by Michael Dean
Hirschfeld nodded. He licked his lips. ‘And when the allies have the data …’
‘They will send bombers, Herr Hirschfeld. And as we can control the date, the time, the location, and even the route, our Luftwaffe will then shoot down every last one of them. We believe we can seriously weaken their Bomber Command.’
Van Tonningen chuckled delightedly and rubbed his small, well-shaped hands together, as if they had chilblains, which in fact they had.
‘Hirschfeld,’ Rauter said. ‘You will send your data first to van Tonningen at the Department of Special Economic Affairs. He will check it, then forward it to Giskes, here.’
Giskes looked surprised, but did not object.
‘Yes,’ Hirschfeld said.
There was silence for a moment.
‘This is top priority war work, Hirschfeld. You are to drop everything else and get on with it. On van Tonningen’s desk in, shall we say, twenty-four hours?’
Hirschfeld nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Major Giskes – Hermann – thank you for coming down.’
Rauter shook hands with Giskes, who strolled out of the room with his unaffected, unmilitary bearing.
‘You stay where you are, Hirschfeld,’ Rauter said. ‘There is further use we wish to make of you.’
*
Rauter opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a ragged copy of a badly stencilled text. Hirschfeld recognised it as one of the many underground newspapers. He caught sight of the Dutch royal crown, flanked by the words NEDERLAND and ORANJE
‘Have a listen to this, Hirschfeld,’ Rauter said, conversationally. He passed it to van Tonningen, who read it aloud, in Dutch:
The Central Office for Hide and Leather in the Keizersgracht, nominally under the collaborator van der Leeuw, is to increase production of army boots for the Moffen to 100,000 this year. The first batch of the necessary agents have just arrived at our docks from south –east Europe. They are being unloaded from the freight- ship Hipper, as I write. As if this wasn’t bad enough, it also means that all shoe production for us Dutch – remember us, we are the inhabitants of the Netherlands? – will be quietly stopped. Maybe the Moffen think we all wear clogs. Details of how our agricultural produce is being diverted to Germany, so we all starve – remember the ducks? – will appear in our next issue.
Hirschfeld had fought this measure for weeks, arguing for parallel production of all clothing items between civilians and the German army. But, finally, he had had to give in to it. He was shaken, because the information was so new; he had not even taken it to his office. He had been working on it at home, in the evening. Also, the piece bore unmistakeable fingerprints of Manny – the sarcasm, the way the author could not resist at least one first person reference. How had Manny got hold of this? Else? Oh no! Surely not...
‘You’re not blaming me for the leak of information?’ Hirschfeld looked Rauter in the eye.
‘Who else?’ Van Tonningen said.
Rauter ignored him. He adopted a tone of slightly pained reasonableness. ‘Hirschfeld, I think you are misunderstanding our attitude, here. We have no objection to you having contacts with the underground, or the resistance, or whatever these laughable bands call themselves. We’ve happily turned a blind eye. But now, we would like to make better use of these contacts. That’s all.’
‘I see.’
‘We know from one of the agents we are playing back to London, that the infiltrator known as Jan Veen, is in fact Robert Roet. That’s the man who fathered a bastard on your whore of a sister, Hirschfeld. The same bastard who killed one of our Ordnungspolizisten. So where is he, Hirschfeld, that’s all we want to know?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You didn’t know he was in Amsterdam?’
‘How could I know that?’
‘By listening to Radio Orange. His codename, beetroot, was among those read out after a speech from the Dutch queen. Incidentally, you and your sister might as well stop wasting your time listening to the coded messages on Radio Orange. We are now controlling everything they send.’
‘Herr Rauter, this is absurd. Why are you accusing me like this?’
‘Do you deny that you illegally possess a wireless set, Hirschfeld?’ said Rost van Tonningen. ‘It’s an offence for which you can be deported.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Fine. We will all sit here and wait, while I have my WA troopers get it down from your attic and bring it here. Herr Rauter will you please ring …’
‘OK, OK. I have a wireless. So does half the population of Amsterdam. You can’t deport us all.’
‘No,’ van Tonningen said. ‘But we can deport all the Jews.’
