Will

by Jeroen Olyslaegers

  We park in Della Faille Laan, headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst.

  There’s an enormous commotion on the ground floor with people rushing in and out. I see men in uniform dragging other men between them whose faces are no longer recognizably human. Some mumble something while being carted downstairs. A door opens, letting out a cry of trapped terror before it closes again. Fear is what keeps you alive, fear is what keeps you alive. The men in leather think I’m climbing the stairs a little too slowly and lend a hand so that my feet hardly touch the marble. I struggle not to lose control of my bladder. They plonk me down on a bench in a high-ceilinged corridor like a little child and tell me to wait. A Waffen-SS sentry is posted at a door with a sub-machine gun. One of the men accompanying me knocks and enters. Time for the oral exam, I tell myself. Concentrate and don’t lose your self-confidence. I hear Angelo guffawing inside of me, or at least spluttering as he tries to suppress his laughter. Fear is what keeps you alive…

  The door opens. The man in the leather coat nods at me and I go in while he leaves and closes the door behind him. Red-headed Gregor is standing there in his black uniform. He gestures at a chair. I sit down.

  Gregor tries to tone down his German accent. He doesn’t really succeed, but his mastery of our language is greater than I expected when I heard him at my Aunty Emma’s.

  ‘Better here than in a bar, Herr Wils.’

  I nod. My heart rate starts to come down a little.

  ‘A glass of water?’ Without waiting for an answer, he goes over to a side table and picks up a carafe. I empty the glass he offers me in three gulps. Without a comment he refills it.

  ‘You seem a little nervous…’

  ‘My apologies, Oberscharführer.’

  Gregor smiles. ‘You know my rank.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you know what I am doing in your city?’

  I nod.

  ‘Then surely you have nothing to fear? Unless you are circumcised. Are you circumcised, Herr Wils?’ He looks at me for a moment. ‘Forgive me, that was not a very respectable Witz. Forgive me too for the manner in which you were brought here. I hope that has not made too much of an impression on you. Na gut, let us not beat around the bush. As you probably know, the Sicherheitsdienst has reconciled itself to the fact that your police service will no longer provide assistance during the finalization of the Jewish question. Das ist kein Problem. After all, this last summer we noticed that your services leak like a… How do you put it here?’

  ‘Like a sieve.’

  ‘Wie ein Sieb, almost the same word…’

  I nod.

  ‘Our mutual friend has let me know that we can count on you. That would be useful, especially now Herr Vingerhoets has met such an unfortunate end… We know that here and there, there is some, um… subversion present in the police force. Stolen ration books, help for Jews. No doubt a few of your colleagues, perhaps a small minority, are well rewarded for these services. Nicht wahr?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that, Oberscharführer.’

  ‘Of course not. Not at once. I understand you. This requires an adjustment. Here.’ He taps his forehead with his index finger. ‘But you will get there. And there are compensations. Do you understand me? We keep the identities of many of our so-called Vertrauensmänner strictly confidential. Of course, we would do the same with you. Some of them receive a remuneration. Unfortunately, I cannot offer such to you. But for everything there is a solution. We will work it out. Your friend knows what I am talking about. There are enough possibilities. What you must do is consider, reflect.’

  Gregor lights a cigar, flaps the match to extinguish it and blows out a mouthful of smoke.

  ‘Gut, dass wir… I mean, we have your Aunt Emma… We can greet each other there now and then. Verstehen Sie?’

  ‘Certainly, Oberscharführer…’

  ‘See it as a possible investment by us in you. And know that your valued friend will always be there to… sich mit mir kurzschließen. Do you understand that in German?’

  ‘Yes, as a direct line of contact.’

  Gregor blows out a cloud of contented smoke. ‘Again, we understand each other perfectly.’

  ‘You know what they say about that dirty German?’

  ‘There are a lot of stories about him, Lode.’

  ‘Open for business, that’s what it comes down to. I hear about Gregor and a few of his mates—people from here, right, not Jerries—pulling on their black uniforms of a night-time and dropping in on Jews or people they suspect of hiding Jews. Then they yell a bit and demand money or jewels. And afterwards they head for your favourite bar and knock off one bottle of cognac after the other until closing time. True or false? You’d know.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem the type to me.’

  ‘You know what else he likes? Household effects. When those rich Jews are kicked out of their houses, everyone’s supposed to keep their hands off the contents. That’s the principle anyway. But when you, like our Gregor, have a good relationship with one of the local removal companies, you’ve got a business opportunity. Who cares about an oak table, an antique bed or a painting on a wall? Out of sight, out of mind. Things get lost so easily. You know where to go if you need an armchair…’

  ‘Still, there are other advantages. The Oberscharführer thinks I’m one of them. That could protect us.’

  ‘Your wording’s so careful. You are one of them, aren’t you?’

  It takes a couple of seconds before Lode starts laughing. ‘Come on, things are serious enough as it is.’

