Mik had started The Free Artist with his father Jan van Gilse, composer, and his friend Gerrit van der Veen, sculptor, to mobilize resistance against the Kulturkammer (the Reich’s Chamber of Culture). Many people joined them – prominent writers, painters, musicians, journalists – and a few wealthy folks, well-disposed towards their cause, donated money. Artists refusing to register at the Kulturkammer lose their income, so the financial support is more than welcome.
But his activities are starting to attract too much attention; there is not only The Free Artist and the PBC, but also resistance group CS-6, in which he thinks up sabotage acts with his friend Gerrit Kastein. The Sicherheitspolizei has been close on their heels for some time, but so far they have always managed to outsmart them. The High Nest is the only place where Mik can catch his breath.
Today, Mik has brought the latest edition of The Free Artist for the Brilleslijper family; tucked underneath his waistband, the paper rustles at each move. They have made a couple of thousand copies, a fantastic print run, which go hand to hand. The magazine is not for keeping – it must reach as many readers as possible. On the cover they have printed: THIS COPY IS NOT JUST FOR YOU – PASS IT ON. The Free Artist has grown into a proper underground publication, supported, completed and read by influential artists and wealthy benefactors. The thought briefly fills Mik with optimism and pride, but those feelings are smothered when he remembers the dangerous plan he is devising with Gerrit van der Veen and a few other resistance friends.
At 36 Plantage Kerklaan, next to the entrance of the zoo, Artis, is the Amsterdam register. This is where the records of some 70,000 Jews are kept; the administrative driving force behind the Nazi trains. The PBC tries to supply as many Jews as possible with forged identity cards, but it is not enough. Carrying identification papers became compulsory in 1940, the identity card was introduced in 1941, and since then, Jews are cornered by the administrative capacities of Dutch civil servants. Gerrit figured that one action would solve all of their problems: blowing up the register. Without – this is of paramount importance – any casualties. It is a complex job. At night, all possible tactics cross Mik’s mind, but he has not as yet found the perfect strategy.
At Naarden-Bussum station he gets off, ignores the tram stop and begins the long walk to The High Nest. It is cold but he is glowing with effort and enjoys being in nature. Heavy buds in all the trees announce the arrival of spring.
After a warm welcome by Lien, Jaap, Joseph and Fietje – Janny and Bob are out working – Mik and Eberhard leave the hustle and bustle of the house, taking a random forest path towards the water. Eberhard can tell Mik is excited about something and, as soon as they find themselves in the shelter of the trees, he drops the chit-chat and puts his arm around his friend.
‘Spill the beans. What do you want to tell me?’
‘That obvious?’
Mik smiles, looks around as if squirrels might overhear them, lowers his voice.
‘Listen. The Free Artist is a success. It has actually become a broad underground organization, with a large following among artists as well as wealthy folks who want to do something but don’t know how.’
Eberhard nods.
‘We have a great new backer. You will never guess who it is.’
They walk on and Eberhard raises his eyebrows, curious about the name.
‘The king of all brewers. Heineken.’
Mik glances sideways to see his friend’s expression. Eberhard stops and turns toward him.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes,’ says Mik. ‘Dirk Stikker, their general manager, has promised us one million guilders. One million!’
They both draw a deep breath, impressed by the intangible number, then walk on, climbing a small hill, the last barrier between the forest and the water. They are panting, their shoes slipping away in the loose sand.
‘Well,’ Mik mumbles, placing his feet in Eberhard’s large steps, ‘of course he’s making a good deal of money out of those beer-sodden Krauts.’
They stand side by side on the top, catching their breath. At the foot of the hill, behind a strip of sand and a fringe of reeds, lies the Lake IJsselmeer. It is cold, but calm. The water is motionless and grey, the sky crisp and clear, no clouds, no rays of light.
Mik breaks the silence.
‘From now on you and Lien, as underground artists, will receive a monthly allowance from The Free Artist, so you can make ends meet.’
