Will

by Jeroen Olyslaegers

  ‘What did you think of our friend Rimbaud?’

  ‘Masterful.’ That wasn’t a lie. You have to read that sometime, son, if only in translation. Those poems will make your head spin. The power. The ruthless power of them.

  Meanbeard is clearly delighted by my enthusiasm.

  ‘I am pleased, very pleased. Giving someone like you a taste of a different world is gratifying, even if your schooldays are over—temporarily, I hope. Did you know, by the way, that I also knew your father’s father? Had I told you that? I can still see him sitting in the Old Dutch, rubbing his moustache and watching the billiards. Not cultured at all, if you don’t mind my saying so. But consider the leaps your paternal line has made. Never forget your origins. Your grandfather a peasant, your father a bookkeeper and look at you now, a true intellectual, for whom French holds almost no secrets. Realize that you represent modernity. That’s the odd thing about progress: it’s internalized through the bloodline. We’re not serfs any more, understand? There is a slumbering…’—Meanbeard rubs his thumb over his index finger, searching for the right arrow to shoot at the bull’s eye of my heart—‘…poetry in edification. Think of Rimbaud, whom you admire as deeply as I do. His father? An infantry captain who didn’t give a tinker’s about his offspring. Mother? A farmer’s daughter. He called her La Mother. Priceless, don’t you think? And then a young man like that ascends to the very top by willpower alone. His talent cuts through all that hereditary ballast like a razor. “Arrière ces superstitions, ces anciens corps, ces ménages et ces âges. C’est cette époque-ci qui a sombré!” What is Rimbaud saying in these lines? That all that feeble blather is outdated, that the era in which he lives has swept it all away. We too live in an era like that, Wilfried. An age of acceleration, of radical choices. You feel it, don’t you? This is no esoteric waffle: you smell it, a sensitive lad like you breathes it in with every gulp of air.’

  Gaspar lets out another piercing screech. ‘Now I’ve had it!’ I hear Meanbeard’s mother shouting in a voice that is anything but refined. Silence. Maybe she’s hung a cloth over the cage.

  ‘Are you doing anything on Easter Monday?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’ve got the day off.’

  ‘Come to the Rex on Keyser Lei. Ten o’clock. I’ll get the tickets.’

  14th April 1941. For the time being the longing for spring remains unanswered and that makes some people gruff. In warm weather a city seems less occupied. It’s the morning of Easter Monday and hardly anyone is out on the street, just a group of people in front of the cinema with Meanbeard among them, decked out in his very best clothes and apparently impervious to the cold. His bulging eyes grow even bigger when he sees me approaching.

  ‘Wilfried! Glad you could make it. I’m going to introduce you to someone. Mr Verschueren? This is Wilfried Wils, the young fellow I was telling you about earlier.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Verschueren, who turns out to be a lawyer. ‘Call me Omer.’ He has short arms, a massive gut and a bald head. The deep voice issuing from his mouth seems to arise from the very bottom of that dense body as if echoing up out of a crypt. His fingernails gleam and he smells vaguely of jasmine. The people around him all seem to look up to him. The group turns into a crowd. Hardly any women; the majority are men with determined expressions, though some have clearly been celebrating Easter to excess. Many are well dressed, à la town-hall middle management or the better class of Sunday-suit merchant. But I also recognize a few I’ve arrested. One, for example, smashed up a bar close to Carnot Straat because he thought a whore had laughed at him. It took three of us to get him off her. Now he’s looking skittishly in my direction. A big change from the mouthful of cheek he gave me a month ago, when he insisted he knew people and wasn’t going to leave it at that. My fellow officers didn’t lift a finger to stop me when I pounded my fist into his face until he let go of the woman beneath him and started whimpering. Despite her loud protestations we had her carted off to hospital straight away; with him we waited a little longer. The stitches above his eye are already out, I see. I should have hit him a bit harder. I had definitely expected a reprimand, maybe even worse, but the others backed me up at the station and that was that. ‘You’re a little too excitable,’ my older colleague Jean told me. ‘You should save your energy with scum like that. He was already down on the floor with his arse in the air. In a situation like that a boot in the balls is more than enough.’ From him, I accept that. The man is a bruiser with tactical insight. I’ll tell you more about him later.

