.’
They had plenty of time to do it. And even to get some rest. It was mid-afternoon before the Orpos, supported by Amsterdam police, rolled up to the far side of the Blaauw Brug, in the high-sided overvalwagens of the Dutch police. They were armed with rifles, side arms and two machine guns. A dog-handling team brought four Alsatians.
There was also a camera unit from the Promi – Joseph Goebbels’ propaganda office - Reichsministerium für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda, to give it its full sonorous title. This was the organisation that spread lies: Queen Wilhelmina had abandoned her people: the British were deliberately bombing Dutch civilians: Dutch workers in factories in the Reich were being well-treated.
The German and Dutch police marched in formation over the bridge, and through the now deserted market, with most of its stalls smashed. The two machine guns were set up to form a crossfire, on the equally deserted Jonas Daniel Meyer Plein. The column, as Joel had forecast, then divided into raiding parties, to go into homes and seize Jewish men as hostages.
Meanwhile, the blazing life of the Jewish Quarter was flickering on, despite the fighting: The Mille Colonnes, a workers’ café on Korte Konings Straat, was still open. A troop of police, mixed German and Dutch, burst in, ordered every man inside to put his hands up, and herded the younger ones at bayonet point to Jonas Daniel Meyer Plein. There they stood, forced to keep their hands clenched behind their heads, outside the synagogue, menaced by the two machine guns.
A few of the small textile factories along the Oude Schans were working, as normal. They were raided. The younger workers were marched to the Collection Point, as the synagogue was now known.
Some shops were also open. Mozes de Beer’s wine shop had half a dozen customers, all judiciously sipping the samples Mozes provided. Mozes was in his twill trousers, beret and carpet slippers. He was waiting for them all to get tipsy, before suggesting they ordered more than they wanted.
When the Moffen burst in, they threw Leen de Beer and a woman customer against the wall. One of them grabbed Mozes, to take him away, but another one cursed and shouted at him that Mozes was too old.
As they couldn’t take him away, they beat him up. Two of them held him by the arms while another one hit him in the face, again and again. A third Mof held Leen and made her watch. Eventually, the old man lost consciousness, dribbling blood and teeth. The Moffen lost interest and left, taking two male customers who looked young enough, and plenty of boxes of wine.
Any male passers-by in the streets were challenged – regardless of age. One of them was Professor Kokadorus, the man with the crazy plans, who sold shoes in the market. He was walking along, oblivious to the world, talking to himself. When they shouted to him to stop, he ran for it. An Orpo shot him in the back; they left him where he fell.
By now, a dark silence had fallen over the streets, the factories, the shops. The police started to seal off streets at both ends. Dutch police with bullhorn loudspeakers ordered all males between the ages of fifteen and twenty-four to come out into the streets and surrender, immediately.
Most of them did – if only to prevent Orpos bursting into their homes and mistreating their women and children. They said a hasty goodbye to their loved ones and were marched away, with their hands up. Women watched at the large uncurtained windows, drinking in last diminishing glimpses of the men they loved - husbands, brothers, sons - until they reached a turn in the road.
*
Some men didn’t go down into the street when the summons came. If the Orpos suspected they hadn’t got a big enough haul from a street, they went into the tenements to get more hostages. But the Jewish Quarter teemed with tenements, and the Orpos, even with their large numbers, were spread thinly.
Only two Orpos started to climb the stone stairs of a tenement in Batavia Straat, two doors down from where Tinie Emmerik used to live. Both were dark haired, short and slightly built. One wore cheap nickel-rimmed spectacles, which gave him an intellectual look, as did his receding hairline. The other had a bad case of acne.
Lard Zilverberg, crouched down among the bicycles in the vestibule, heard them talking. They were joking about claiming the bounty the civilian Dutch were offered for hunting down Jews. Lard’s face grew grim, as they joked.
As the Moffen approached the first landing, spectacles said ‘Isn’t there some sort of list of protected Jews?’
‘Protected Jews?’ said acne, with some amusement.
‘Jews in reserved occupations, or something. That’s what I heard.’
The Orpos had their rifles slung over their backs. They looked relaxed, going to work, doing a job. They reached the first landing, presenting the width of their backs to Lard. He went up the first concrete stair, steadied himself, and pulled the knokploeg’s one and only pistol from inside his zip-up jacket. He fired twice, hitting each of them in the back.
Spectacles groaned; acne went down silently. They both fell forward. There was complete silence in the block of flats. And no footsteps came running from outside. Lard, breathing heavily, went up to the first landing. He started to disentangle the two rifles, one of them was smeared with blood.
Acne was dead. Spectacles was still breathing. Lard thought about finishing him off with his last pistol bullet, but did not want to push his luck, with the noise. He saw the nickel-rimmed spectacles winking up at him, on the concrete landing, and ground them under his heel.
Slinging the two short-stocked rifles over his shoulder, he took the Germans’ side arms, too – two new-looking Walther pistols. Then he went up the stairs, three at a time, until he reached the flats at the top of the building. He knocked on the door of the left- hand flat, the one whose windows would overlook the street. Silence.
‘My name is Lard Zilverberg,’ he said softly in Jewish Dutch. ‘I’m with the resistance. Please let me in.’
There was a pause, then the door swung open, though nobody was visible. Lard went in, filling the tiny box of a main room with his bulk. The man who had let him in was behind the door.
He had a toothbrush moustache and tortoiseshell spectacles. He wore a short-sleeved pullover with a diamond pattern and baggy trousers. Lard knew him by sight; he was a diamond-cutter called Isidore Terveen. His eyes were wide with terror.
‘Excuse the disturbance,’ Lard said. ‘I need to borrow your flat.’ He indicated his mass of weaponry, almost apologetically. ‘It overlooks the street.’
Terveen nodded. ‘You can come out,’ he whispered in the direction of the bedroom. A woman, obviously his wife, made her way out to the centre of the living room.
‘Dag, meneer,’ she said. She was shivering with fear.
Without replying, Lard made his way to the window. He could see one end of Batavia Straat, sealed off by one of the bulky overvalwagens which had brought the Orpos. The other end of the street, out of sight, would be sealed-off, too. Lard took one of the rifles.
‘What should we do, meneer?’ said Isidore Terveen.
‘They’re taking hostages,’ Lard said. ‘Men only.’
‘What should we do?’ Isidore Terveen said, again.
Lard looked at him. Isidore Terveen was in his fifties, way over the age they wanted.
‘Both of you go down,’ he said. ‘Report the deaths of two Germans on the stairs. Say resistance criminals did it. Lay it on thick. They will let you go. When they do, go to another flat, in this building. Don’t come back here.’
Isidore Terveen nodded. The Terveens left without another word, accustomed to obeying instructions. Lard peered carefully out the window. After a few moments, he saw them in the street, pointing back toward the tenement, obviously reporting the deaths of two soldiers. As Lard had predicted, the Terveens were released.
As two more Moffen ran towards the entrance, Lard opened the window, pushed back the bolt on one of the rifles, leaned out and fired.
*
Many of the Christian workers from the Klattenburg Raincoat Factory believed there was nothing more they could do, up against armed Mof troops. Those who weren’t injured went back to the factory and, as they were on piece-work, they resumed work. The same applied to many of the communists alerted by the CPH, operating from a clandestine basement in east Amsterdam, but outside the Jewish Quarter.