Eberhard’s skinny face breaks into a smile. He had shared with Mik how embarrassed he felt to see everyone bringing in something to keep the oversized household at the Nest going. Bob earns money for his family, most guests contribute something – it’s only him, Lien, Jaap, Joseph and Fietje who are cut off from any flow of money. This amount is not just for Eberhard and Lien, it is for the entire Brilleslijper family – there’s no need for Mik to tell him that.
‘That’s settled, then.’
Mik runs down the hill, his arms wide like the wings of a bird. Eberhard follows him. They turn onto the path on the right, which leads them along the water towards Huizen.
Before he leaves, Mik gives Eberhard the address of a contact in Laren, where he can collect the money each month.
‘He will also give you stolen coupons to use for the family,’ Mik whispers when they embrace each other, ‘but don’t tell anyone, all right?’
3
Neighbours
One day Janny receives a letter from the council. The mayor of Naarden wants to discuss ‘irregularities in her identity card’ with her and Janny has to report within the fortified walls, in the beautiful town hall opposite the Great Church. On her walk there, across the heath and among the trees, bare but sprouting promisingly, she realizes once again how close they are. To the village and to its mayor, unaware of what is happening in his very own forest.
As Eberhard predicted, Mussert, Hitler and the mayor stare at her unanimously in the meeting room. Janny goes weak at the knees. Van Leeuwen does not waste any time.
‘Mrs Brandes, there is something amiss with your identity card.’
Throbbing temples, spots dancing in her eyes, Janny plays ignorant and looks at him sheepishly.
‘There are two identity cards, both apparently yours. I don’t think that is possible, do you?’
Janny shakes her head, wondering how this might have happened. The one thing she can think of is that her contact at the registry office in Amsterdam failed to destroy her original identity card. That would explain why there are now two – the original and the new one he made with different, false data. Her game is up. It is finished. She tries to swallow but her throat is too thick.
‘Mrs Brandes,’ says the mayor, ‘had I not known your husband, and had I not very much respected him as a civil servant, I would have had to report this. Do you understand?’
At first, Janny believes she has misheard what he said. She stares at the mayor, a puzzled look on her face, but then she pulls herself together. The spots in her eyes disappear, the throbbing sinks down to her wrists.
‘I do. Of course. I have no idea how this could have happened, but I’ll take care of it.’
‘Please do.’
A short nod and the mayor turns around. Their conversation is finished.
Outside, Janny leans against the church wall and tries to steady her breath. She feels light-headed. Laughter wells. She covers her mouth with her hand, aware of her narrow escape, and thinks: how could this have happened?
She remembers a day in winter, last year. She had travelled from The Hague to Amsterdam, Liselotte in the pram, Robbie holding her hand, to collect a parcel for the Party. She didn’t know what it was, but it had felt remarkably heavy. She had wrapped the parcel in canvas and hid it underneath the mattress in the pram. On the train, the pram went into storage. Janny took the receipt and her children and sat down in a regular compartment. Upon arrival in The Hague, as she went to collect the pram, Janny could not find the receipt. The memory is still vivid: she w
as standing on the cold platform in the pouring rain, one child on her arm, the other holding her hand, a railway officer staring at her rummaging through her pockets, the children’s pockets, panicking. As she pulled off her glove to search once more, the ticket flew out of its lining. She could have hit herself. Instead she managed a smile, handed the officer the receipt and took the pram with smuggled goods. She put her daughter on the mattress and headed home as calmly as she could.
When she passed a large department store, the window reflected two men in long raincoats walking behind her. A tap on her shoulder.
‘Identity card, please.’
While one of them studied her papers, the other scanned her, head to toe. Janny told herself she was just an ordinary mother, eager to take her children home, but it felt as if she would die on the spot.
‘Brilleslijper – are you not Jewish?’
‘Not at all. My mother’s name is Gerritse; she is not Jewish. My father’s name is Brilleslijper. He’s half-Jewish and lives in Batavia.’
