by Michael Dean
‘You’re new here, aren’t you? Just arrived? I’m Aaron Stokel.’
The elf-like fellow solemnly shook hands with all of them. Then he shouted to them over the din of people eating and talking – half a shift, the rest would eat later. The conversation was in German, the lingua franca of Westerbork.
‘Make yourselves useful,’ he told them, ‘that’s my advice to you.’
‘How?’ Joel enquired, blandly, speaking across Manny.
Stodel shrugged. ‘Depends what you can do.’ He gave a crooked smile, showing broken teeth. He addressed Manny: ‘What can you do?’
‘He’s a philosopher,’ said Joel, impishly.
Manny shrugged. ‘I can draw.’
Aaron Stodel was so impressed, his jaw dropped open, dribbling his soup down his overalls. ‘That could save your life, my friend,’ he said. ‘They’re going to need signs painted. I’ll tell Franck about you.’
‘Who’s he?’ Ben Bril put in.
‘Oberdienstleiter Erwin Franck. Head of the Camp Service Corps. He really runs the place. The commandant, Deppner, spends most of the time fucking his secretary. Occasionally, he rides round the camp on his bicycle – always does that when there’s a transport. You’ll see Deppner this evening. He comes to all the concerts. Laughs at all the jokes, especially the ones about him. Loves music. Any of you play an instrument?’
Manny, Joel and Ben nodded no.
‘Shame. Everyone reckons the camp orchestra are safe. They’ll see out the war. I don’t suppose any of you are on the list?’
‘What list?’ Joel Cosman said.
‘I don’t know what list, it’s just a list. If you are on the list, they can’t transport you. Everybody claims to be on it, most of them don’t get believed. Some say Erwin Franck can get you on the list, some say that’s rubbish, he just says that to make himself important.’
‘This Erwin Franck,’ Manny said. ‘The one with the power. Was he the clown who was watching us get off the lorry? The huge lump of flesh in the black army coat?’
Their informant grimaced, looking round to see if anyone had heard. ‘Yes, and if he hears you talking like that, you’re dead,’ Aaron Stodel said. ‘You’re gonna need to watch your mouth, son, if you want to get out of this alive.’
‘He had a yellow star,’ Ben Bril said, softly. ‘Franck did. On his armband.’
Stodel nodded. ‘He’s a German Jew.’
There was silence for a minute, in their part of the long bench, filled by the roar of chatter around them. Aaron Stodel measured Ben Bril with a long look, looking past Manny and Joel to do it.
‘I’ve written a letter to my daughter,’ he said. ‘I’ll give it to you after the meal. Keep it, will you? Deliver it when you can.’
‘You mean me?’ Ben Bril said. ‘You talking to me? Why me?’
‘Because you will survive.’
Manny felt a cold chill in his heart.
‘How do you know?’ Ben said.
‘I don’t know how I know, but I know. I can tell, by looking at you. Will you take the letter? I’m on a transport first thing tomorrow.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I will.’
*
Tinie Emmerik was in the lorry which arrived at Westerbork after the one carrying Manny, Joel Cosman and Ben Bril. There were two other women, travelling with her. She had told them she was pregnant, and they protected her like second mothers. One of them introduced herself as Sara Vliestra, a dancer at the Tip Tip. She told Tinie her story: When the SS burst into her home, in the Jewish Quarter, their officer ordered her to strip, which she did. She then seized the pistol from his holster and shot him through the heart.
Tinie’s other protector was Evelyn Polet. She had been arrested for hitting one of the soldiers who was beating her five-year old son. Evelyn had managed to bring in some money, hidden in her underwear. She bribed one of the Jewish Police to let the three of them share a three-tier bunk – with Tinie tucked up safely in the bottom one.
Evelyn was a capable type, the type who knows the ropes, the type who always knows what’s going on. Tinie had started to look out for Manny as soon as the lorry stopped. Evelyn, with great gentleness, told her not to get her hopes up. She knew the hostages from the raid were being moved out quickly – instantly, if the Moffen could manage it.
As soon as they were settled in, Sara and Evelyn took Tinie to the camp hospital. One of the prisoners was one of Holland’s leading gynaecologists, E. A. Hartog. He examined Tinie. He said it was early days, naturally, but she should come to term, with no problems. Evelyn asked for extra food for Tinie. Hartog said he would put her on the list to get a tomato every day, like the hospital inmates did.
