by Michael Dean
A moment later, Annemarie walked toward him, the length of his office, smiling shyly at him. Her perfume was heady. She was surely moving her hips even more than she usually did? She was wearing a tight floral dress whose wrap-over top cupped her full breasts, offering a small, though steep, cleft of cleavage. It was the dress he most liked to see on her. She knew that; he had told her often enough.
She came straight to the point. ‘My husband has been called for labour service in Germany,’ she said.
‘I see.’ Hirschfeld was sorry. He truly liked Annemarie.
‘I heard there was something called the Hirschfeld List,’ she said, tensely. ‘Can you … Will you get my husband put on your list, meneer Hirschfeld?’
Hirschfeld took a deep breath. The Amsterdam rumour mill never ceased to amaze him. News of the Hirschfeld List had obviously got out, but in garbled form, so even his own secretary thought he could influence which non-Jews were sent to work in factories in the Reich. He could not.
‘Stay behind this evening,’ Hirschfeld said, casually. ‘We can discuss it.’ His erection was so hard it was painful.
Annemarie nodded. ‘Alright,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you then.’
*
The Emmerik family had a small apartment in Korte Konings Straat, across the water of the Oude Schans from Batavia Straat. The claustrophobic front room was dominated by a German-made, stand-up-and-beg printing press. Simon Emmerik sported a printer’s apron, he had got from somewhere. He had taught himself to operate, and even repair, the machine.
Late middle-age suited Simon’s looks – horizontal crevasses of age-lines either side of his aquiline nose gave his face a craggy air. An involuntary wince crossed it, now and again, as a barb of angina shot through his chest or arm. His grey hair was still thick, though his pallor had a yellow tinge to it. His spare frame was held upright, even as it wasted from poor health and worse diet.
Hirschfeld had just arrived, and was admiring the machine. ‘Where’s Elizabeth?’ he said..
Simon Emmerik gave him a hard stare. Elizabeth Emmerik was an attractive woman, some would say a beauty, even at her age.
‘My wife is out,’ Simon said, flatly.
Hirschfeld wondered if she was avoiding him. ‘How did it go, with the newspaper?’ he said, getting back to safer territory.
‘Pretty well. See for yourself.’
There was a bundle of the first edition of the newspaper, Het Joodsche Weekblad, on the floor, by the printing press. Emmerik made no move to pick one up for him. Hirschfeld took the top copy, looked through it, said ‘Mmmm’ in admiration.
Priced at one guilder ten cents, it was a real community newspaper, twelve pages long: It carried official announcements from the synagogue and the Jewish schools. There was a review of a play Hirschfeld had taken Else to see at the Tip Top - Op hoop van zegen,, The Good Hope, by Herman Heijermans. There was a recipe for kasha, a short story, a poetry competition for children.
Among the Situations Vacant was an advertisement for a ‘a proper girl’ to work in a perfumery. There was also an appeal for more Jewish referees to control games between Amsterdam’s five Jewish football clubs. Hirschfeld was surprised an appeal was necessary. Even he, a lifelong loather of all matters sporting, had heard of Hans Boekman, the most famous referee in Holland before the invasion – and a Jew. Something about the job seemed to attract Jews.
An article on an inside page assessed the pros and cons of Ecuador and Palestine as possible destinations for emigration. The chairman of the Federal Board of Maccabi, meneer E Spier, announced the creation of a Maccabi Hockey Team.
At the back, there was the familiar Hatch Match And Despatch – the births deaths and obituaries.
‘Karel Polak has had a son!’ Hirschfeld shouted out.
Simon Emmerik smiled, a little wanly. ‘Yes. Yes, he has.’
‘And this Hettie Glim who died. Is that Marinus Glim’s mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wish you long life.’
‘I wish you long life.’
They were silent for a while, both thinking the same thing: The Jewish community newspaper was being sponsored, if not run, by Nazis. What could you say to that, exactly? There was nothing in the newspaper about what was happening to the Jews of Amsterdam, in terms of the restrictions on their daily lives, the humiliations, the beatings, the sealing off of the Jewish Quarter – which was a prelude to … what?
