by Michael Dean
JUDEN VIERTEL
JOODSCHE WIJK
To the side of the improvised arch there were red and white wooden road barriers: two pieces of wood about three feet apart running to both ends of the bridge.
Rauter was sealing off the Jewish Quarter.
Hirschfeld stopped, breathing deeply. Rauter had not said a word about this, this morning. After a moment, he felt the colour coming back into his face. They could not, he thought, seal off the Jewish Quarter completely. It was too big. And even if they did, not all Jews would be within the ghetto, thus created.
Hundreds of Jews lived outside the Jewish Quarter, as Hirschfeld himself did. Also, there was a minority of non-Jews living among the Jews in the Jewish Quarter. Hirschfeld’s mind raced. Any measures against the Jews would be difficult, if not impossible, without a register of who was a Jew and who was not. But of course the
Germans had started that. Registration of the market traders was starting today.
Hirschfeld looked up at the sky, then down again. There seemed to be no checks at all, at the newly constructed archway. But even as he stood there, two NSBers cycled up, leaned their bicycles against the ramshackle wooden structure and grinned cockily.
Hirschfeld walked toward them. ‘Goedemorgen.’
‘Goedemorgen. Kunt u zich legitimeren?’
Hirschfeld pulled out his identity card.
The young NSBer made a show of checking it.
‘You a Jew?’
‘No.’
‘With a name like Hirschfeld?’
‘It’s German. I was born in Bremen.’
‘You’re German?’
‘Naturalised Dutch.’
‘What is your business in the Jewish Quarter?’
‘I’m going to see a friend.’
‘Friend’s name?’
‘Tinie Emmerik.’
‘Your business with her?’
‘She’s my mistress.’
‘You fuck Jewesses?’
‘Yes.’
The two NSBers looked at each other and laughed. ‘Have a good time,’ said the one who had checked the card.
Hirschfeld walked past them, through the makeshift arch, into the Jewish Quarter. He strode along St Anthoniebree Straat, into the top of Jodenbree Straat, his steel-tipped heels clicking on the pavement. He felt armoured in his coat and gloves, conscious of his prosperity. He inhaled the familiar stink from the fetid waters of the Oude Schans, then crossed into Batavia Straat.
The door to Manny’s room was painted a grubby brown; the paint was flaking off. Hirschfeld banged with a gloved fist, hoping there would be no response. There was not. He did not bang again, or call. He imagined himself telling Else he had done all he could.
On impulse, he walked further into Batavia Straat, to Tinie’s room. He had a key; he let himself in. Tinie was sitting in the room’s one armchair, her legs half curled under her body, in a sort of foetal position.
‘Hello Max.’ The briefest of pauses. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
Tinie, with her tiny, boyish frame, brought out the bully in him. He was aware of that, regularly felt remorse, sometimes deep remorse, but was helpless before the power of his own desire.
‘Well, I’m here,’ he said, gruffly.
She vacated the armchair, so he could sit down. He dropped his coat and muffler on the floor and sat heavily, needing to rest after the walk. He thought he heard a scraping noise behind the curtain which sealed off the niche.
‘So what brings you here?’ Tinie said, loudly.
‘How much have you heard, of what’s going on?’
Tinie looked serious. ‘I heard they were looking for Manny. And Joel Cosman. The Moffen are putting barriers all round the Jewish Quarter.’
Hirschfeld nodded. He twiddled his hat in his lap. ‘Deportations will be starting soon,’ he said. She looked scared. ‘I have created something called the Hirschfeld List, which will protect selected Jews. Your father is at the head of the list. So he’s safe. I have also found him a job. His salary will be determined by me. It will be in addition to what I am already paying your family.’
‘Thank you, Max.’
Hirschfeld nodded. He dropped his hat on the floor, unbuttoned his fly, and motioned her to him.
*
Afterwards, Hirschfeld walked slowly through the Jewish Quarter, his head, for once, mercifully empty. With a touch of defiance at his usual self, he contemplated going into a café. He would sit, he would order a cup of coffee. He would while away time, waste it in abandon of himself and his life. Why not?
He headed for Ernst Cahn’s place, the Koco Ice-Cream Parlour, in Rijn Straat. It was one of the meeting places for Amsterdam’s German-Jewish refugees. They were his kin-folk, Hirschfeld felt, even though Else didn’t like them. She found them snobbish and superior - overly conscious of being German.
