‘Have you no shame?’ one of them slurs.
‘You too, ma’am. Papers, please!’
One of the officers recovers from his astonishment and dismisses us with a haughty little wave, ‘Verschwinden Sie!’ He raises a bottle to his mouth and burps. His cock is still half erect and peeking out from under his shirt. I try to hold back my laughter.
‘Verschwinden, los!’
Jean remains imperturbable.
‘Papiere, bitte.’
‘Arschloch!’ spits the other officer.
He bends and pulls his pistol out of its holster in a single movement. The women laugh, leaning on each other for support. They see me looking at them and one calls out, ‘Fancy a bit too, do you?’ She rubs her nipples and grunts like a pig.
‘Ich scheiße auf die belgische Polizei!’
The officer points the pistol at us. We ourselves do not have firearms, only truncheons.
But Jean just looks at the weapon as if someone is offering him some grimy candy floss.
‘Ich frage noch einmal…’
‘Wie dumm bist du?’
How he comes up with it I don’t know, but Jean proves he’s not dumb at all by very calmly and very menacingly saying all kinds of things in German, from which I pick up regular mention of ‘Field Command’ combined with several other terms. I can’t follow most of it, but in the end the man with the pistol lowers his arm. The other fellow pulls his trousers back up. And the women, too, who probably understood just as little, fall silent and get dressed. The men hand over their papers, and so do the women. I write down their names and ranks.
‘Können wir das nicht einfach vergessen?’
Jean shrugs. Maybe he could forget it. One of the officers takes him aside. I can’t make out the conversation, but I see Jean nodding patiently. Finally, I see the officer fish something up out of his inside pocket, which Jean secretes away.
‘Friends for life,’ he laughs cheerfully. One of the women blows us a kiss.
Sing, oh Muse, of resentment. I smile while writing this, son, because how ridiculous is it that all of our literature arose from this opening sentence from Homer’s Iliad, without our really understanding it after more than 2,800 years? We remember a procession of heroes, take it for granted that there was great valour on those Trojan battlefields and have a vague knowledge of a ten-year war. Before we can appreciate the value of literature, our minds turn to kitsch: it happens automatically. But that doesn’t detract from all of our literature being born in a tent where a hero by the name of Achilles was sulking because he, the greatest of them all, had missed out on a pretty girl he’d seen as his prize. He’d had to relinquish that honour to his tactless boss, Agamemnon, who grabbed everything for himself regardless of who he was dealing with. It starts with resentment, Achilles sulking about a great injustice that’s been inflicted on him and isn’t recognized as devastating by anyone else. Worse still: nobody even knows about his resentment because he keeps it to himself. The pettiness of it all should be beating us about the head. Something is wrong here. This isn’t an account of yet another battlefield, this is not just a paean to a hero. That first line holds up a mirror. More than that: maybe Homer is giving us a warning right from the word go. Watch out for resentment, watch out for the pettiness that is inside all of us. No, everybody would rather know about that ridiculous wooden horse the Greeks used to outsmart the Trojans—a scene you won’t, by the way, find in the Iliad. Everyone prefers to forget about the resentment, the whining banality that won’t go away and tugs on your trouser leg like a bothersome child. And yet the resentment everyone feels is much mightier, much more powerful than pride, much more tragic too for the very reason that nobody likes to admit to it and everyone continues to hypocritically deny it even when the facts are out in the open and plain to see; resentment is the only thing that can consume the soul of a person, city or nation and the hypocrisy that comes with it is what’s worst of all. Resentment? Nobody can shake it off. Far too many warnings have been ignored, too much blindness has been permitted, too much viciousness has been tolerated for it to ever be wiped out for good. Hypocrisy has a different flavour in each country, accompanied by a different crime of omission, sneaking in an ambiguity peculiar to each mother tongue. And afterwards—in those cases where an afterwards exists—everyone keeps silent about it in their own highly specific, culturally and regionally determined way. So tell me more, Muse, about resentment and how it seethed in this city and still does. And tell me about how money sometimes soothes it, Angelo adds.