  I laugh along, as usual. Meanwhile I think about Chaim Lizke and wonder how many jewels or diamonds he’s promised Lode and his father. One person recognizes his own small betrayal in the other. I see the harried victims surrendering all their valuables. I see them stripped to their underwear, forced to submit to probing fingers in search of gold and jewels.

  ‘Money…’ Lode says, inadvertently answering my thoughts, ‘that’s what it comes down to. You can’t tell me they believe all this stuff about the master race and subhumans, blood and soil, pulling those ridiculous faces with one arm stuck in the air, flogging their supposedly knightly ideals like sideshow hucksters while worshipping their great jabbering tash on the radio like he’s some kind of god. All bullshit. It’s very simple. The Jews have got the money and that’s what it’s all about. Organized robbery, that’s what it is.’

  It all sounds watertight, but I’m in constant doubt, sometimes telling myself I don’t have a clue what’s going on in this city. Does money really explain everything? Isn’t that rather naive? Lode’s rant, which seems to have come out of nowhere, sounds like the accusations an adolescent spends a long time rehearsing in his head before levelling them at his father. After all, there are other things smirking in the darkness, monstrous thoughts I have, unfortunately, not yet managed to capture in a poem, energies that spark out like fallen angels, ravings, whispering inside my head, random acts, effects without causes, tragic coincidences, muddled and casual bastardry, sadism too, contrariness and failures of concentration. Why does Lode see clearly when to me it all looks murky? Maybe it’s because he’s a thief too. No, that’s too crude. He sounds disappointed, that’s all. He’s turned out not to be a hero, but someone who keeps a Jew alive because it all comes down to money. Or not? Have I got it wrong? I can’t tell any more; my friend’s heart is misted over like a mirror.

  ‘Is that what it’s all about, Lode?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Money.’

  ‘Sometimes, Will, you still sound like a little kid.’

  ‘For you too then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So it is the money.’

  ‘Come on, what’s got into you all of a sudden?’

  Lode looks me in the eyes, searching for something, then shakes his head. Suddenly he’s tousling my hair.

  ‘Don’t,’ I say.

  ‘No,’ he says fiercely, ‘don’t.’

  He doesn’t.


  Cigars for fathers, cigarettes for youngsters, pipe tobacco for grandads huddled over stoves, and chewing or rolling tobacco for gardeners, roadworkers and railwaymen. Welcome to Bruyninckx Tobacconist, behind the counter our winsome Jenny, who, going by her summery neckline with the thermometer at an icy minus two, has not yet adjusted to the prevailing fashions amongst shop girls.

  The bell on the door of this robbers’ den takes a moment to stop jingling.

  ‘It’s handsome Wilfried!’

  Her lips form a red O of mock surrender, with her right hand pressed against her forehead as if she’s about to swoon. ‘It’s not easy for a woman like me when you appear. I get butterflies in my tummy.’

  ‘You sound very happy, Jenny.’

  Jenny without alcohol is more intense than Jenny on the port. No more drowsy looks, no bafflement in her eyes, no tears threatening to fall at the slightest provocation, a lot less whorish than before.

  ‘Had many customers yet?’

  She screws up her eyes. ‘Are you making fun of me?’

  ‘How could anyone?’

  ‘Goodness,’ she laughs, ‘what a charmer. And if you must know, this place is a goldmine. You have no idea how many people can’t wait to smoke their ration these days. People have long since forgotten what good tobacco tastes like.’

  Jingle-jingle. A customer.

  ‘Your brother-in-arms is in the back room,’ Jenny whispers, nodding at the golden-brown curtain behind her.

  A narrow hallway stacked with boxes left and right leads to Meanbeard, sitting at a table covered with letters, bills and receipts, lit by a desk lamp of relatively high wattage that makes his head shine and casts menacing shadows in the furrows on his brow. Preoccupied with mental labours or not, he definitely sounds cheerful.

  ‘Welcome to my new shop, jeune homme! Pack of tobacco? For you, it’s free of charge.’

  ‘Your shop? That’s fast.’

  ‘The owner has retired, you could say. I find it regrettable for him, but nonetheless, he did violate a race law. He should have known better. Anyway, I’m now the authorized administrator, or what’s it called?’

  Meanbeard slides some papers to one side, finally finds his matches and contentedly sucks the flame into his pipe. ‘You wouldn’t believe the stock Mr Bruyninckx has here… All prewar. Turkish tobacco, English tobacco… All for his favourite customers. You have to see this!’

  He waves a notebook.

  I open it. There are all kinds of names in it, followed by crosses, numbers and brands of tobacco.

  ‘Mr Bruyninckx’s clientele. Nobody can accuse him of being disorganized. And look at these names…’ Meanbeard pulls over other documents. ‘Koch, Holz, Rothman, Kubelsky, Gottlieb… All of them Jews on our list who have been evading us. Can you believe it? These fellows are still regulars here. At least two of them popped in this very day. C’est vraiment stupéfiant! Don’t underestimate them… The inventiveness of the Israelite is beyond description. At the same time their stupid arrogance is so… Can you believe the two today simply announced themselves to Jenny with their own names, holding filched ration books and requesting their favourite brand? Just like that, as if life simply goes on.’