There was only one announcement by the Occupying Authority, to the Jews. It was a notification to hand in all weapons. It was carried on the inside back page.
‘We’ll need copies of the notification about weapons,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘In poster form.’
‘I know,’ Simon said. ‘I’ve run off a few copies as a poster, just to show you. Do you know how many you will need?’
‘Not until the inaugural meeting of the Jewish Council,’ said Hirschfeld. ‘Will you come to it?’
‘No, thank you.’ The reply was even dryer than usual. Somehow, Simon Emmerik’s voice matched the parchment pallor of his skin.
‘Let’s have a look.’ Hirschfeld picked up one of the half-dozen or so poster sized notices rolled up at the foot of the press. He held it at arm’s length and read it aloud.
NOTIFICATION
On behalf of the responsible Occupying Authority for Amsterdam I give notification of the following:
Those amongst you who have in their possession weapons of any sort, whether firearms, knives, clubs or any other sort of weapon, must deposit them immediately with the Amsterdam Police, at the station on J D Mayer Plein.
Until Friday at one o’ clock in the afternoon you may do this without penalty.
Any infringement will make both you and others liable to the severest punishment.
Think of your responsibilities to the community.
Abraham Asscher
Simon Emmerik and Hirschfeld looked at each other in silence, letting it sink in.
‘Your responsibilities to the community,’ Emmerik echoed the last phrase of the notification. ‘Don’t make waves, don’t make trouble, don’t make it worse for yourself.’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Hirschfeld said.
‘And smile while they kick us in the teeth.’
‘Look, Simon, I’ve got you on the Hirschfeld List, you know that …’
‘And Elizabeth and Tinie?’
It occurred to Hirschfeld to lie. But he didn’t. ‘I can’t claim that women are in an essential occupation, can I? The Occupying Authority would never swallow it.’
‘You don’t regard Tinie’s occupation as essential, then?’
Hirschfeld winced, but recovered quickly. ‘I hope to see us all safely through this. I’ll do what I can.’
‘What do you want me to say? “Thank you, Max.” Is that what you want to hear? Or maybe you want to shtup me, as well as my daughter?’
*
Simon Emmerik had done a good job on the notices announcing the inaugural meeting of the Jewish Council. They were on every lamp-post, wall and fence in the Jewish Quarter:
The Jewish inhabitants of the Jodenbree Straat neighbourhood and its surroundings are
invited to a meeting, this Thursday afternoon at the Diamond Exchange in Weesper Plein,
where notification will be given in connection with recent events.
‘Recent events’ meant the murder of the German Orpo. The Jewish Quarter was seized with fear. What did the Moffen want from them? The Jews knew by now that they were to give up their weapons, but as they had no weapons, the notification had been greeted with bewilderment. A couple of screwdrivers and a few planks of wood had been handed in to the police station on Jonas Daniel Mayer Plein.
Rumours of what might be coming next, of what was to be announced by this new Jewish Council, rippled up and down the narrow lanes of the tenements, in and out of the stalls of the Jewish markets at Waterloo Plein and the Uilenberg, across the plumply prosperous lounges of the Plantage.
The decon
secration, perhaps destruction, of Amsterdam’s synagogues was widely feared. Physical restriction to within the ghetto looked likely – why else seal it off? The well-informed – like Hirschfeld– knew this had already been suggested, by Rost van Tonningen among others, but Rauter had blocked it, so far, because of the economic chaos it would cause.
The rumour least spoken was the one most dreaded: That the Nazis would deport the Jews to the east, perhaps for forced labour.
*
The ornate hall of the Diamond Exchange was packed with Jews, the majority from the Jewish Quarter; but there was a decent turnout from the Sarphati Park, Transvaal, Plantage and Retief Straat areas. Rauter’s instructions were that Asscher and Cohen, as leaders, should run the Jewish Council according to the Nazi leadership principle - that is as a dictatorship.
The two of them had come to Hirschfeld, saying that would never work, in the Jewish Community. Hirschfeld had encouraged them to ignore Rauter, at least on this point, and elect a committee. Provided the Nazis could deal with the leaders, they would accept that.
So, after Asscher had opened the meeting, he called for names. The mood was subdued, and the election of a fifteen-man committee was proceeding more quickly than Hirschfeld had expected. To his amazement, he spotted the diminutive figure of his nephew among the fifteen hundred or so attendees of the meeting. It beggared belief. Manny was wanted by the Occupying Authority, so was Joel Cosman, who was sitting next to him.
Tinie was on the other side of Manny, one of no more than five females in the hall. He did not know whether to admire their cheek, or condemn their foolhardiness for showing their faces in broad daylight like this.
But worse was to follow. His nephew popped up like a Jack-in-the-Box to propose his, Hirschfeld’s, name for the committee. Why did Manny do these things? Was he sniggering behind his hand? Was this some complicated ironic gesture? Joel Cosman seconded the proposal.
There was some murmuring at the mention of Hirschfeld’s name. He had no illusions about the depth of his unpopularity in the community. In response, Manny bobbed up again. He sympathised, he said, with this spontaneous negative reaction. He then made a fluent case for those with the closest connections to the Nazis to be elected, as they would be ‘in the know’ and so able to help the community.
Hirschfeld himself proposed the election of Rabbi Saarlouis, the Chief Rabbi at the Portuguese Synagogue, as an alternative to himself. In the end, Hirschfeld and Rabbi Saarlouis were elected, along with thirteen doctors, accountants, professors and lawyers from the Jewish middle-classes.
All of them went up on the dais, where chairs were hastily found for them. From up there, Hirschfeld had an excellent view of Manny, grinning his head off at him, Tinie was staring at him, he thought. He avoided her gaze.
At the centre of the newly elected committee, Abraham – Bram - Asscher gave the crowded hall a moment more to settle. The mood was restless. Apprehension, if not downright fear, dampened down any excesses of emotion, exuberance, spirit, bolshieness, rudeness, liveliness, chatter, eloquence, humour – all the bubbling stew of the spirit that would have been present at a meeting of Jews, had it not been instigated by Nazis.
And then he stood. Bram Asscher was a tall grey-haired figure, with a long head; his low pixillated ears not detracting from his dignity. Despite a reputation as a no-nonsense figure, he embodied solidity. He was as solid as his company’s headquarters – the massive Diamantslijperij Asscher building on Tol Straat, in the Pijp - a crenulated brick building, which looked like a cross between a factory and castle.
Asscher had been born in Amsterdam, as had his father and grandfather. He spoke for the city as a Liberal member at the Regional Assembly. Nothing could be more fixed, more rooted, more immovable, safer, than Asscher.
‘As you know, some of us have been asked to facilitate contact between the Occupying Authority and the Jewish Community, which we hope will make matters easier for everybody. The first issue to deal with is that of weapons. I’m sure you’ve all seen the appeals for the community to hand over weapons. The response has been disappointing. Please ensure that any weapons are handed in at the police station on Jonas Daniel Mayer Plein.’
There was a ripple of indignation, as an audience consisting of professionals, academics and hard-working, working-class family men expressed helpless indignation at the impossibility of handing in weapons they did not possess.
‘Or it may be,’ Asscher continued, ‘that you know of groups who have weapons. In which case these weapons should be brought to the attention of the authorities.’
From his place toward the middle of the hall, Manny let out a long sardonic whoop at this thinly veiled appeal to betray the Geuzen. People shifted in their chairs to look at him. He pasted a grin on his face and stared resolutely at Asscher. Joel Cosman was grinning, too. Even Tinie was smiling.
Hirschfeld suppressed a groan as Manny got to his feet. It was amazing how much bigger he looked, the Secretary General thought, when he was about to open his mouth.
‘I have a question,’ Manny sang out. Asscher nodded to indicate his willingness to take the question.
‘Is it true that a member of our newly elected Jewish Council, meneer Hirschfeld, has provided the Nazis with a list of every Jew in Amsterdam, using records from the Public Records Office?’ Manny was now in lawyer mode, speaking from a crib, clutched in his fist. ‘And would you not agree, meneer Hirschfeld, that by providing this list, you have accelerated the establishment of a ghetto in Amsterdam? And you have eased the way to the deportations of Jews, which meneer Asscher is about to announce.’
Manny sat down. Hirschfeld was white. Joel, Tinie and a few of the younger element scattered throughout the hall cheered. The main response was inchoate – the noise level rose, but whether in support of Manny or condemning him was impossible to say.
Bram Asscher hesitated. ‘We are not here to discuss this …’ There was a roar at that, so after another hesitation he said ‘The information you refer to is freely available at the Town Hall. Do you seriously think they wouldn’t have found it? They are the Occupying Authority. One of the buildings they occupy is the Town Hall.’
Manny bounced to his feet, his compact frame appeared to be vibrating. ‘That is nowhere near good enough, meneer Asscher. That information could have been withheld. It could have been tampered with, it could have been destroyed. And had that been done, who knows how long we could have delayed the Moffen?’
‘And what would have been the point of that?’ Asscher shouted back.
‘What would have been the point?’ Manny crowed his words back at him. ‘What would have been the point? I’ll tell you what the point would have been, meneer Asscher. I’ll tell you and all the Quislings like Hirschfeld, who work with and for the Moffen what the point of resistance is, shall I? The point, meneer Hirschfeld, the point, meneer Asscher, meneer Cohen, is to delay, obstruct and defy the Moffen until the cowardly British finally get off their fat imperial arses and fight. The point, you milksop Quislings, is to rally round our beloved Queen Wilhelmina, like our brave Engelandvaarders are doing, and kick these crackpot brutes of Nazis out of our country. That is the point!’
By now a proportion of the audience were cheering, a few were booing, nearly everybody was talking.
Who knows whether Manny would have continued his peroration, but it had now become impossible. Too late, Hirschfeld wished they had appointed stewards, with armbands, to throw troublemakers out.
In an inspired piece of demagoguery, Manny leaped on his chair and, wobbling unsteadily, began to scream out the Dutch national anthem, the Wilhelmus, itself a song of the original Geuzen. .
Joel Cosman leaped to his feet and joined in. Tinie stood and sang. All over the hall others joined in, some standing some not. They got as far as the seventh stanza:
My God, I pray thee, save me
From all who do pursue
And threaten to enslave me,
Thy trusted servant true.
> O Father do not sanction
Their wicked foul design,
Don’t let them wash their hands in
This guiltless blood of mine.
Then they broke off singing, and Manny led three cheers for the Queen, for Prince Bernhard, and for the Netherlands. Bram Asscher waited until they had finished. Then, in a flat defeated monotone, he said arrangements would shortly be announced to deport the first Jews from Amsterdam.
*
Rauter had designated two Assembly Points for the deportation of Jews from Amsterdam: Central Station and the Tip Top theatre. The idea, presumably, was that the old, the infirm and children not strong enough to get as far as Central Station on foot, from the Jewish Quarter, could be brought by lorry from the much nearer Tip Top.
The first Hirschfeld heard of the deportations was when Simon Emmerik showed him a notice for Het Joodsche Weekblad, given to him by the Occupying Authority, to be printed on the front page. NSBers also gleefully posted it as a notice all around the Jewish Quarter. Rauter, to Hirschfeld’s disappointment, had not consulted him. Indeed, he had by-passed him.
The deportations were the first public issues Hirschfeld had ever discussed with Else. Else was strangely calm about them; it was Hirschfeld who was fretful and edgy.
‘What should I tell people?’ Else asked. ‘People ask me, because I’m your sister.’
She loved embroidery, and was pulling threads through of a cholla cloth she was making. It showed the children of Israel in the wilderness, in blue white and yellow.
‘Tell them not to go,’ Hirschfeld said, forcefully. ‘Tell as many people as you can!’ He was yelling.
She had stopped sewing and looked up, questioningly, at him, her head on one side.
‘Alright,’ she said.
Sitting at his desk, in his office, on the day designated for the deportations, Hirschfeld was unable to work. He went and stood at the window. He saw Hendrik, the chauffeur, lovingly polishing the Mercedes in the sunshine.
It was really too warm for a coat, but Hirschfeld took one anyway. He jammed his brown Fedora hat on his head and marched out.
