by Michael Dean
That evening, at home, worse awaited him. Else was convinced that her son was among those taken or killed. Hirschfeld tried to re-assure her. Manny was a wanted man, he reminded his sister. Wherever he was hiding out, it was unlikely to have been in the Jewish Quarter.
Hirschfeld suspected, but did not say, that Manny was with Tinie. Tinie had disappeared. He did not believe her note, telling him she was visiting an old aunt in Vollendam. He had asked Simon Emmerik where she was, and got a look scorched with hatred.
At his desk at the ministry, Hirschfeld pondered who to contact to get a list of Jews killed or captured during the attack. He used his connection with Rauter sparingly, only when those further down the line could not provide him with what he needed. He settled on Major Pfeiffer, who was the Orpo liaison officer with Sipo/SD, and therefore more outward looking than some of them.
Hirschfeld telephoned him. He said he was checking that none of the Jews taken were in reserved occupations, necessary to the Reich. Pfeiffer was amenable - he had heard of the Hirschfeld List. He said a list of Jewish hostages from the razzia to be deported to Westerbork was being prepared as they spoke. He would send a copy over to Hirschfeld by courier, as soon as it was ready.
Hirschfeld got no more work done, that day. Else phoned him every thirty minutes, asking if there was news of Manny. Major Pfeiffer telephoned at six that evening. A motorcycle courier was on his way with the names.
Hirschfeld read them at his desk. Pages of them, in alphabetical order. He was stunned. Four hundred and twenty-five Jewish males taken prisoner. Five more dead, ten wounded and sent to hospital.
But Emmanuel Roet’s name was nowhere on the list.
*
Else was not satisfied. Pale and by now thin, she claimed inside information, claimed female intuition. About what? Hirschfeld was never clear. She screamed, shouted, nagged, pleaded and above all, wept. Sometimes she attacked Hirschfeld – beating his shoulders and chest with her fists. In reply to his increasingly desperate ‘Yes, but what do you actually want me to do?’ she said ‘Ask everybody you know.’
And he realised that was what he wanted to do, too. He wanted more information – and not only about Manny. Hirschfeld’s link with the Dutch government in exile was via a loose organisation called the OD – Ordedienst.
The OD was founded to organise paramilitary resistance from within the Netherlands.
Their leaders were highly-placed civil servants – people of Hirschfeld’s own stamp. One of them, van Heerde, was in charge of the maintenance of public buildings in Amsterdam, another, ten Bosch, was a high official in the telephone company.
But Hirschfeld’s contact was through their leader, de Tourton Bruyns. Bruyns was a Land Inspector, who had had military training The two of them discussed policy, now and again. They exchanged information.
After Hirschfeld had sent data on factory production to Rost van Tonningen, to be used to trap RAF bombers, he had contacted Bruyns, told him everything, and asked him to warn London, as a matter of urgency. Bruyns had listened carefully. Hirschfeld had no idea of the result. Had Bruyns believed him? If so, had he acted on the information? Had his warning come in time? All he did know, was that he no longer slept at night.
The cafés where they usually met were no longer safe. They met on a bench in Vondel Park. Bruyns, a tall man with a prominent nose, crossed his long legs, puffed at his pipe and looked judicious.
‘We kept well clear of Robert Roet,’ he said. ‘He’s been going off the rails for a long time. The demon drink, you know. Anyway we keep clear of all SOE operations.’
‘Really?’.
Bruyns nodded, waiting until some passers-by had walked past the bench. ‘The B.I in London have stopped working with the SOE. They’ve linked up with the British MI6 instead, except for training. SOE training is the best in the world – but …’ Bruyns shrugged ‘after that … The B.I. are sending agents in on blind drops. The first one landed just recently. Only I know who he is and where he is.’
‘Do you know what happened to Robert Roet?’
Bruyns hesitated. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I do. He’s dead. Body fished up out of a canal.’
‘What happened?’
‘No idea. The SOE are recommending him for a medal.’
‘And Manny? Emmanuel Roet, his son?’