  ‘And what now?’

  Meanbeard rubs his temples and yawns. ‘We’re going to pick up as many as possible in one go. There’s no point nabbing just one or two. Word’ll get out and we can whistle for the rest.’

  ‘You could announce a sale on tobacco and smoking paraphernalia.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s it. What a brilliant idea. A Jew always wants a discount! It’s so simple it’s perfect! We’ll do it!’

  I regret those words so much, as if I’ve suddenly and through my own fault put myself under a showerhead with ice water, teeth chattering as if I’ve come down with a fever, cursing my own stupidity, despising the way I sometimes shoot my mouth off, saying things despite knowing better, my arrogance, the bastard inside me, my thoughtless fucking longing to simply join in, to be in on the joke, to be appreciated. Sometimes shame feels like a mosquito bite, sometimes it’s a heart attack, sometimes your bones are being crushed in a python’s deadly embrace. And nothing anybody ever says will make me forget it. You, dear great-grandson, are the first person I’ve ever told. Believe me when I say that I only meant that crack about a sale as a joke. It occurred to me and I blurted it out. It was so daft, so bloody cheap and crude. Know too that Angelo, the inner voice that used to hold such sway over me and has now been reduced to a rare whisper, confided in me that night that my shame was a sign of weakness and I believed it and probably fell asleep a little easier as a result. The very same week, after the announcement of a special discount, a dozen keen Jewish smokers were picked up at Bruyninckx Tobacconist.

  ‘When are you going to take me out dancing again, Wilfried?’

  Yvette goes over to the gramophone.

  ‘It hasn’t been that simple recently…’

  ‘I know that. There’s no end to it. For weeks now those blackshirts have been smashing up one brasserie after the other. Right here on the square, too, two nights ago. The Alma, the Lympia, a couple of others. I was in bed and heard the shouting. Those SS idiots can’t bear the idea of people wanting a bit of diversion every now and then. That makes you really feel like going out dancing. Is that such a crime?’

  ‘How do you expect me to take you out dancing when one place after another’s being wrecked?’

  ‘I’m counting on your ingenuity. You’re not going to tell me dancing has been completely prohibited? If you’re on the right side, there are still plenty of places to go.’ She looks at me like a cat with a mouse.

  ‘And I’m on the right side?’

  ‘You know people on that side.’

  She turns her back on me and bends forward.

  The stylus comes down on the crackling gramophone record.

  ‘Plais-i-i-i-i-ir d’amour ne dure qu’u-u-u-u-un instant… Chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie-e-e-e-e…’ The living room is too small for her. She whispers a line from the love song to a standard lamp, moves over to the window with her hands clasped imploringly, as if the moon will hear her, then suddenly leaps back to me with her brows in a playful frown. ‘Et pourtant notre tendre roman par ta faute… aujourd’hui vient mourir bêtement…’ Effortlessly she drapes her voice over the nightingale Rina Ketty’s, who is doing bouncy revolutions under the gramophone stylus with her tango orchestra. She emphasizes the Italian chansonnière’s un-French R even more while placing her hands on her cheeks and adopting a wide-eyed pose in an imaginary circle of light. I can’t take my eyes off her and smile. At the end of the song, Yvette does a pirouette in front of her grinning mother, who is leaning on the kitchen doorpost and winks at me. Isn’t she talented? Isn’t it patently obvious that she has the gift of making other people happy with her voice? Couldn’t she move thousands upon thousands of listeners to tears on the great European stages? Her mother and I give her a fervent round of applause. She bows deeply.

  ‘Your father should hear that sometime instead of all those difficult opera things you drive him up the wall with.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, he doesn’t like to hear me sing at all.’

  ‘Nothing happens of its own accord. Men need to be trained.’

  As if she’s said too much, my future mother-in-law looks in my direction. ‘Isn’t that right, Wilfried?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ I answer, without meeting her gaze, holding a match up to my cigarette.

  Yvette sighs theatrically.

  ‘Fine, I’ll get back to the kitchen,’ her mother concludes abruptly.

  Yvette sits down next to me on the sofa and starts to leaf furiously through a women’s magazine she has probably picked up a thousand times before. ‘It’s all right for you to call our ma “Mum”. Or “Mother”.’

  ‘Did she say that?’ I blow smoke out over the newspaper on the coffee table in front of me. ‘No one speaks of the peril of Bolshevism… We want to be recognized as
a nation…’

  ‘Would that make you feel uncomfortable?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Look at me. You’re more interested in that newspaper than you are in me. What am I to you? A sack of potatoes?’

  Suddenly her tongue is very sharp. I look at her.

  ‘You have no idea who I am, Wilfried.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  She squeezes my forearm. ‘Who am I? Tell me! What do I want from life? Do you know?’

  Like a lover in a bad old-fashioned film where the action’s interrupted by title cards with the sighs written out instead of being spoken, I drop to my knees and seize her hand after first stubbing my half-smoked Turkish cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘Happiness! Love! You want me!’