Hirschfeld ignored him and looked at Rauter. ‘I knew Robert Roet was coming, but I have no idea where he is. He would hardly tell me, would he?’
‘No,’ Rauter said. ‘That’s true. But he would probably appear if he thought your sister was in danger, would he not?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Oh, I think he would. From what we know of him, he’s an adventurer, at heart.’
Van Tonningen gave one of his increasingly odd bursts of laughter. ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ he said. ‘Let’s put your sister in danger, Hirschfeld.’
Rauter joined in the laughter. ‘At any rate, she’s perfectly safe for now,’ he said. ‘She’s in my outer office.’ Hirschfeld gave a retching cough. ‘Let’s bring her in, shall we?’
Rauter switched on the intercom to his outer office, and had Else brought in by his male secretary. Hirschfeld swivelled round in his chair. His sister was staring, taut with fear. He greeted her because he wanted her to hear his voice, to somehow reassure her.
‘Hello, Else,’ he said.
‘Sit down, Fräulein Hirschfeld,’ Rauter said. Calling a woman of Else’s age Fräulein, and not Frau, as a courtesy title, was a subtle insult – especially from a meticulously polite Austrian. Else appeared not to have noticed. Hirschfeld did.
‘We wish to ask you one or two questions.’
Else sat next to Hirschfeld, and nodded tensely. She avoided looking at her brother.
‘We are interested in the whereabouts of Robert Roet,’ Rauter said, in the same conversational tone he had used earlier.
‘I don’t know where he is.’ Else replied, in German.
‘Have you seen him recently?’
‘No. We … we are separated. I haven’t seen him for many years.’
‘Did you know he was coming to Amsterdam?’
‘No.’
Rauter glanced at van Tonningen, who smirked.
‘Does Robert Roet have any contact with your son, Emmanuel Roet, known as Manny?’
‘No.’
‘You’re quite sure of that?’
‘ I … As sure as I can be. Yes.’
‘Your son is a murderer, Fräulein Hirschfeld. He killed one of our policemen and subjected the corpse to one of your grotesque Jewish rituals. When we searched your home, earlier today, you denied all knowledge of him. Where is he now?’
‘He must be in hiding somewhere. I don’t know where he is.’
‘Herr Rauter!’ Hirschfeld said, firmly. ‘Neither Manny nor Robert would risk their lives, and put us in danger, by telling us where they are. Surely this is only common sense?’
‘Indeed, Hirschfeld, indeed. But just supposing you were meeting Manny and
Robert. They are quite likely to have made contact with each other, we think. Where would you meet them?’
Hirschfeld shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. Alright, at a café.’
‘Which one?’
‘ Say, the Bodega.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Corner of Little Marken and Jodenbree Straat.’
‘Good,’ said Rauter. ‘But before we complete the arrangements, there is something I’d like you to listen to, Fräulein Hirschfeld.’ Rauter flicked the switch on the intercom and barked ‘Tape recorder.’
The secretary appeared with his arms
wrapped round the bulky machine. He plugged it in. The spool of tape was clearly already in the position Rauter required. He pressed the play button and Hirschfeld’s voice crackled out over the office. It was the recording made at Salon Kitty, the brothel in Berlin.
Hirschfeld was giving sexual instructions, explicit and obscene, to an obviously willing, but slightly bored woman, who occasionally requested clarification of what she was to do, or say, or what role she was to play. Hirschfeld’s instructions were in German, the requests for clarification in Dutch. The sounds of the sex itself painted a vivid picture.
Else started to cry.
‘Rauter, for heaven’s sake! Switch it off!’ Hirschfeld yelled.
‘Be quiet,’ Rauter said, his eyes never leaving Else’s face.
Rauter let the tape play to the end. ‘Now you know the sort of man your brother is,’ he said, softly, to Else.
Else nodded.
‘Do you know who your brother is fucking now, Fräulein Hirschfeld?’ Rauter said, matter of factly. Else was silent. ‘Tinie Emmerik. Your son’s girlfriend. He’s got her set up in a pit in the Jew Quarter.’
Else looked at Max, for the first time. ‘Tinie?’
Hirschfeld, his mouth dropping open, nodded that it was true.