In my wartime diary I wrote poems, scribbled down a few revenge fantasies, kept note of my weight-lifting and other physical exercises, and jotted down jokes I then learnt off by heart to amuse my fellow policemen. Sometimes, but not that often, I find something that refers to the war itself. Towards the end of October 1941 it suddenly says ‘White Brigade’ followed by a question mark. I vaguely remember that it was around then that I first encountered the term. It was the name of a resistance movement that was supposed to be active in our city and elsewhere at the time. In my album there’s a clipping of an article from Nation and State, a paper my father sometimes read. I’ll copy it out for you here: ‘Against the “White Brigade” we deploy our manly comrades of the Black Brigade. Every day new recruits rush to join our militia. If the blood of one of our comrades should stain the cobbles, woe betide those responsible, high or low.’ Beware resentment.
Anonymous letters come pouring in. The words ‘White Brigade’ have scarcely reached the ears of the public before the denunciations begin. ‘The above-mentioned X, my in-laws’ next-door neighbour, is definitely a member of the White Brigade. He is constantly being visited by disreputable characters. What’s more, he is secretly breeding rabbits that he clearly sells on the black market. Those animals stink to high heaven! Please take measures. A copy of this letter has also been forwarded to Field Command. Yours faithfully, in all discretion…’
Some of the accusations we have to take seriously, others our inspector ignores, waiting for the Germans to take the initiative or, more specifically, the Secret Field Police, who have the task of suppressing all sabotage, resistance or other forms of dissent. The prison in Begijnen Straat is already full to overflowing. Far too many people are being picked up for far too many trifles. A lot of cops laugh their heads off when talk turns to Begijnen Straat.
‘It’s one big knocking shop, mate, incredible. It used to be bad, but it’s only got worse.’ I’m finished for the day and want to go home, but Jean still has things he wants to talk about. ‘A mate of mine works there. It’s a complete den of iniquity, Wilfried, it beggars description. And everyone keeps thinking the Germans are so proper. My arse! I hear stories about Germans who take bribes from prisoners for a so-called dentist’s appointment so they can go see their wives. Under supervision, mind! There are so many people coming and going, it’s like a railway station. Pay enough and you can go in there as a visitor without a pass or anything. No problem. Meanwhile they’re jammed into those cells and every now and then one of them cops a beating from those same German guards because he hasn’t slipped them enough pocket money and it just keeps on like that. Zu Befehl? I don’t think so. Those blokes follow orders when it suits them, otherwise they wipe their boots on ’em.’
Money talks. Jean knows all about that. He reads my expression and treats me to a shameless grin.
That very night, behind the zoo, we catch two cheeky little buggers daubing V-signs and ‘England forever’ on the Provincie Straat pavement.
‘Defacing a public thoroughfare!’ Jean says, grabbing one of the scamps by the collar.
The other one howls, ‘We had to. Our dad made us!’ He twists his fists in a plea for mercy. Oh, poor us!
‘Nice. Betraying your own father just like that.’
Jean gives the boy a whack around the earhole.
They’re shivering. The people are restless, as they say. It’s another cold winter, food is scarce and hardly anyone can afford
to heat their flats properly. The occupier has issued warnings: listening to foreign radio is prohibited. But behind their curtains many people still delude themselves they’re safe. Yesterday there was a demonstration for more bread, led by housewives. It didn’t last long, of course. But still…
Jean straightens his belt and looks at me, ‘What are we going to do with these fellers?’
‘We should really take them to Begijnen Straat…’ I reply, playing the role Jean expects.
‘I think so too.’
‘Our dad will be furious, officer!’ The little chap is getting more and more agitated. His brother, who Jean still has by the collar, stays icy calm.
‘Seeing as he encouraged you two to do this, maybe we should go drop in on your father too.’
The icy one looks at Jean and says, ‘We’re patriots. You?’
Jean gives the back of the boy’s neck a good squeeze. ‘Vandals, more like it.’
‘Ignore my brother! He’s not all there. He was born like that!’