A large plane came into view, high in the grey sky: Hirschfeld thought it was a British Halifax bomber. Some people cursed the British for not doing enough, called them cowards, but most were cheered when they saw RAF aeroplanes. They muttered ‘good luck, Tommy,’ under their breath, as the bombers headed to the Ruhr.
‘Good luck, Tommy,’ Hirschfeld said, aloud, in English.
As he pushed open the door of the Koco, he was assailed by a blast of warm air and the sound of Long Freddy playing gypsy fiddle in the corner. There were a few customers in, drinking coffee, eating ice-cream - despite the cold weather - or munching pastries. Ernst Cahn waved hello and came to join Hirschfeld at a corner table.
Hirschfeld was pleased. He expected to be shunned, except when he was needed, because of his association with the Occupying Authority. And, although he didn’t especially like Cahn – he didn’t especially like anyone – he found him interesting. He was, he realised, starved of intellectual – no, make that cultural – companionship.
Cahn was from Munich, originally. He had known the novelist Lion Feuchtwanger well. He also claimed to have known Thomas Mann. The detail on Mann was always thinner than it was on Feuchtwanger, and consisted largely of information in the public domain, so Hirschfeld was sceptical. But at least it was interesting, which was all he demanded of culture and the cultured. He had enough facts in his work.
Cahn snapped his fingers; a waiter brought a milky coffee for them both. They talked about the latest books Emanuel Querido was publishing. Querido published all the emigré writers, from his homely little office, just off the Keizersgracht. Cahn said Querido was publishing a history book by Erich Kuttner, who they both knew, about 1566, the year of hunger in Holland.
As they were talking, the door was thrown open so hard its glass rattled and about half a dozen black-uniformed WA ran in. They were yelling and whooping. One of them was shouting ‘Bring out your Mozes’ Hirschfeld flinched.
Cahn stood up and dashed behind the counter. He picked up the telephone, fixed to a wall bracket, and shouted into it. Long Freddy was the first casualty; the leading WA- man hit him in the face, sending his violin skidding across the floor, broken. Two of the WA had seized a young Jewish couple. Hirschfeld saw the young man fight back, putting himself in front of his girlfriend, or wife. Then they both went down, under a flurry of punches and kicks. Two of Cahn’s waiters were taking on another knot of WA, but getting the worst of it.
Stunned, gasping, Hirschfeld was standing at the table when a red-faced, black-uniformed figure lumbered up to him. The words ‘Do you know who I am?’ formed in his mind, but nothing came out. He felt a massive, clumsy shove in the chest, which sent him staggering backwards, stumbling over his own chair. He kept his feet, determined not to go down. But his back thudded against the wall so hard he whiplashed forward then back, banging the back of his head against the wall. He tasted blood in his mouth; he’d bitten his tongue.
He glanced out the window, desperate for help. The street was empty. The name Koco printed backwards on the ice-cream parlour’s plate-glass window seared itself on his mind. His assailant came at him, his
face contorted with hatred.
Just then there was a massive explosion.
Hirschfeld registered the smell. It was ammonia. His assailant lay face down on the floor, screaming at the burning in his back. He had unwittingly protected Hirschfeld from the blast. The young Jewish man and his girl had been on the floor, also shielded. They got up, unsteadily. Both their faces were covered in blood. He put his arm round her; led her toward the door. They were shaking, their knees buckling as they staggered forward. There was another old man sitting in a corner, bewildered, apparently untouched. Two of the WA and one waiter were screaming as the ammonia burnt into their faces.
And then, out of the window, Hirschfeld glimpsed a car pulling up. He watched as four tough-looking dark-haired youths sprang out. The WA in the Koko had had enough. Two of them, unharmed by the ammonia blast, ran as far the doorway. The leading two Jewish youths pushed them back inside, and laid into them. The two WA went down and stayed down. The Jews, and one of the waiters, then got hold of the remaining WA and pushed and dragged them all into one corner. To Hirschfeld’s great satisfaction, they beat them to a pulp.
The leader called out ‘Stop, that’s enough!’