‘Oh, Max! How could you?’
Van Tonningen roared with laughter. ‘How could you, Max?’ he hooted ‘How could you? Very easily, I should think. You see what sort of vile pervert your brother is, mevrouw Hirschfeld?’
‘Now, Hirschfeld,’ Rauter said. ‘You are going to visit Tinie Emmerik. You are going to convince her that you need to meet Emmanuel and Robert Roet. You will say that you are in touch with a resistance group, that can help arrange an explosives drop. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ Hirschfeld said.
‘You will arrange a meeting at the Bodega. My secretary will give you the day and time. Clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Max, don’t do it,’ Else screamed. ‘Not both of them, please! I couldn’t bear it!’
‘Else …’ Hirschfeld was close to tears. ‘I have no choice.’
‘Indeed, you have not. Your sister will stay here until you make contact with Tinie Emmerik. If you warn Fräulein Emmerik, or fail to set up the meeting, your sister will be flogged, then shot.’ Rauter flicked the intercom again. ‘Take her to a cell,’ he said to his secretary.
Else, still crying, was led away.
13
When Manny and Tinie arrived back from Schiedam, they were jabbering away together, deliriously happy. They took no precautions at all – riding their bicycles up to the coal-shed hideout, even ringing their bells, loudly proclaiming themselves.
Once inside, the bicycles stowed, they sat on Manny’s bunk bed together, holding hands. Manny said to Robert and Joel that he would tell them about Schiedam, while Tinie went home, to get washed and changed. Robert cautioned against Tinie going home.
‘We’ll send someone first, to see if the coast is clear.’
‘Why?’ Manny said. He felt invulnerable.
The rest of the knokploeg were due to arrive for unarmed combat training with Robert. Captain Roet was passing on what he had learned during his SOE course. When they came, Robert sent Lard Zilverberg to Tinie’s room, to see if it was being watched. Robert thought highly of Lard. He appeared slow of thought and movement, with his outsize head and hands, an ox of a man, but Robert had come to respect his talents, and trust his judgement.
While he was gone, Manny started sketching, still seated on his bunk, with Tinie sitting next to him, eyes shut, so close she was touching. Manny sketched a favourite Pieter de Hooch, from memory. It showed a courtyard. A maid had a pail, she was showing it to her mistress, tilting it toward her. The mistress was sitting outside sewing, with a basket at her feet. It was placidly-peaceful; it was normal. It was life.
Meanwhile, the car was being raised to the coal cellar, and a watchman posted. Battered mats were laid down, rescued from the wreck of De Jonge Bokser. Robert put ten or so members of the knokploeg through their paces. He taught them how to kill a sentry with a knife, from behind. He taught them how to break a man’s neck.
Manny was not included in these training sessions, as it was clear to everybody, including Manny himself, that he would never make a killer. But during the previous sessions, he had sat on his bunk, loudly awarding everybody marks for their performance. Eventually, Joel had picked him up and held him upside down by his ankles, until he promised to stop doing it.
Manny was just admiring Ben Bril’s skill at slitting an enemy’s throat, when a V for victory tattoo on the ceiling announced that Lard Zilverberg was back. He was carrying a linen bag.
‘You were right,’ Lard told Robert, while the knokploeg took a break. ‘There’s a plain-clothes guard at the bottom of the stairs to Tinie’s flat. I actually saw him radio-in.’
‘You did well,’ Robert said.
‘I went round to your house,’ Lard said, shyly, to Tinie. ‘Your parents are fine. They sent their love.’
‘You didn’t tell them where Tinie is?’ Robert said.
The big man reddened. ‘No, of course not.’ He hastily turned to Tinie. ‘I got you some things from home,’ he said.
Lard handed the bag to Tinie, who opened it. ‘Your mother put everything in,’ Lard said, embarrassed. Her underwear was at the top, under it an old dress and a couple of blouses. There was a small piece of soap, sanitary towels, a couple of biscuits, an apple and some cheese. Most of her meagre store of clothes were in her own room; those in the bag were her oldest – some dated back to her school days.
‘Thank you, Lard,’ Tinie said, blushing.
Joel Cosman walloped the huge man on the back, in congratulation.
