by Michael Dean
The picture showed a seated moneychanger, weighing gold in a balance. There was a concentrated, almost adoring, expression on his face, as he looked at the gold. Next to him, his wife is watching the gold, not her husband, while absent-mindedly turning the pages of a prayer book.
‘Damn!’ Hirschfeld muttered to himself, aloud.
The painting had been hanging there for over a year, but for the first time it occurred to him what Manny meant by it. It would be typical of Manny to present him with a painting with a hidden meaning, then laugh up his sleeve every time he saw it on the wall. So he, Hirschfeld, was a money-changer, was he? The personification of greed; giving Holland’s gold away.
There was a drum-roll of bangs on the door, announcing the arrival of Hirschfeld’s nephew for the sabbath meal.
*
The three of them sat at the sabbath table, Else at the head. Else had felt unwell since early that morning. She feared her cold was turning into something significantly worse. She would have taken to her bed, had her son not been coming over.
Coughing and clutching her fist to her chest, she blessed the sabbath bread - plaited, with seeds on top - removing the ornate cloth from it as she did so. She then lit the candles and launched into the sabbath blessing:
‘Ki vahnu vaharta v’otanu kidasha – Almighty God you have chosen and sanctified us,’ she read laboriously, from a prayer book.
Manny snorted.
He and Hirschfeld helped themselves to soup, from the silver tureen, in the middle of the table. Hirschfeld had his spoon poised above his plate of oily chicken soup, when his sister began stumbling through the blessing of the wine.
Hirschfeld put his spoon down. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Else!’
‘Boray paree hagoffen,’ shouted Else, defiantly, rushing the blessing to its end.
‘What’s suddenly made you so religious? We need to stop all this.’ Hirschfeld blinked at his sister, then waved at the panoply of self-conscious sabbath observance.
His arm was also meant to take in the two volumes of newly-published Hebrew poetry, in pride of place on an occasional table near the sabbath candles. Else had queued for them for hours, beating a crowd of predominantly female Jewish shoppers to it, before they sold out. She had triumphantly born the volumes home, lifted by their presence in her house, even though she couldn’t read them.
‘Why?’ Manny said, his chin dripping with soup. ‘Why do we have to stop being observant, Uncle Max? Because the Nazis wouldn’t like it?’
‘Manny! Please! Don’t start!’ Else’s eyes were pleading.
Hirschfeld shook his head at Manny. ‘And why are you, of all people, defending religious observance?’
Manny’s mouth was full. This was the first proper meal he’d had in three days.
‘For the same reason we celebrate Anjerdag – Prince Bernhard’s birthday. And grow orange flowers. To show the Moffen they haven’t won yet.’
Else gathered the empty soup-plates and disappeared into the kitchen. They heard her talking to old Gerk Heemskerk. Gerk was here in his capacity as shobbus goy - the Christian who came to switch the cooker off, so none of the Jews in the household would have to break the sabbath by an act classed as work.
This extension to Gerk’s duties – he also did the garden twice a week - was a recent affectation on Else’s part. It horrified Hirschfeld, as he could think of little that would more effectively draw attention to their Jewishness, outside the Jewish community.
Else brought the cholent with cooked barley – kasha - in its blackened oven-proof dish. Because cholent is a slow-cooked dish – potatoes, beans, some meat - it could be put in the oven before shobbus started, requiring the shobbus goy only to take it out again and switch off the oven. This old Gerk had just done, before going on his way with a dubbeltje tip, left on the dresser by Else before sabbath came in.
Manny, who was drunk already, gulped down more wine before furiously assaulting his cholent and kasha. ‘So, what’s new with your friends, Uncle Max?’
‘My friends?’
‘Your friends the Nazis.’
Hirschfeld was tired. He was not interested in food, regarding eating as a tiresome chore, even when it was not accompanied by an attack from Emmanuel Roet. He did have a weakness for wine though, and silently fetched and opened another bottle of kosher Cordon Rouge.
He spoke as he sat down again. ‘Manny, listen to me, a minute. Whether we like it or not, the Germans control Holland. Now, one of the differences between being an adult and being a child, is that adults live in the real world. Not the world as we would like it to be. I therefore have to deal with the Germans.’
‘So, to want to change is childish, is it? To want the Moffen out of our country ... is that childish, Uncle Max?.’
‘Not as such. But your methods contribute nothing to getting the Nazis out of our country. Do you think they’re going to leave because we grow orange flowers?’
‘No, but …’
‘What you are doing is completely counter-productive. If you weren’t sabotaging work on that cruiser, the Arminius, thousands of workers and their families would be measurably better off, more secure, happier.’
‘But the people killed by the Armenius will be none of those things.’
‘There’s a war on. The Arminius would be no less deadly made in Bremen.’
‘And what happens to the Jews, Uncle Max? I mean the Jews who haven’t been exempted from anti-Jewish measures by Seyss-Inquart, as you have.’
There was a silence. They all stopped eating.
‘What?’
‘Is that true, Max?’ Else looked shocked.
‘Yes.’ Hirschfeld turned to Manny. ‘How on earth did you know about that?’
‘Oh, I …’ Manny stopped in mid-sentence, flung down his knife and fork, and dashed out of the room. His mother and uncle looked at each other. Hirschfeld shrugged.
The sound of Manny vomiting in the bathroom upstairs was clearly audible to Else and Hirschfeld, as they sat silently at the sabbath table. This was something that had apparently never occurred to Manny, no matter how often he threw up after meals. But, as usual, neither Else nor Hirschfeld said anything when he came back, looking pale and pasty.
‘I think I’ll pass on the sweet,’ he said.
Else nodded. She took the little scalloped glass dish with his unwanted apricot compote back out to the kitchen. Hirschfeld and Else silently ate theirs.
Hirschfeld, relieved to have finished eating, fetched an ashtray, retired to his armchair and lit his regular panatela cigar.
‘We’re listening to the wireless, at eight o’ clock,’ Else said.
Hirschfeld sighed. ‘Else, I beg you not to persist with this.’ Listening to the wireless meant listening to Radio Oranje - the Dutch government in exile, broadcasting from London. ‘Have you any idea of the risk you’re taking. I thought you’d handed the wireless set in?’
Manny gave a sardonic laugh. He had bought a broken second-hand wireless set in the market, for Else to hand in to the Moffen. Their wireless was still upstairs, hidden. At five minutes to eight, Else fetched it from the loft, where it was covered with rags, near the water tank.
She returned, puffing with the effort, holding the huge bakelite set like a baby. She put it on the dining room table, made sure the curtains were tightly drawn, and switched it on. They stared at it while it warmed up.
Eventually, after some whirring, whining and the crackling of static, there came the morse sign – dot, dot, dot, dash; V for victory. After the news in Dutch, the Queen was introduced. Wilhelmina’s voice joined them at table, as familiar as a family member:
She reviewed the murderous events of May 10th , 1940: ‘After our country, with scrupulous conscientiousness, had observed strict neutrality, Germany made a sudden attack on our territory, without any warning. It was the most flagrant breach of conduct practised among civilised nations.’ Then, making the weight of her decision clear, she issued an appeal: ‘I ask you to ta
ke up arms with utmost vigilance and with that inner calm which comes from a clear conscience …’
Manny interrupted his monarch: ‘You hear that, Uncle Max? “With a clear conscience”. I wonder if you would recognise one of those? You’ll be taking up arms, then, will you?’
‘Oh, Manny, stop it!’ Else said.
Hirschfeld’s face was blank.
Wilhelmina now spoke of the need to hold fast until the government could return. In a flat, matter-of fact-tone, she announced that meneer de Geer had been replaced as Prime Minister by Professor Gerbrandy.
This was greeted by a whoop from Manny. ‘She’s got rid of him! That old defeatist bastard de Geer’s gone!’
‘I know,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘I’ve known for a week. Gerbrandy himself told me, through Bruyns’
But Manny wasn’t listening to him.
Following on from the Queen, there was a message from the resistance, promising that any acts of sabotage would be supported from London. There followed a series of messages in code.
One of them was ‘Steps are being taken to end the shortage of beetroot in Holland’
Else wrung her hands together. ‘That’s Robert,’ she said. ‘Manny, did you hear that?
That’s your father. Beetroot. That’s his codename. He told me.’
Manny said nothing. His eyes were shining.
‘You’re still in touch with him?’ Max said to Else.
‘Manny is. He’s in London, isn’t he Manny? With the resistance.’
‘Yes. And he’s coming back. That’s what the message means. My father’s coming back to Amsterdam.’
6
The following Monday morning, Hirschfeld sat at his desk, in his office overlooking the Binnen Amstel. The overhead chandeliers, the standard lamp in the corner, and the green-shaded table-lamp on his desk were all turned on.
The Occupying Authority had decreed that Holland was to run on Middle European Summer Time, the same as the Reich, so all clocks had been put forward two hours and forty-minutes. When work started, at seven in the morning, it was still dark outside. Hirschfeld felt this was a small price to pay for the trade benefits such uniformity would bring.
Hirschfeld’s normally iron concentration faltered. Figures in tables, in front of him, usually so clear, usually so sharp, so reassuring, swam before his eyes. Over the weekend, rumours had been sweeping Amsterdam, regarding that death of the German Orpo. The de Beers, Leen and Mozes, had talked of nothing else on Saturday. It had quite spoiled the walk through Artis, with them and Else. The city was tensed for reprisals. He knew Rauter had been to see Himmler.
Hirschfeld methodically combed the arguments for and against contacting Rauter. It would put him in a stronger position, psychologically, if he waited for Rauter to contact him. But if Rauter by-passed him, established other channels, his position would be considerably weaker.
On impulse, he pressed the button on his desk, sounding a buzzer in the outer office, where his secretary worked. Mevrouw van Dijk’s full, even voluptuous, middle-aged figure had tormented him ever since he had ordered her transfer from the typing pool, at a generous increase in salary. She had politely resisted his advances, until, about a fortnight ago, he had asked her to stay behind after work. He had attempted to take her on the sofa, at the far end of his office. Annemarie van Dijk had resisted him for nearly an hour, though not wholeheartedly. Finally, with him tiring and her exhausted, matters had reached a more or less mutually agreed messy conclusion.
The next day, she had refused even to approach his desk. He had assured her of his deeper feelings for her, and apologised for their clumsy expression. She appeared mollified. After much cajoling, she accepted his apology.
She did not, he noticed, seek a transfer to another job. Her husband was currently unemployed. This meant the couple were dependant on the money from her salary, but also that he was liable to be sent to the Reich, to work in a factory.
She appeared, in response to the buzzer. His eyes were on her breasts, as she walked toward him. Her gaze was on the coffered ceiling, until she reached his desk.
‘Yes, meneer Hirschfeld?’
‘Annemarie, has there been any word from Rauter this morning?’ It was a ridiculous question, as Hirschfeld knew only too well. He had arrived at the office well before her, and in any case, Annemarie would hardly have failed to mention such a contact.
‘No, meneer Hirschfeld.’
‘Right.’
Hirschfeld’s sensual mouth, with its curved, almost feminine, upper lip, pursed with worry and disappointment.
Annemarie van Dijk was still there; a measurable thawing in her attitude; only last week she would have stalked out by now. ‘Do you want some coffee?’ she said.
He smiled at her. ‘Will you join me?’
‘No, I’ve got rather a lot on, at the moment. But I’ll make you some.’ She turned to go.
‘Annemarie.’
‘What?’
‘It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it? I’ve bought you something. May I take you to lunch, to present it.’ He smiled. ‘Somewhere elegant, but far away from here. We could both do with getting away. A break … We could talk …Have a nice chat ...’
‘Alright.’
The telephone rang. It was the summons to Rauter’s office.
*
It was just getting light. There was a great-coated German sentry in the ornate red and white sentry box at the top of the stone steps leading up to the old Colonial Building. The sentry recognised Hirschfeld and presented arms.
Inside the wrought iron gates, pushed open flush against the heavy wooden inner door, was a vestibule. A desk, with a sign over it, said Anmeldung. But there was no need for such formalities for the Secretary General. The staff-sergeant at the desk knew who he was. He called a runner to take him up to Rauter’s office, without Hirschfeld having to say a word.
Rauter sat at a Javanese teak desk, taken over from the original occupant of the office. He had his back to the huge windows, overlooking Mauritskade. No Dutchman would have hung net curtains at these windows, as Rauter had. However, he had left the typically Dutch tafelkleed – the table covering which looks to foreigners like a carpet – on the second desk in the office, where the secretary or stenographer sometimes sat.
An office said a lot about a man, in Hirschfeld’s opinion. This one spoke of an understanding of the Dutch, which in the context of the occupation meant a willingness to go with the grain. Hirschfeld knew very well that this was not due to any moral quality, on Rauter’s part, rather to an intuitive understanding of the quickest way to get things done. He was a pragmatist, Rauter was, as was Hirschfeld.
This alignment of attitudes, however, stopped short of an alliance. There was no bond, no fellow feeling, between them. Such a bond would have been inimical to both of them. It would also have threatened the very pragmatism which had enabled it in the first place.
Even so, Hirschfeld counted himself lucky that Rauter was his point of contact with the Occupying Authority. Other Nazis he knew well – Böhmcker, Schmidt – would have been much more problematic to work with. So the sight of Rauter’s face tense with anger caused the Secretary General no little anxiety.
After the briefest of greetings, Rauter came straight to the point. ‘I’ve been to see Himmler. Your Jews have fouled their own nest. Two of them have murdered a German, and drunk his blood in one of your Jew rituals. One of the two was your nephew, apparently.’
‘What? Are you sure?’ Hirschfeld was shaking.
‘Yes. We’re looking for him. Do you know where he is?’
‘No. We lost touch years ago.’
‘Just as well. Anyway, steps are now being taken to rein in the Jews. It’s your own damn fault. Here’s the order.’
Rauter threw it across the desk. It was badly typed, on Himmler’s notepaper, and signed by the Reichsführer-SS himself. Hirschfeld read it as slowly as possible, giving himself a chance to recover from the news about Manny:
A
n order has been issued to establish a Central Office for Jewish Emigration in the Occupied Netherlands, which would serve as an example of the solution of the Jewish question for all European countries. The Central Office for Jewish Emigration will be in charge of concentrating all Dutch Jews, supervising their everyday life, and of the centralised processing of emigration.
Hirschfeld breathed deeply. He had no doubt what emigration meant. It meant forced labour, probably in the east. He moved in his seat, shifting his shoulders into position, his body mirroring his mind’s acceptance of his load. He was thinking so hard, his head was bursting, but outwardly his demeanour was mild and respectful.
‘I wouldn’t use the word emigration in the title,’ he murmured.
‘Agreed. I thought the same.’
‘Joodsche Raad – Jewish Council?’
Rauter made a note. ‘Yes. Agreed. You’ll head it, of course.’
Hirschfeld pretended to think about it. ‘It would be better if I didn’t.’
Rauter raised an eyebrow. ‘Because …’
‘In the Jewish community, I’m perceived as being too close to the Occupying Authority. Figures with greater independence would … meet less resistance.’
Rauter nodded again. ‘Who?’
‘Let them choose their own board, their own …’
‘No! Take too long. We’re not waiting for a load of chattering Jews. Names. Now.’
Hirschfeld took his time. ‘I’d use two leaders,’ he said, finally.
‘Why?’
‘Keeps the organisation weak.’
Rauter permitted himself a half-smile. ‘You should have been an Aryan, Hirschfeld. Which two?’
‘I’d use Abraham Asscher.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Diamond merchant. Has his own company. Leader of the business community. He’s also head of the Netherlands-Jewish Board of Deputies. And … for moral authority … Professor David Cohen. ‘
Rauter rang for a stenographer to take minutes. A lady in a severe costume appeared instantly, and sat at the second desk, typing onto a soundless keyboard, placed on the tafelkleed – something no Dutchman would have done.