By the time they finished talking to Hartog, the three women just made the second sitting, in the log cabin canteen. Afterwards, they stood outside, shivering in the chill, discussing what do with their evening. While she talked, Tinie was admiring the yellowing lupins which dipped and stretched in the fading light of the sunset, as far as the delousing barracks. They had learned that there was a lecture on sociology by a professor, this evening, or there was the camp concert. They decided on the concert.
On the way there, they saw a prisoner being marched along, held by the arms by a Dutch SS guard on either side of him. He had an armband with S on it. They were heading toward the penal barracks, which was not far from the female huts.
‘I wonder what the S stands for?’ Sara mused.
‘Could be Strafe – punishment,’ Evelyn said.
‘Typical Moffen,’ said Tinie. ‘Everything has to be labelled.’ It could have been Manny talking. Tinie blushed.
Manny’s given me confidence, she thought. He’s made me believe in myself. She looked round for him again, as they settled down in the back row, to watch the concert.
*
The concert was held in a large room in the Administration Building. The front rows had been taken by the prisoners who had eaten at the first sitting, and so got there first. These included Manny, Joel and Ben, all anticipating their evening’s entertainment.
They were not disappointed. The commandant, SS-Sturmbannführer Erich Deppner, gave a brief introduction. He was accompanied by a plumply buxom blonde lady, obviously Jewish, who Manny guessed was the secretary whose services their informant, Aaron Stodel, had mentioned. Stodel had told them that the cabaret artists, and the male choir, would be invited back to the commandant’s villa, just outside the barbed wire, for drinks after the performance.
A comedian appeared on the make-shift stage at the front. Manny thought it was the same one he had seen at the Tip Top, Jakob Goubitz, but he wasn’t sure. He was a lot thinner, and he was speaking German. Most of his jokes were about the camp commandant.
‘Bärbel wanted more money,’ he said, in a serious tone, staring at the secretary, who laughed and pouted. ‘She’d been working hard, eh boys?’ More laughter. ‘So she went to Herr Deppner. And she said “I want a rise.” And Herr Deppner said, “Why not,
I’ve already got one!”’
SS- Sturmbannführer Deppner doubled up with laughter. His secretary elbowed him in the ribs, then joined in.
The evening culminated with the male voice choir. By special request, they sang one of the Sturmbannführer’s favourites, the Yiddish classic Bei Mir Bist Du Schayn. They sang as if their lives depended on it, which they did. Certainly, none of them were on the transport which left early next morning. This was an extra trainload, put on to help clear the influx of arrestees from the Jewish Quarter raid.
Aaron Stodel was on it., as he had said he would be. The commandant gave them all a cheery wave, as he rode up and down the tracks, the length of the train, on his bicycle. He shouted out ‘Goodbye, goodbye.’ The effect was curiously like a circus act.
Some of the deportees waved back. Among those who didn’t was Ben Bril, who knew he was going to a place called Bergen-Belsen, but not what awaited him there.
*
Hirschfeld’s chauffeur, Hendri
k Vandenputte, had several chauffeur’s outfits. The one he had selected for the drive to Westerbork was a pearl grey tunic, which buttoned diagonally from shoulder to waist, pearl grey breeches and black boots. From a distance, it looked like a field-grey Wehrmacht outfit. Hendrik had wordlessly attached a swastika pennant to the bonnet of the car.
‘Where on earth did you get that pennant?’ Hirschfeld asked.
‘I pinched it, meneer. You never know what might come in useful.’
Hirschfeld had enjoyed the drive through the tip of Gelderland, then through Overijssel, into the province of Drenthe. Despite the clear cold of the day, he had wound the window down, tightening his muffler round his throat.
Coming from the direction of Westerbork village, they drove along next to the railway lines for a while. The dead-flat dry sand struck Hirschfeld as lunar, certainly other-worldly.
The commandant’s whitewashed villa came into sight. There was a freight train at the sidings next to it. Its engine was taking on coal. Hendrik slowed the Mercedes to a crawl. Hirschfeld saw a piece of cardboard tied to the side of one of the freight cars. Someone had scrawled MAUTHAUSEN on it, in wobbly capital letters.