‘Really?’
‘Let us go… We’ll never do it again.’
The icy one shrugs. ‘Do what you like. We’ll track you down after the war.’
‘Unbelievable…’ Jean gives the boy a good shaking.
The other brother raises his hands in despair. ‘Stop… Don’t…’
I ask him where he lives.
‘Tol Straat,’ he quakes.
‘That’s on the other bloody side of town. Piss off. Go play silly buggers in your own neighbourhood!’ Jean gives both boys a shove, followed by a kick up the bum for the calm one.
‘Blackshirts!’ the boy shouts as they both start to run.
Jean watches them disappear. ‘It makes your head spin, doesn’t it? And it’s going to get worse, a lot worse. Brace yourself…’
Five weeks later it got worse.
‘What?’ Jean asks the chief. ‘Could you say that again, please? I didn’t quite get it.’
‘Get your ears cleaned, Jean. I’ve told you. It’s about what not to do. The Germans have given some individuals—that’s what it says here: some individuals—permission to paint pro-German slogans on walls and streets this evening and all weekend. Under no circumstances are we to intervene.’
‘Are we allowed to help, then? I mean, who knows if these blokes can even spell—’
‘Jean, I’m sick to death of you.’
‘That makes two of us, chief. That makes two of us.’
We leave the station. Another night patrol.
‘Where were they going to make a mess of our streets again?’
‘Along The Boulevard. Around the opera house, the National Bank, the courthouse…’
‘Let’s take the National Bank.’
‘That’s not our district any more, Jean.’
‘Don’t be daft. The whole city’s my district.’
We follow The Boulevard south through the freezing cold.
‘Real sausages. My cousin brought them with her from the Campine. We’ve got farmers in the family.’
‘It’s been a long time…’ I say.
‘I don’t offer them to everyone.’
‘I know, I know.’ I’m on my guard. If I accept them, will it cost me? But real sausages… What difference does it make?
‘I’ll bring them tomorrow.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
Jean stops and looks at me. ‘No strings attached, huh? It’s because we’re partners.’
‘I don’t have anything to offer you anyway.’
Jean lays a hand on my shoulder and laughs. ‘As if I didn’t know that…’
A little further along in the semi-darkness we see three men bending over the pavement opposite the overloaded cream cake we call the National Bank. One of them is squatting down with a paintbrush in one hand. A tin of paint by his side. As if in a silent film, Jean opens his eyes wide and holds his index finger up to his lips.
He whispers, ‘Let’s get at ’em…’
We approach silently. The men don’t look up. In big clumsy letters they’ve daubed ‘Germany victori…’
Suddenly Jean roars, ‘Is that what you call beautiful letters in the city of Rubens, Jordaens and Van Dyck! The city where typography was born?! The city where Desiderius Erasmus once lived, where he probably committed his most beautiful thoughts to the page? You should be ashamed!’
The painter falls on his arse. One of the others knocks the tin over in pure fright. The third clutches his heart. They’re no spring chickens. I estimate two of them as mid-thirties. The third is in his late fifties.
‘Shit,’ the painter hisses as he recovers a little. ‘These trousers are fucked. Thanks a lot!’
Jean picks up the half-empty tin and wastes no time in pouring the rest over the man’s hat and coat. Drenched with it now, he roars, ‘You bastard!’
Casually Jean brings the tin down on his head.
‘We’ve got a permit…’ one of the others bleats.
‘There’s no call for this,’ groans the other.
Jean kicks the painter in the ribs. He’s wearing a thick coat but I still hear something crack. The word ‘Germany’ has been reduced to a smudge after a capital G.
‘I’m going to lodge a complaint!’ the painter screams, protecting his ribs while trying to scramble up onto his feet.
‘Wilfried! Note this gentleman’s complaint!’
Shaking my head, I reach for my notebook.
‘I!… Name!’ Jean roars at the man, before purring, ‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘Verschueren, Jozef…’ the painter snaps.