The silence lasted long and the rain persisted. It no longer bothered her, if only she could get the children out of here. Liselotte started to cry, but Janny didn’t want to pick her up from the pram; she was the protective layer of her secret mission.
A nod and she was free to go. Frits Reuter told her later what the heavy parcel was: a dismounted machine gun for the resistance.
After this incident her contact had altered her identity card. The only thing she can think of now is that he did not destroy her original papers at the time.
Back at The High Nest, her father flushes with anger when she tells her story. He waves his finger close to her face.
‘Perilous. What you are doing is perilous! What if that mayor decides to walk up here on a Sunday to have a look around? What if he decides to retrieve your papers at the Jewish Council?’
He paces up and down the living room, opens his mouth, shuts it again. He cannot find the words to express his concern for his daughter.
Janny realizes she hasn’t even thought of that; if her contact has not destroyed the original identity card, the Jewish Council also has her papers in their card index. She thinks out loud and upon the words ‘Jewish Council’, Joseph looks at his daughter, his eyes narrowed.
‘Those bastards,’ he mutters.
‘Calm now,’ she says, placing a hand on his arm. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
The next day, Janny takes the train to Amsterdam and visits Nathan Notowicz, a stateless communist from Poland, who lived in Germany until he fled the Nazis. When the war came, he joined part of a resistance group helping Jewish people to find shelter. Nathan has a kind heart, an iron fist and an intense dislike of collaborators. Janny can usually fend for herself, but as a woman she stands little chance at the Council – and this mission is too important to fail.
Together, they go to the Jewish Council building on the Nieuwe Keizersgracht, where they kindly ask the Jewish administrator in charge to remove Janny’s records. He refuses. With a subtle gesture, Nathan sends Janny outside.
She doesn’t have to wait long. After five minutes, Nathan calmly pulls the door shut behind him and with a mischievous smile, he gives Janny the thumbs up. She doesn’t know what he has threatened to do, and his method was probably not the most elegant, but all of her papers are immediately destroyed.
And then there is a brush with the Dutch Nazi heads. In a way, a country house, run by Jews, full of people in hiding, here in the forests of Naarden, is something of a Trojan horse; this area is crawling with Fascists, twice as many as the national average. The beautiful villas of Naarden and Bussum often belong to fanatical Nazis.
Most DNP voters are middle-class – office staff and business owners – and upper-class people. Although Nazi ideology is aimed at the working class, the party is far less popular there.
Even before the occupation, the DNP had many supporters in expensive parts of Amsterdam as well as in the wealthy Hilversum area; people living in comfort, reluctant to share their wealth and afraid to be worse off. Anti-Semitic sentiments and aversion to ‘foreign elements’ come into play as well, even though most Jews are Dutch citizens. To the extent that the more Jews a municipality counts, the more people vote for the DNP. The area between Amsterdam and Hilversum has a relatively large Jewish community, which expanded in the late 1930s, when several hundred German refugees arrived.
In 1942, Dutch Nazis set up the Voluntary Police Support, VHP, a pompous Fascist neighbourhood watch. It is no coincidence that Hilversum, Bussum and Naarden are among the dozen villages and cities where the VHP operates.
Father Joseph has often said: ‘We must watch these people here. Mark my words. The rich always turn their heads towards the sun; they have too much to lose to offer any resistance.’
Indeed, The High Nest is literally surrounded by Dutch Nazis. In the same nature reserve where the villa is located lies an estate called ‘Oud Bussum’. It is only a short walk from The Nest and owned by fabulously wealthy Nazi Pieter van Leeuwen Boomkamp. Reichsmarschall Göring, also referred to as Fat Hermann, briefly stayed at Oud Bussum when he visited the Netherlands in 1940. And only two and a half miles from The High Nest, both in Naarden and in Bussum, large numbers of German soldiers are stationed. Anton Mussert, leader of the DNP, personally gave a speech at the city gates of Naarden when the war started.