The knokploeg were sitting or lounging on the mats. Robert requested Manny’s report, from the visit to Schiedam:
Manny, in his element, described where the limpet mine was stored. Speaking fluently, he described the mine, focussing on its size, weight and general transportability. He described the lock on the shed door, including its make. He had asked Johnny about guard patrols of the perimeter, and reported on those. He described the area round the shed, then the roads around the docks. It could not have been clearer. As he finished speaking, he passed his sketches round.
There was a ripple of applause from the knokploeg, with Tinie smilingly joining in.
‘Well done, Manny,’ said Joel Cosman, clapping vigorously.
Manny looked at his father. No praise from Robert. Never any praise from Robert. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he defiantly blinked them back.
One of the knokploeg raised the issue of co-operating with the communist cell at Schiedam – they were CPH, the Dutch communist party. Feelings ran high, passions were aroused, for and against.
Manny whispered in Tinie’s ear: ‘Overleg’ Tinie nodded. Overleg - the process of consultation - the necessity, as the Dutch saw it, of everyone having a say in everything. Manny scorned overleg: Fault was found with everything; every idea was tested to destruction. By the end of the process, the main points were lost sight of, everybody had offended everybody else, and either nothing or a misshapen compromise emerged.
As if to prove his point, one of the knokploeg – Frits Blom – was inveighing at length against Lenin and his policies in Russia. Another, a frumme in a yarmulke, called Jacques de Haas, held forth on the iniquitous levelling of the spirit which communism called forth. Robert, as the acknowledged leader, tried to bring the discussion back to practicalities, but there was no holding back the tide of irrelevance.
Joel Cosman eventually found a compromise that moved them forward. ‘Whatever the rights and wrongs of communism,’ he said, firmly, ‘it would be taking a risk to share information with them. And I don’t think we need to. We can surely get into the shed where the limpet mine is kept, without outside help, thanks to Manny’s good work.’ Joel nodded at Manny.
‘A four-man team,’ Manny said. ‘Go at night. They’re no
t expecting trouble. They’re worried about pilfering and sabotage, Johnny said. And that happens during the day.’
‘Perfect!’ Robert said. He was slurring, slightly – the jenever was taking its toll.
‘Have you ever thought of laying off the sauce?’ said Ben Bril.
Robert ignored him. ‘We’ll go by car,’ he said. ‘If the situation with road blocks allows. Manny,’ – it was just about the first time he had used his son’s name – ‘have the Moffen put up road blocks on the Amsterdam- Rotterdam road?’
Manny felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘You don’t know?’
‘No. We went there and back by the side roads. It was safer.’
‘Safer? And what do you mean ‘we’? You were supposed to go separately.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘You used this trip to stop off for a fuck, didn’t you?’ he sneered. ‘No wonder you were away so long. We should never have let you go, you useless little runt.’
Tinie and Manny held hands, both looking down at their feet.
‘Robert, that’s enough,’ Joel said. ‘If you have a plan, let’s hear it.’
Robert nodded, trying to clear his head form the jenever fumes. ‘We’ve got NSB uniforms,’ he said. ‘We’ve got plenty of blank ID cards, from your raid on the Document Distribution Centre. Lard can fill them out with any names and addresses we choose.’
‘I’ve shown Manny what to do,’ Lard said. ‘He’s better at it than I am, now.’
Robert shook his head, impatiently. ‘OK, OK. So it all points to using the car, going there at night, in NSB uniforms. We come up with a cover story, as to why the NSB are going to Rotterdam. We’ll have to risk the checkpoints, as we have no proper advance intelligence.’
‘We should vote on it,’ said Frits Blom.
‘No, let’s discuss it some more,’ Manny said, perking up. ‘It’s not even dark yet.’
*
Regardless of the danger, Robert was spending more and more time outside the hideout, especially after Tinie moved in. Not that he had anything against Tinie. He looked through her, as if she were part of the hideout’s meagre trappings – like the bunk beds. He was vaguely aware, though indifferent, to the hurt this caused her. Tinie had tried to make friends, to be his daughter-in-law. But Manny-in-love filled Robert with a contempt so deep, so violent, it alarmed him. He had no idea why.