A stream of prisoners were being loaded into the freight-cars by Dutch SS guards and Jewish Police. If they had been two minutes earlier, Hirschfeld would have seen Manny and Joel Cosman among them. As it was, they were already in one of the closed freight-cars.
A grinning figure in an SS uniform was riding up and down beside the tracks on a bicycle. A huge fellow in a black cap and a black army coat was staring at the car. Hirschfeld noticed the Star of David on his armband. He looked about to stop them, or challenge them, but a brown gun dog ran up to him, distracting him.
At the main gate, Hendrik, primed by Hirschfeld, said ‘Dr Hirschfeld to see Herr Deppner. We are expected.’ They were given directions to the commandant’s office, in the Administration Building. Hendrik waited in the car, while Hirschfeld climbed stiffly out, blinked a few times against the sudden sunshine, then went in.
In the commandant’s outer office, a buxom woman in a low-necked blouse greeted him in imperfect Dutch-accented German. She batted her eyelids at him, then asked him, in a friendly enough way, if there was anything she could do for him. Hirschfeld said he was here to see the commandant.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘Because of the unrest in Amsterdam, I was unable to give Herr Deppner as much warning as I would have liked. But I represent Obergruppenführer Rauter. The matter is urgent.’ Hirschfeld was speaking in German; she would think he was German.
She glanced through the window at the Mercedes, with its fluttering swastika. ‘Herr Deppner is supervising the departure of a transport. But he will be pleased to see you, I’m sure. I am mevrouw Aalsvel, by the way, Herr Deppner’s secretary. I’ll tell him you’re here. Dr …er …’
‘Hirschfeld.’
‘Hirschfeld. Yes.’
The secretary touched her stiff, heavily-permed hair, then stood in a fluid movement and bustled out of the room. Hirschfeld was breathing deeply. He glanced down at the papers on her desk – lists of names by the look of it. What else? What was he expecting? A Bill of Lading? Freight loading instructions?
Before very long, Hirschfeld heard a bicycle being leaned against the outside of the building. Deppner came in to the outer office, closely followed by the secretary.
Deppner was of medium height and build, with black, slicked-back hair. His SS uniform was dusty; the jacket was half undone; his boots were filthy.
‘Good afternoon, good afternoon! Heil Hitler!’ The salute was the flapping, bent-elbow version.
‘Heil Hitler.’ Hirschfeld saluted back – the same way
‘Come on, come through. Normally there’s only one transport a week. But all this week we’ve got two a day, because of a backlog of Jews. You know how it is.’
‘I can imagine,’ Hirschfeld murmured, following Deppner through to his office. Apart from one or two signs of the secretary’s influence – a geranium plant, a small table with a decorative samovar on it – the office was regulation issue. The furniture was standard; there was an imposing safe in the corner.
‘Take a seat, take a seat. So …’ Deppner sat behind his desk, and ran his hands through his slick hair. ‘So you’re from Rauter, eh? Dr … er …’
‘Hirschfeld.’
‘Hirschfeld? Not Hirschfeld of the Hirschfeld List?’
‘Yes.’
‘Menschenskind! I’ve been meaning to write to you. But you know how it is at the start of a new enterprise. So much to do …’ Hirschfeld nodded, sympathetically. ‘Ever since we opened up, every other Jew keeps whining that we can’t deport him because he’s on this damned list. So I telephoned Rauter, and I said what is this list, does it actually exist? Rauter said it did. He said it’s called the Hirschfeld List, of useful Jews. That’s about as far as I’ve got.’
Hirschfeld nodded. He licked his lips.
‘Do you want coffee, or something? Something stronger? Schnapps? We’ve got some decent Weinbrand in. Not that paint-stripper the Dutch drink.’
‘Coffee’s fine. Thank you.’
Hirschfeld took out his letter from Rauter; the letter which allowed him to prevent the deportation of Jews whose work was necessary to the Reich. He laid it on Deppner’s desk, facing the commandant. Deppner didn’t seem to notice.
‘Bärbel, mein Schatz!’ Deppner roared through to the outer office. ‘Two coffees and two big chunks of your delicious apple cake, if you please.’