‘Verschueren, Jozef! Of…’ He gives the man another boot. ‘Your address?’
The two others reach out impotently to their buddy, but are too scared to come within range of me or Jean.
‘Of… Come on, what else?’
‘Twenty-three Maarschalk Gérard Straat.’
‘Profession?’
‘It’s all right… I withdraw my complaint.’
Jean kicks the man’s paint-splashed hat off his skull and pulls him up onto his feet by his hair.
‘Profession?’
‘Oh, fucking hell… Civil servant at the Chamber of Commerce. Let go of me.’
‘What if we just…’ says one of the others—not the one with the red, flushed face, but his friend with wet, almost purple lips, who blows bubbles of spit when he talks. ‘What if we just act like none of this happened and all go our own way?’
‘And then…’ exclaims Jean, not loosening his grip on the painter’s hair, ‘they found the magic key and they all lived happily ever after! Is that what you had in mind, sir? And by the way, what’s your name, if I may be so bold?’
‘Verstrepen, Kamiel,’ the man bubbles.
‘Also a civil servant, like your good friend here?’
‘Section head at the city’s department of finance,’ he says, suddenly sounding assured, as if realizing that the way he makes his living might make a difference.
‘And you?’ Jean nods in the direction of the skinny fool who knocked over the tin of paint. He looks a bit like the rich Jews you see on posters.
‘I have a paint shop in Lange Lozana Straat. That is, I used to. I’m retired.’
Jean looks at the paint tin and says, ‘Hilarious! It could hardly be better, could it, Wilfried?’
‘I’m splitting my sides…’ I say quietly.
‘And how are we going to resolve this, gentlemen?’
‘We’d like to go home,’ says one of them, while another nods like a schoolboy who recognizes the correct answer even though he could never have come up with it himself.
‘Go home like good boys, because the missus is frying up some fish for you… Do you think that’s a good idea, Wilfried?’ Jean winks at me.
I tell him it’s an idea like any other.
Jean promptly lets go of the painter’s hair.
*
On Sunday I generally shut myself in my room and read Verlaine. ‘Aujourd’hui, l’A
ction et le Rêve ont brisé / Le pacte primitif par les siècles usé, / Et plusieurs ont trouvé funeste ce divorce / De l’Harmonie immense et bleue et de la Force.’ I’m not going to translate it for you, son, because I don’t want to embarrass either of us with my inability to capture something that needs, above all, to be felt. According to the poet these lines were written under the sign of Saturn, the dark Roman god whose festivals were once celebrated during the months of winter, and I was just writing them down in my diary when there was a knock on the door.
My mother was standing there.
‘Sorry to disturb,’ she says quietly. ‘I just forgot there was a letter for you on Friday.’
She lays the envelope on the bedside cabinet, tells me tea is almost ready and disappears. I recognize the handwriting.
Dearest, how I long for your touch! Time has become a horror to me, a harsh taskmaster who scolds me when I think of you and curse the hours and days that separate us. It is you who have set me ablaze, so you won’t hold my complaints against me, I hope. If only I could feel your fingers on my throat and your lips on mine right now! Sweetness, what we have together is so beautiful, I can’t find words to describe it. You make me sing, do you know that? I can already see you laughing as you read this, or maybe you’re thinking, ‘Oh, the silly cow.’ But I can’t help it. I am yours completely! Let me know when we can meet again and when you’re on duty. Lode says he doesn’t see you much either, but adds that that’s normal. Please write to me, even though we don’t live that far apart. I want to be able to cherish your written words when I am alone in my room in the evening. Big, juicy kisses from your… Yvette.
How can I tell your future great-grandmother that letters like this make me feel a bit queasy? On the page, this quick-witted woman who is so worldly and fearless turns into a doll made of pink icing sugar. As if she feels obliged to adapt to what a love letter is meant to be and doesn’t realize how much she betrays in the process. I put the letter with the others and go downstairs for the frugal meal my mother serves up as if it’s another feast. My father says, ‘Nice soup, but it needs to ripen a little. Save some for tomorrow.’
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