Bruyns stared out over the long grass of the park, watching children flying a kite in the distance. He took his time. ‘Bit difficult to say. We think he’s been captured. He, and certain others in that particular knokploeg, would have been using a false ID.’
Hirschfeld was annoyed with himself. ‘Yes, of course!’
‘If they’d caught him under his real name, we’d have heard about it. Wanted for the death of a Mof, and all that. No, we think they don’t realise they’ve got him. Same with Joel Cosman. They wouldn’t check ID. Why should they? Just ship them all off to Westerbork.’
‘Westerbork? That place up by the German border?’
‘Yes, in Drenthe. They’re using it for transit. Then off to one of these camps, either in Austria or somewhere in the east. Do you have any information on those, by the way?’
Hirschfeld shrugged, uneasy. ‘It’s not the sort of thing they would tell me about.’
‘Let me know if you hear anything. It doesn’t look good. We’re getting postcards like these, from a place called Mauthausen, in Austria.’ Bruyns reached in the inside pocket of his coat, took out his wallet, and took a postcard from between its flaps. He passed it to Hirschfeld, holding it gingerly between thumb and forefinger.
The postcard was stamped KZ Mauthausen, in purple ink. On the back, there was a handwritten message from one Jankel Koopmans. Hirschfeld read it, with growing dread.
Dear Elizabeth,
I have now been here four weeks and I am well. Work is not particularly heavy. We begin work at seven every morning and finish at four in the afternoon. Food is good. At noon, we have a warm meal and in the evening we get bread and butter, sausages, cheese or marmalade.
Your husband, J Koopmans.
Hirschfeld handed the postcard back. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It means that Jankel Koopmans is dead. We have seen dozens of postcards like this one. They are all exactly the same.’
Hirschfeld shivered. There was silence for a minute. ‘Is it possible to visit Westerbork?’
‘Oh yes. If you can get yourself up to Drenthe. You can visit. You can bring food parcels. Cigarettes. A few wives of prisoners have even gone up there to live, with their husbands. It’s a holding camp, you see. The trouble starts when they’re transferred to the camps proper.’
Hirschfeld sighed. ‘Can we get people out of Westerbork?’
Bruys shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘Yes, if you pay. You know the Moffen.’ He paused. ‘I’d get on with it, though. They’re deporting hundreds by train, every Tuesday. Look, I’ll try and find out if Manny was sent there. I’ll let you know.’
‘Thank you. That’s good of you.’
‘Not at all. Oh yes, I nearly forgot. We know his girlfriend has just been sent to
Westerbork.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Tinie Emmerik. She’s pregnant.’
*
Hirschfeld threw himself into his work. There had been more sabotage - the furnaces had been damaged at the big steel works at Hoogovens. The production schedules would have to be re-worked. He rang for Annemarie, then remembered there was no Annemarie, any more. His secretary had walked out, when her husband had been sent to the Reich, to work.
He had promoted a girl from the typing-pool, as her replacement. She had been making eyes at him, but he had no desire any more. The new girl, perhaps sensing some weakness in him, took an unconscionable amount of time off. She was not there now.
When the door to his office swung open, he thought she had come back. It was Else, in her best black coat, the one she used to wear for synagogue. She had never set foot in his office before.
‘What on eart
h …?’
Else was flushed and hectic. She peered oddly into the corners of his huge office, as if looking for something she had lost there.
‘Max …Bruyns just telephoned. There’s news of Manny. Oh Max, he’s alive! And
Bruyns says he’s well. He’s just arrived in Westerbork, under the name of Piet Maasland. Joel Cosman is with him. He’s got the name Willem Verduyn. And Ben Bril is there.’
Hirschfeld blinked, nervously – the tic was getting worse. ‘That’s good. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Max, we must go there now. Oh, I should have made him some food. Never mind. Come on, there’s no time to lose.’
‘Else, you must leave it to me … It’s better … Let me see the lie of the land ...’
‘But I’ll make him some food.’
‘I have to see what’s allowed, you see.’
‘You’ll go now?’
‘Yes. At least, I’ll start to make plans. No, alright, I’ll go now.’
The telephone rang. It was Rauter.
*
Hirschfeld sat bolt upright at his desk. Rauter had never telephoned him before, not in person. The Obergruppenführer sounded tense, also not something Hirschfeld had experienced before.
‘Hirschfeld, I’ve just had Lambooy on the phone. I need you to get to the NSM shipyard, immediately. The specialists due to be sent to Germany have not turned up. Sort it out, there’s a good chap. They are expected …’ Rauter’s voice rose at the end of the sentence. He was almost pleading.
‘What specialists?’
‘Three-hundred engineers. The first of them were due to travel to Bremen today.’
‘I know nothing about that!’ Hirschfeld’s fist tightened on the telephone receiver. Lambooy! Lambooy had managed to work this complete destruction of his labour policy by going to Rauter behind his, Hirschfeld’s, back. No doubt he had turned the attempt to blow up the Arminius to his advantage. ‘I know nothing about it,’ Hirschfeld repeated. He let himself sound angry, to Rauter, for the first time.
‘No, because you’d try and stop it. You are now to implement the policy, is that clear?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Hirschfeld, dryly, and hung up. He stood, a little shakily, and reached for his coat, hanging on a stand behind his desk. ‘I have to go,’ he said, absently, to Else.
‘Go!’ Else screamed. ‘You’re going to Westerbork! You’re going to see my son!’
‘I will!’ Hirschfeld yelled back. ‘I’ll go as soon as I can!’
‘As soon as you can? My son … my son comes second to some lousy business deal? You’re a cold-eyed monster. You. Look at you! What would mama have said, if she could see you now? Or papa come to that? A big success. Oh yes, Mr Secretary General. Max Hirschfeld, the man who sold his soul. You sold your soul to the devil, as surely as Faust did.’
‘Please go home, now. I’ll see if I can get hold of a car …’ He pressed the intercom button on his desk. It buzzed in the outer office, but there was no response. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to get a tram.’
‘There are no trams.’
‘What do you mean, there are no trams?’
‘I walked here. May God forgive you, Max, because I never will. Such a brother!
The wrong one left this family. The wrong one went to Canada. You should have gone, not Alfred. Look at you, Max. You’ve never had any friends, except the ones I find for you. You’ve never had a proper girlfriend, unless you count that … what’s her name, she was married to your colleague? Your subordinate, of course.’
‘Get out!’ Hirschfeld shouted. ‘You’re going mad, Else. Don’t you realise that? I’ll do what I can. I always do what I can. I’ve spent my life doing my best for other people – for all I’ve got to show for it. Now get out of my office!’
Else blinked - the same tic as Hirschfeld. She turned on her heel and flounced out. He heard the door of the empty outer office being slammed behind her. He let out a long sigh of relief, put his hat on, and struggled into his coat and muffler.
Normally, he would have told Annemarie to ring down for Hendrik, his chauffeur. Tell him to get the car ready. But with no secretary in place, he realised he didn’t know how to do it, himself. He walked out of the building and into the courtyard.
There were no cars parked outside at all. This was highly unusual. He walked over to the garage. It was locked. His own car and three others were parked inside. The chauffeurs had a room next to the garage, where they could relax and hang about. That was locked, too. He knocked on the door. No reply.
It was too far to walk to the shipyard. There was nothing for it, but to try to catch a tram. He walked as far as Rokin, to have the biggest selection of trams heading to the docks. Kalver Straat was oddly silent and near deserted. The few passers-by only emphasised the unusual emptiness of the street. Hirschfeld listened. Nothing. It was odd. It was very odd. Hadn’t Else just said there were no trams? He wished, now, he had asked her what she meant.
As he turned into Rokin, he saw a blue number 7 tram stopped in the middle of the street. Nearly opposite, was a D route bus, also stopped. They were deserted. Their doors were open, but there was nobody aboard.
Hirschfeld was nonplussed. As he stood there, blinking behind his spectacles, a tram came along and squealed to a halt at the tram-stop near him. He blew out his cheeks in relief, and hustled his portly frame forward. He got on at the front, paid the driver to go as far as the harbour, one way, and sat down.
The only other passenger was a middle-aged woman in a red coat, which had seen better days, and a hat with a feather in it. She had an empty leather shopping bag on her lap. Hirschfeld bade her a polite good morning, raising his hat, and received a prim nod in return.
As the tram was setting off, a group of youths leapt on at a run, just as the middle door was closing. Hirschfeld looked at them, wide eyed with alarm. They all wore flat workers caps, with long jackets and baggy trousers.
‘Stop this tram!’ called out the leading youth, authoritatively. He had a foxy intelligent face. The tram driver slammed the brakes on, then looked at him curiously. ‘We need all transport workers to join the strike, immediately,’ foxy face said.
The tram driver gave a weary nod. He clearly knew what foxy face was talking about, which was more than Hirschfeld did.
‘Look mate,’ the driver said to foxy-face. ‘I got no quarrel with your cause. But what I have got is two small kids, and another on the way. They said they’d dock our pay. And if I lose this job … You know, these days …’ The driver obviously felt he did not need to make it any clearer.
‘If all the comrade transport workers join the strike …,’ foxy face said, in a tone of pleasant reasonableness. ‘…we can bring Amsterdam to a halt. We can show the Moffen they cannot behave like this. We can put down a marker.’
Foxy face took a step forward, addressing Hirschfeld now. Hirschfeld gave him a glassy smile.
‘The Moffen have attacked our city, comrade. Our city. They threw Jewish women off their bicycles, in the street, and beat them up. They broke down the doors of houses in the Jewish Quarter, and attacked the women and children they found inside. They took away hundreds of our city’s Jewish citizens. And this in the heart of our free city of Amsterdam.’ Foxy face paused, making sure Hirschfeld was following him. Hirschfeld nodded. ‘These men were workers from the diamond industry, the shipbuilding industry, the fishing industry. They were traders, transport workers. They are our comrades. They are the lifeblood of our city.’ Foxy face put his head on one side, in a friendly way. ‘Did you know all this, meneer?’
Hirschfeld, panicking, tried to speak, but nothing came out. ‘No,’ he croaked out finally.
‘Been away, have you?’ foxy face said.
The other four men, lounging in the aisle of the stopped tram, all sniggered.
‘Will you join us?’ said foxy face, earnestly.
With relief, Hirschfeld saw the question was addressed to the tram driver.
The tram driv
er, in a gesture so stagy it could have been from a performance at the Tip Top, or the Hollandse Schouwburg, pushed his peaked cap back and scratched his head, thinking. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘The transport workers are solid …’
‘Except for you,’ said one of the men behind foxy face.
‘Shut up, Jan,’ foxy face said. ‘Like I said, the transport workers are a hundred per cent. So are the shipyard workers.’
‘And the diamond polishers,’ supplied the middle-aged woman. ‘My husband’s a diamond polisher. We only found out yesterday his best pal is a Jew. Nobody thought to mention it before. What difference does it make? And now they’ve taken both his sons away. The Moffen have. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.’
‘Then what are you doing on this tram?’ said Jan. ‘Strike breaking.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ The woman in the red coat sounded contrite. ‘ I was just trying to get hold of some meat. I’m not as young as I was. But I’ll walk.’ And with that the woman gathered up her shopping bag and struggled off the tram, to cheers from the CPH men, except foxy face, who turned back to the tram driver.
‘We need the trams rock solid, comrade,’ he murmured. ‘Then everything comes to a halt. Come on. Please!’
The tram driver, with another larger-than-life gesture, gave a massive shrug. ‘Oh alright.’
He got off the tram without another word, and walked away, whistling self-consciously.
Foxy face turned to Hirschfeld. ‘And what about you, comrade. What do you do?’
‘I’m a civil servant,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘A clerk,’ he added hastily, as he saw their faces harden. ‘I have a small job at the …er Ministry for Trade and Industry.’
‘You’re going the wrong way,’ Jan said, softly.
Hirschfeld went white, but foxy face ignored the remark. ‘The ministries are solid,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s on strike.’