‘Here’s the letter,’ Hirschfeld murmured. He blinked. ‘From Rauter.’
Deppner glanced at it. ‘Fine, fine. Just let me know who’s on this damned list. And what I’m supposed to do with them, if I can’t deport them.’ He looked serious for a moment. ‘They can’t stay here. This isn’t a hotel.’
‘No, no.’ Hirschfeld said. ‘They’d be sent back to their duties.’
Deppner seemed to be losing interest. He was glancing out the window at Hirschfeld’s car. ‘That’s a fine beast, you’ve got there …’
‘Herr Deppner, I need two prisoners on the Hirschfeld List now, if you would be so kind. Both are electrical engineers, currently working on the cruiser Arminius, in Amsterdam harbour. Along with other key personnel, they are to travel to Germany tomorrow, where they will eventually continue working on the ship.’
Deppner laughed. ‘Now? You want them now?’
‘Yes. I’m taking them back with me. Because of the unrest in Amsterdam, transport is currently disrupted.’
Deppner laughed again, shaking his head in mock wonder. He looked Hirschfeld in the eye, putting his tongue in his cheek. Then he took Rauter’s letter, and read it carefully. He even held it up to the light and fingered the paper.
Eventually, he shrugged. ‘This is genuine,’ he said, nodding at the letter.. ‘So I’m covered, whatever happens. You’re a Jew, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. The two prisoners I need are Piet Maasland and Willem Verduyn.’
The secretary came in, carrying a tray with coffee and cake. ‘Maasland and Verduyn are on the transport,’ she said, speaking to Deppner with easy familiarity. She put the tray down and nodded out the window. ‘Out there.’
‘Do you know what they look like?’ Deppner said.
The secretary nodded. ‘Yes. They came in last night. Maasland is a little chap. The other one, Willem Verduyn, is dark with broad shoulders.’ She looked into Deppner’s eyes, coquettishly. ‘He looks very strong.’
Deppner roared with laughter. ‘I’ll bet he does. But you can’t fuck the merchandise, Bärbel. Sorry about that.’ He glanced at Hirschfeld, who had gone white. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘The train hasn’t left yet. Your friends are still aboard. Your friends who, funnily enough, don’t have Jewish names.’ Deppner gave Hirschfeld a quizzical look. ‘Bärbel, go and get them off the train. Tell Franck I said it’s OK. Then show them to Dr Hirschfeld’s car. They can wait for him there.’ Deppner turned
to Hirschfeld. ‘Is that alright with you?’
‘Yes.’ Hirschfeld said. ‘That’s fine. Thank you.’
‘Oh and Bärbel,’ Deppner called out, just as the secretary had reached the door.
‘Bring the lists in here and leave them on my desk, please.’
The secretary brought lists of names in, put them down on the commandant’s desk, then went to the train to get Piet Maasland and Willem Verduyn taken off it. Deppner sipped coffee and bit into a huge wedge of apple cake, waving at Hirschfeld to do the same.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ Deppner mumbled through a mouthful of cake, ‘to tell me who else is on this list. Necessary to the Reich war effort, or whatever it is.’ He laughed again with his mouth open, showing half-masticated cake.
Hirschfeld stared at the list. His vision swam. How many lives …? How many people dare he ask for? To gain time, he picked up Rauter’s letter, folded it carefully and put it back in his pocket.
He looked at Deppner. He shrugged. ‘Herr Deppner …’
‘You can have five, Dr Hirschfeld. I really wouldn’t push your luck, more than that. I’ll have them sent back to Amsterdam, by truck.’
Hirschfeld just stopped himself saying ‘Thank you.’ He looked down the pages of names. He recognised a friend, an enemy … This was intolerable. He could not play God like this. But five people could be saved. The Jewish Council …? The frummes from the synagogue? The cantor was on the list. So was Rabbi Saarlouis. The resistance …?
He chose five from the resistance. The five who, he believed, could damage the Moffen the most. He took out a pen and carefully ticked the names.
Deppner took the list, looked at the names, and nodded. ‘I don’t know how you’ve managed to wangle this,’ he said, quietly, finishing the last of his cake. ‘I expect you’ve got something on Rauter.’ Deppner laughed again. ‘Not Jewish, is he?’