But that isn’t all. The very same Mussert chose the wild nature reserve, perfect shelter for Jews, a stone’s throw from Amsterdam, as his own hiding place too.
Anton Mussert knew it was coming: war. He also knew that the Dutch would not be able to offer much resistance. But as the May 1940 occupation drew near, he began to worry that fights might break out between the Dutch and members of his DNP in those first chaotic days after the German invasion. So, in a meeting with his party heads in Utrecht, Mussert says he is considering seeking shelter for at least four days – Dutch resistance will not last much longer, he thinks. They all agree that their party leader’s safety is of the utmost importance; after the capitulation, the people will desperately need him, architect of a new future for the Netherlands.
For several weeks, Mussert stays with various Nazi comrades throughout the country, looking for the best place to hide. His aide, Tonny Kessler, is searching too and comes up with the perfect location.
Kessler has visited the hiding place several times and has spoken to the house owners, Mr and Mrs Gooijers, both confirmed Nazis. Would they, he asked, be prepared to hide 180 pounds of illegal documents? Their answer is a firm ‘yes’. Kessler is certain these people understand the future of the DNP rests upon their shoulders. The one thing left to mention is that he was referring to 176 pounds of Mussert.
Thursday, 9 May 1940 is a beautiful summery evening. Anton Mussert leaves the DNP headquarters in Utrecht after a meeting and climbs into the Pontiac convertible waiting for him. His chauffeur starts the engine and drives him to Bilthoven, where he is staying.
In the early hours of the next morning, Mussert, like many Dutch people, wakes to the thundering sound of war. He listens to the radio and waits until seven thirty in the morning, when the businessmen of Bilthoven are getting ready to leave their homes, calls his chauffeur and they drive straight to Tonny Kessler in Naarden. From there, they will make their way to the hiding place, the remote house of comrade Gooijer. Even Mussert’s wife doesn’t know where he goes into voluntary exile.
Three times the car is held by soldiers at checkpoints, but each time they are allowed to pass. The Pontiac stops in Naarden, where Mussert and Kessler say goodbye to the chauffeur and continue their journey on foot. They walk through the vast heath in silence. Behind them is Naarden, before them lies Huizen. They are walking on the Naarderstraat, the old road connecting the two villages. Both the tramline and all the traffic have been moved to Nieuwe Bussumerweg, parallel to this street, so here, not a single living soul can be found.
The road narrows and along the verges, tall trees raise their thick leaves
to the sky. On their right, the men pass an old toll booth, out of use for years. On their left, a bit further on, is their destination.
The aide and his distinguished guest stop at a simple farmhouse, with one floor and an attic. The road is deserted, the house isolated, tucked away in the foliage. It is Friday, 10 May 1940, the German invasion has just begun and Anton Mussert has taken himself to a place of safety.
The house has a small front garden with a hedge hiding the place from view in flowering season. At the back is a wild garden, 300 feet long. Some 600 feet further, the nature reserve forest begins. On one side of the house is a cycle path, running through the forest towards the lake, and on the other side there’s nothing but farmland. Apart from a country house around the corner, in the forest, it is completely deserted.
Behind the house, at the back of the garden, a large deadwood hedge serves as a fence. A trench, dug underneath the hedge in the previous war, is overgrown with shrubs. Mussert is very pleased with the place.
Gooijer and his wife have diligently prepared their small attic for their esteemed guest. But Mussert is not at ease; on the radio he hears about nationwide house searches, hundreds of Dutch Nazis being arrested. Instead of barricading himself in the attic, he hides in the trench at the back of the garden – a suggestion from Mrs Gooijer, a woman of German origin, proud to act as guardian angel to the leader.
As the Netherlands are in chaos and the police, in those first days of the war, are fanatically hunting Dutch Nazis, Anton Mussert is lying in a trench, his stomach pressed against the cold soil, catching a severe cold and waiting to see if these days will mark the end of his career, or his first appearance in national history books.
The Sisters of Auschwitz Page 12