  ‘My friend here tells me you’re a literary man…’ Omer peers at me through his puffy eyes and quickly rubs his thumb over his fingertips as if to make clear that a predilection for literature is always accompanied by a hunger for money. But he means something else. He’s referring to sensitivity, a sense of subtlety, being a man of the world. ‘I’m a great reader myself too. Greek tragedies—I read them in the original.’

  ‘Impressive, Mr Verschueren. That’s well beyond me.’

  ‘You’re still young, so you never know. And it’s Omer. Don’t make me say it a third time.’

  *

  Afterwards everyone will say the cinema was full. That’s not entirely true. Two-thirds of the seats are occupied. The atmosphere is strangely distracted. Years later I will be invited to the premiere of a local cinematic production and notice a similar mood—expectation that is not really related to the film but has more to do with what will follow: a magnificent reception with plenty to drink. And here, too, as with that other film, there will be an introduction, this time given by a lawyer, who, as Meanbeard whispers in my ear, ‘used to earn a lot off the Israelites, before the scales fell from his eyes too’. As you know, he doesn’t think all too highly of lawyers (they need to be well greased, like cartwheels), and I am surprised that he apparently counts some as friends.

  On the leaflet distributed beforehand, People’s Defence introduces itself as ‘a popular movement’, which makes me picture a crowd applauding a steaming turd. The speech is dismal. The man thinks he’s in a courtroom full of paid-off judges. It’s all wheedling variations on ‘We all know that…’ and ‘We too feel sullied by…’ There are occasional growls of assent as well as a somewhat impatient ‘Hear, hear!’

  The film is pitiful. It makes the period drama look like a sophisticated masterpiece. This so-called documentary shows how under the surface every Israelite, no matter how Western their clothing, is a rat, a parasite that latches on to all that is beautiful and pure, which, of course, includes all those present in the cinema. ‘Sickening!’ someone shouts, and he’s not talking about the quality of the film—he means the things that are being palmed off as truths and making his stomach churn with indignation.

  Meanbeard has read my expression in the semi-darkness and spontaneously whispers that it is rather crude, though based on fact, because this is real footage from the Warsaw ghetto, and I shouldn’t start thinking the whole thing has been staged.

  ‘It’s really like that there,’ he concludes, before somebody behind us hisses for silence.

  With the credits still rolling, someone starts shouting that he’s ‘fed up with it’.

  Another joins in and bellows, ‘Jews out!’

  ‘The bastards, the dirty bastards!’

  ‘It’s gone on too long!’

  I start to stand up, but Meanbeard grabs me by the wrist and tells me with a wink that I might not need to see the rest, given my position. Without giving me a chance to reply he hops up out of his own seat and into the aisle. Together with him the whole audience has risen in an uproar. People throng to the exit as if they’ve been putting up with the lice and fleas for too long and can’t wait to rush home for a soothing bath.

  Outside, a gathering mob is openly wielding sticks and iron bars. For a moment I think we’re their target and I’m going to be stuck in the middle of a bloody riot on Keyser Lei with no other cops to lend a hand. After all, on Easter Monday almost the entire police force is on leav
e. On days like this there are never more than two or three patrols doing their rounds in each division. The armed gang at the exit greets us with a mighty ‘Jews out!’ They’ve obviously been waiting for us to join them. I see the uniforms of the Flemish SS here and there and start getting jittery. I feel naked standing here as an ordinary civilian, an anonymous cop on his much-needed day off. The mob forms a raucous procession and turns into Pelikaan Straat. Some of the cinemagoers walk away, but most join the demonstration. Even before reaching the corner myself, I hear a shop window shattering. Meanbeard is nowhere in sight, probably at the very front, surrounded by his lawyer friends. In Pelikaan Straat I see bricks flying. One shop after the other takes a battering. People on the upper floors look down from behind curtains. A furious shopkeeper rushes out, but only just escapes the clubs that threaten to rain down on him. He quickly slams his front door behind him. I distance myself a little, then sprint unnoticed down Vesting Straat. The station is dozing in a siesta silence like a Mexican cantina on a scorching-hot day. Nobody in sight. I shout and bang on the wooden desk.