The Jews stopped instantly, leaving the WA groaning or unconscious. The Jewish leader walked across to Hirschfeld, through the wreck of the cafè. He was good-looking – his face dominated by a hawk-nose. Hirschfeld remembered seeing him at the Waterloo Plein market.
‘I’m Joel Cosman,’ he said.
Hirschfeld’s breath and poise were returning, although his head ached. ‘Hirschfeld,’ he said. ‘Hans-Max Hirschfeld.’
Cosman nodded. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Manny’s uncle. The Secretary General. I’ve seen you before, somewhere. At synagogue, was it?’
‘Not for quite a while.’
‘I’d make yourself scarce if I were you. There’ll be more NSBers here soon. And they’ll call in the Moffen.’
Hirschfeld wasn’t so sure about that. Rauter loathed WA toughs causing disorder on the streets, distracting people from work. But he was hardly going to say that to a knokploeg leader.
He sat down heavily, still in shock, and took a sip of his cold coffee. Cosman turned on his heel. He and his followers ran back to their car, which coughed into life, then disappeared from view.
Ernst Cahn reappeared from somewhere – had he been out the back? The waiters and Long Freddy staggered to tables, to nurse their wounds. Hirschfeld wondered if he could help Cahn, in some way; put in a word when the authorities came. But the ammonia bomb had been premeditated. Cahn would have had WA raids before; he’d laid an ambush. There was nothing Hirschfeld could do. He said goodbye to Cahn, wished him luck, and left the Koco.
*
Thankfully safe back in his office, he sent Annemarie van Dijk out for some mercurochrome, for his back. The bruising where he had thudded against the wall was becoming painful. When she returned, she agreed, with some amusement, to apply the salve herself, as Hirschfeld lay on his front in his underpants on the office sofa - the site of their so-nearly consummated encounter.
‘How did you get these?’ the secretary asked, tracing scratches on Hirschfeld’s back, with two fingers covered with red mercurochrome.
‘I am a passionate man,’ Hirschfeld replied. ‘Ouch! Go easy, Annemarie.’
The secretary laughed. ‘Perhaps you should take your own advice, meneer Hirschfeld. And at your age, too. There! You’re finished. Be careful as you put your shirt on. That stuff stains.’
After a late lunch of a cheese roll and glass of Karnemelk, taken at his desk, the Secretary-General finally and thankfully absorbed himself in his work. He made a couple of rapid calculations on a notepad, regarding shipbuilding workers’ wages.
A call came through from Rost van Tonningen. The NSBer screamed down the line. ‘I just wanted to let you know that your friend Ernst Cahn is in gaol in Scheveningen. Happy now? You satisfied, Hirschfeld?’
‘Neither happy nor satisfied, as it happens,’ Hirschfeld said. Scheveningen Prison, known mordantly as The Orange Hotel, was a torture centre used for opponents of the Reich. ‘Who’s dealing with him?’
‘We are, of course. The NSB. Three of my men were badly burned in that attack by a mob of your Jews. Some fiendish Jew substance was thrown over them; brewed in your estaminets. I’ve complained to Rauter. I’ve requested your arrest, Hirschfeld. You were there. Don’t deny it, you were seen.’
Hirschfeld glanced at his watch. He would phone Rauter when van Tonningen finished screaming, but if anybody was going to arrest him they would have done it by now. ‘I just happened to be there,’ Hirschfeld said, down the phone. ‘I was drinking a cup of coffee.’
‘But with Cahn!’ yelled van Tonningen, triumphantly. ‘With the Jew agitator Cahn, who’s already been thrown out of Germany!’ Hirschfeld could picture van Tonningen’s pinched little features, screwed up in hatred.
Hirschfeld sighed. ‘Yes, with Cahn. I was drinking coffee with Cahn. Is that it, van Tonningen? I have work to do.’
Van Tonningen rang off.
Hirschfeld rang Rauter. The Obergruppenführer did not disguise his annoyance at the NSB for provoking the unrest. They agreed it could interfere with the registration of Jewish traders. Hirschfeld sympathised. He helpfully volunteered the invented information that one of the Jews hospitalised at the incident had been prevented from registering for a Jewish trading licence, by his injuries.
‘The NSB are more trouble than they’re worth,’ concluded Hirschfeld, sadly. ‘It would be even worse if the WA were armed.’
Arming the WA was Rost van Tonningen’s pet project. Hirschfeld drip-dripped arguments against it, whenever the opportunity arose.