  ‘Red alert, lads, red alert!’

  The chief finally shows his face. ‘Wils, don’t you have the day off?’

  My story has him reaching for the telephone. Before speaking into the receiver he gives me a quizzical look. ‘Which direction are they going?’

  ‘What do you think?’ I shout.

  I run out, following the distant racket to the Jewish quarter.

  You may be asking yourself, dear boy, why I followed them. I couldn’t stop them. Out of uniform I didn’t stand the slightest chance, and my presence as an ordinary citizen could count against me later. In all honesty I have to admit I was probably being dragged along by the excitement of it, nothing else. Does that make me an unthinking follower and, therefore, a dirty bastard? You can answer that question for yourself and if I am a bastard in your eyes, maybe you should skip this bit. Because, yes, of course, it’s true: there’s a bastard inside every follower. But I think you’ll keep reading, whatever you think of me, because nobody, not even you, is consistent, only lunatics in a loony bin are consistent, locked up in their own heads, fanatically clawing at their version of reality, which nobody understands but them. But let’s not talk about that, not yet anyway. Now we’re heading for the synagogue on the corner of Van den Nest Lei and Oosten Straat, in retrospect the mob’s obvious target.

  I catch up to the racket near the corner of Baron Joostens Straat, where someone or something I can’t see is causing a hold-up at the front. There is glass everywhere. A Jew is lying on the street, groaning and bleeding, almost engulfed by the furious crowd. Someone drags him back into a house by the collar of his coat. The street noise sounds hollow, echoing off walls, making me think of fairground revelry that has got completely out of hand. At the front of the demonstration I see sticks raised in the air and then policemen beating a retreat, jeered by everyone. They probably tried to stop the mob, but with only two of them that was hopeless. Running away in the direction of the railway viaduct over Plantin en Moretus Lei, one of them blows his whistle. The shrill blast has the demonstrators cracking up, like a gang of guttersnipes seeing their fathers humiliated. Immediately afterwards the stained glass of the great synagogue is shattered. I see Omer, the lawyer with the deep voice, pull a fence over before joining others in furiously kicking at the front door, while the rest cheer them on. The wood cracks and they’re inside. Applause. Frightened wailing is heard from inside and then it’s like the building itself vomits out a family that was apparently living in the caretaker’s apartment. A woman, two children and a man are kicked down the steps and run for their lives, unable to completely avoid the sticks raining down on them. They’re lucky that, apart from a couple of hotheads, nobody wants to pursue them too stubbornly. I see them following the railway towards Grote Hond Straat, where the seventh division has a station. Then the building starts coughing up things instead of people: chairs, books, rolls of paper. The rioters trying to force their way into the synagogue shrink back a little until there’s a lull in the hurling. Omer comes out gripping a long iron rod he uses to smash the windows that haven’t been shattered yet. People grab the prayer books and Torah rolls and rip them to shreds. Smoke starts wafting out of the synagogue. More applause and whistling. Everything is being filmed. I see a camera crew standing to one side. Germans, presumably. It’s all been arranged in advance. It’s all a performance, as serious as an Easter procession, but with slogans and shattered glass instead of candles and hymns. Look, says Angelo, this is your epoch. Look at what you’ve let yourself be led to, the event where you can still do more than just be a witness. Participation is only one stone away. I see a grotesquely fat woman kick one of the books over the ground, follow it, kick it again, shouting all the while that she doesn’t want to dirty her hands on it. She reaps a few chuckles of appreciation. The rest of the fences around the synagogue are down now too, bent like reeds by what’s known as the will of the people. More black smoke billows out of the smashed windows. I’m standing in the doorway of one of the houses on Van den Nest Lei, somewhat sheltered. A well-groomed man in a three-piece pinstriped suit asks me for a light, calmly, as if what’s going on is no big deal, and I provide it, as if we two are standing together at a summer festival with a few innocent traditional games as entertainment. He cups his hands around the flame, lights his cigarette, nods his thanks and whispers, ‘It’s taken long enough. They were warned. Now they’re getting their just deserts.’ Without waiting for my reaction, he strolls off to the debris that has accumulated around the building, uses one hand to pick up a chair that has not yet been completely destroyed and smashes it down on the cobbles before striding away from the chaos. Meanwhile Omer has wrecked every last window. He balances the iron rod on one shoulder, looking around for more work, sees me standing in the doorway and winks, as if disassociating himself from the violence he has helped cause. I look away, pretending I haven’t noticed. The fire brigade siren comes closer. That doesn’t make any kind of impression on those present. There are still no police in sight. I watch as Omer kicks a Jewish woman in the stomach. She is down on the ground with her arms wrapped around the bars of the bent fence and doesn’t make a sound. She is lying there like a stuffed doll. He kicks her again, then looks around as if he has done something daring and liberating and is waiting for applause. But I am the only one who has seen what he just did and he’s not looking in my direction. I am the only one who is picturing Omer’s head in a puddle of blood. The fire brigade arrives; the firemen leap out and rush to attach the rubber hose to the fire engine. They are abused as the lowest of the low. Someone throws a stone at one of them. It glances off his helmet. Without a moment’s hesitation, the fireman storms over to the stone thrower and floors him with one mighty blow. Police whistles sound. They now come running from all directions to form a cordon around the firemen. The party’s over. I slip off—my house is just a hundred metres away in Kruik Straat. Windows have been broken in my street too; I can hear people crying and there are still a few rowdy youths wandering around with sticks. One of them is squinting at our front door, probably to see if there’s a name over the bell that could be Jewish. I grab him by the scruff of the neck and bash his head against the front door. ‘Not here…’ I say. The boy collapses in a crooked heap on our doorstep, his hands over his face, whimpering. I grab him by the throat with an iron grip and lift him up against the front door. His nose is buggered and blood is gushing out of it. I squeeze harder. I swear I notice my heartbeat slowing down. I swear equally solemnly that I feel like going further and I know I’m capable of it, no problem at all. His companions are keeping their distance, too scared to do anything, mouths gaping. ‘Please,’ the boy jabbers, ‘please.’ Bubbles of blood and spit on his lips. ‘Please, who?’ I ask. ‘Please, sir…’ I let go.

  Upstairs those who call themselves my parents look at me with frightened eyes.

  ‘I thought they’d already got inside,’ my mother quake
s.

  My father scratches his ear and says, ‘You’ve got blood on your suit.’

  Afterwards the rabbi lodges a complaint. This destruction of property cannot go unpunished. He argues that the city has to reimburse the costs. The court accepts his reasoning and holds the city council liable. But the Germans are implacable. Compensation is out of the question. What the city does do—saddling us with the task—is station a permanent guard at every synagogue for the duration. Anything that is threatened and could cost the city money if destroyed must be protected. This seems normal enough to everyone; it’s the law.

  My nurse says I’m gloomy and there’s no reason for it. She gives me a cup of herbal tea and a biscuit, then goes over to my bookcase and I see her searching. Finally she pulls out a massive volume and hands it to me.

  ‘Here,’ she says, ‘this always cheers you up.’

  I recognize the book and can’t help but smile.

  ‘See? I knew it.’

  She gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze, then disappears back into the kitchen. I hear her singing and, thank God, not ‘La bohème’. Lying on my lap is a weighty tome titled Overview of Dutch and Flemish Literature. I take the book out of the box and look up my name. Wilfried Wils, there I am, pen name: Angelo. And this is there too: ‘One reads the work of Wilfried Wils, better known under the name Angelo, with some degree of bemusement, yet also pleasure.’ That sounds as if my poetry needs to be tasted like an exotic dish, doesn’t it? With some degree of bemusement, yet also pleasure. How did they come up with that? Or rather, how did ‘one’ come up with it, because that ‘one’ in the entry gives it that little cachet of additional authority, as if nobody else can now do anything but read my poetry ‘with some degree of bemusement, yet also pleasure’. An anonymous god who tolerates no dissent is speaking here. My fire is given equal praise: ‘Wilfried Wils has an idiosyncratic quality, a certain recalcitrance, which manages to unite post-war existentialism with dark romanticism in the most authentic sense of the word, arousing the suspicion that he has found a deep well not only for his poetry but for his private life as well.’