‘I know, I know,’ Rauter said. ‘Have a good day.’
He rang off. There was no mention of arresting Hirschfeld.
*
Peter Lambooy was Director of Production at the Nederlandsche Scheepsbouw Maatschappij (NSM), Amsterdam’s biggest shipbuilder. He had managed to get a microphone and a makeshift platform rigged up, so Hirschfeld could address the shipbuilding workers on the dockside, where the massive half-finished hulk of the cruiser Arminius loomed over them. Hirschfeld looked for Manny’s face in the blue-overalled mass, and failed to find it.
In the car, on the way there, he had rehearsed what he wanted to say, politely requesting the chauffeur, Hendrik, not to speak during the journey. The cold early evening air of the docks clarified his thoughts. Gathering himself to start, he scanned the faces below him. The mood, as he assessed it, was sullen, but not hostile. There was some subdued muttering when Lambooy introduced him, but no booing or catcalling.
‘I can realistically hold out to you today,’ he began, ‘ the prospect of secure continued employment for the rest of your working lives. You will be able to feed your families. A degree of comfort, even prosperity, will be yours. And it will be the lot of your children, too.’
The response to this was silence and a shuffling of boots – a good response, as Hirschfeld knew. The gnarled face of one old man seemed to leap out of the crowd at him. The battered old face showed a mix of hope and pleading. ‘I’m winning,’ Hirschfeld thought. I’m winning.
‘If – I say if - Amsterdam’s first major naval contract, the Arminius,’ he waved an arm at the ship’s bow, ‘is finished on time, other work will follow in a steady unbroken stream, with no end in sight. But let me be frank with you. Let me be blunt, my fellow Dutchmen …’ That last phrase was a mistake, it got a few angry murmurs. ‘Let me, as I say, be straightforward with you: If the first contract is late, or the work sub-standard, work will be transferred to other docks. Your future will be unclear. This port, here, I am sad to say, will become an empty shell. Would there then be other work for you, in Amsterdam? I doubt it.’ There were one or two murmurs at that, too, but less than the ‘Dutchmen’ remark had provoked. Hirschfeld now played his ace.
‘Your continued skilful work through these turbulent times is appreciated,’ he said,
flatly. ‘I have pleasure in announcing an increase in the standard pay from twenty-two to twenty-four guilders per week. Your bonuses are going up in proportion.’ That got a cheer, and a burst of applause.
Hirschfeld then gave way to Peter Lambooy, who thanked him on behalf of the company.
*
That evening, as Hirschfeld and his sister were chewing their way through a silent dinner, there was strange thump from the direction of the front door. Else jumped up nervily, and went to see what it was. Her shattering scream brought Hirschfeld running. Through the open door, he saw two WA-men legging it in the distance.
On the doorstep was a massive bleeding lump of what Hirschfeld, in his confusion and alarm, thought was pork. He thought it was some anti-semitic prank. He stared at the pile of scraped-raw flesh, while Else clutched her fists to her breast, and let out long whooping screams, pausing only to draw gasping breaths.
The pile of skinned flesh sorted itself out in Hirschfeld’s mind as a human being. Or at least it had been. It was a while longer before the Secretary General recognised the flayed dead face of Ernst Cahn.
7
Just as Hans-Max Hirschfeld was ringing the buzzer for his secretary, to ask if Rauter had called, Manny was queuing outside Amsterdam Town Hall. Along with most of the other market traders, he was in the queue for Jews. His mood was light-hearted, as he relished the excuse to have a Monday morning free from his work at the shipyard and his stall at the market, in congenial company.
Karel Polak, the tyre man, was riding up and down the Jewish queue on a unicycle. His expression remained unremittingly glum, though many in the queue gave him a smile, to show they appreciated the entertainment. Most of the market traders apparently saw no reason why they should stop talking, even though they had to take time off from selling, to obtain new licences.
Tijpie, the hard-boiled egg woman, did not give up trade easily. She had brought a basket of eggs with her, and was selling them to the queue. Manny was talking to Marinus Glim. Glim had been a diamond cutter; but times were hard in the diamond industry, so he had become Hollander’s accomplice in the selling of tooth-pads. Manny was holding forth to him about sabotage in the shipyards:
