by Michael Dean
Hirschfeld took a sip of coffee, to steady himself. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘They say Heydrich’s Jewish. They say Rosenberg’s Jewish. I’ve even heard that Hitler himself has Jewish blood, and it was hushed up. What a complicated world we live in, eh, Hirschfeld? Who’s a Jew, and who isn’t? Mind you, go back far enough and we all are. Now there’s a thought.’ Deppner roared with laughter.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hirschfeld saw Manny and Joel through the window, in camp-issue overalls, each carrying an identical haversack. They were being brought by Jewish Police guards, and settled in the back of the car. He heard Manny’s voice.
He shut his eyes for a second. ‘There’s something else,’ he said.
The secretary came back into the office. She looked questioningly at Deppner.
‘Five ticked here,’ Deppner said, crisply, nodding at the list. ‘Not to be deported. I’ll arrange transport later, back to Amsterdam.’
She nodded, took the lists back, then bustled back to the outer office, shutting the door softly behind her.
‘Piet Maasland’s girlfriend is here,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘She’s pregnant. But …’
‘But she can’t possibly be on a list of Jews useful to the Reich,’ Deppner supplied. ‘So you’ve had to think of something else. Go on then, how much?’
Hirschfeld put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket, and took out the money – half the money Lambooy had withdrawn from the bank. The other half, he hoped, was still in the Production Director’s safe. He dumped the money on Deppner’s desk. There had been no time to find an envelope; the notes spread out untidily. ‘Ten thousand,’ Hirschfeld said.
Deppner gathered up the money. ‘I’d have done it for much less than that,’ he said. He shook his head in mock sorrow. ‘I don’t know … The one and only thing you Jews are supposed to be good at is money, and you get that wrong, Dr Hirschfeld. What a poor specimen of a Hebrew you are.’
Hirschfeld looked him in the eye. ‘Actually, Herr Deppner. I wouldn’t disagree with you about that.’
Deppner snorted contemptuously, went to the safe, opened it and put the money inside. Then he shut and locked it again.
‘Bärbel,’ he shouted.
The mood in the commandant’s office had changed completely. Deppner’s face was contorted with rage.
The secretary stood in the doorway, glancing from one to the other, registering the change immediately. ‘Yes, Herr Deppner?’
‘Fetch …’ He turned to Hirschfeld. ‘What’s the name of this girl?’
‘Tinie Emmerik.’
‘Fetch Tinie Emmerik. She’s to go in the car, with the two men.’
‘Very well, Herr Deppner.’
‘And show Dr Hirschfeld out. He’s just leaving.’
*
Hendrik headed the Mercedes back south through Drenthe at top speed, trying to reach Amsterdam before the curfew started. Orpos might open fire on any car driving after curfew, and ask questions later.
Hirschfeld sat in the front, next to Hendrik. In the back, Joel moved to the jump seat, to give Manny and Tinie space, at least, even if privacy was impossible. Manny was crying. He and Tinie were holding hands.
Near Deventer, they came to a patch of woodland, glimpsed a stream and stopped.
The three released prisoners had not been allowed to wash. They were uncomfortably aware that they smelled bad. Joel already had head lice, which had subdued him in a way armed SS troops had not managed to.
In the stream, Manny and Joel stripped, ignoring the winter cold, and washed in the fast, shallow water. They rinsed out the camp overalls, too, as best they could. Tinie walked to the wood, to relieve herself, then joined the men, washing in the stream.
Hendrik discreetly peed in a ditch, then resumed his place at the wheel.
At first, Hirschfeld sat in the car, staring out of the front windscreen. Then he gave a huge sigh, and made his way to the bank of the stream. He watched them washing, wishing he could join them in the water, but unable to.
‘Don’t stay in too long,’ he called to Tinie. ‘It’s cold …’
Tinie nodded, and made her way out to the meadow.
‘Tinie,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘I have to say something to you.’
Tinie nodded, dripping wet, her short hair plastered to the side of her head. Manny, seeing them together, came to stand at her side. Joel stayed in the stream, just managing a few swimming strokes in its shallows.
‘Tinie , Manny …’ said Hirschfeld. ‘…all my life I have been plagued by my responses to women. I have felt desire beyond my power to control. These feelings have never, unfortunately, led me to love. I fear they have led me away from it.’
Tinie nodded. Manny put his head on one side, like a curious puppy. His attitude was mocking, but his face was serious.
Hirschfeld gave another huge sigh. To Manny’s amazement, the portly Secretary
General struggled to his knees, in the mud of the meadow. ‘Tinie, I have done you massive wrong,’ he said, his head bowed. ‘I must say to you, Tinie, as clearly as I can, that I am sorry. I apologise for what I did, and for the suffering I caused you and your family.’
‘Get up, Max.’ Tinie said, softly. ‘You are not to blame.’ Hirschfeld struggled to his feet. He stood before her, head bowed. He was crying. ‘Max, I asked you to be my protector. I was pleased enough when you accepted the arrangement. Another man … might have been worse.’
‘No, Tinie!’ Hirschfeld shook his head vigorously from side to side. ‘I hid behind that argument for long enough. Wrong is wrong. I have learned that from Manny.’
‘The Moffen isolate us from each other, Uncle Max, ’ Manny said, gently. ‘Then they trick us, so we can better do their bidding. They make us dirty, ‘ Manny indicated his own still grubby body, ‘then they tell us we are inferior because we are dirty. They make us verminous, then call us vermin.’
Hirschfeld was crying again, unabashed, with no shame at his tears. Tinie and Manny were crying, too.
‘Manny, I knew I could never be a father to you,’ he said. ‘But now …now that we have spoken to each other like this, may I dare to hope that we are, at least, friends?’
‘Yes,’ Manny said. ‘Yes, Uncle Max.’
‘We will always be your friends,’ Tinie added.
‘Come,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘Come, my children, I have delayed us long enough. Let us resume our journey.’
*
‘What happens next?’ Joel said, as they sped south.
‘Tonight you must all stay at my house,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘You must rest. We will give you plenty of food, and find some new clothes for you. Manny, your mother will be overjoyed to see you, of course.’
‘And then?’ said Joel.
‘Then I will contact a man by the name of Bruyns. He will arrange for the three of you to join the SOE’s Spanish escape route.’
‘To England?’ Manny said.
‘To England. Yes. It’s a long route, but safe.’
‘Thank you, Dr Hirschfeld!’ Joel said.
Hendrik, the chauffeur, gave a raffish smile. ‘If I was a few years younger, I’d be going with you, meneer Cosman,’ he said. ‘If I may be so bold, what will you do when you get there? Join the resistance and come back?’
‘Oh no!’ Joel Cosman looked out at the sky, as if straining for the sight of an aeroplane. ‘I’ll join the RAF. Bomber Command. That’s the way to really hit back at them.’
‘There are plenty of Dutch flyers,’ Hirschfeld said.
‘I’ll join up, too,’ said Manny.
‘No, Manny!’ Tinie shook her head. ‘I’ve only just got you back. You can be a father.’
‘I agree.’ Joel grinned. ‘You’d be a dreadful pilot. You’re as blind as a bat for a
start.’
Manny admitted they had a point. ‘I know what I’d like to do, one day,’ he said.
‘What?’ Tinie gazed at him with amused adoration. ‘Become rich and famous,
/> I suppose.’
‘No! Yes! No, seriously. I’d like to write a history. The Nazis tell lies about us. About the Jews. I’d like to make a true record of everything that has happened to us.’
As he said that, Manny fell into an exhausted sleep, on Tinie’s shoulder.
*
They reached Amsterdam just before the 7.30 curfew. Some trams were running again. They heard gunfire in the distance.
‘What’s going on?’ Joel said.
Hirschfeld told them about the strike.
Manny was moved to tears. ‘How wonderful of them! How brave of the Christians to try and help us!’
Hirschfeld shrugged, awkwardly. ‘I just hope there aren’t too many casualties. I’m afraid the gunfire you can hear is the SS killing anybody they see, on the streets, until people go back to work.’
‘How many …?’ Joel tailed off.
‘I’ve no idea. But I think the strike will peter out tomorrow. Everybody knows the Moffen would slaughter limitless numbers, to get their way.’
‘Yes! But they did it!’ Manny insisted. ‘People did it, that’s what matters. We must never forget. We must never forget.’
When they stopped outside Hirschfeld’s house, at Plantage Parklaan, Hirschfeld spoke to Hendrik, in private. He told the chauffeur there was a report on his desk, clearly marked with Rauter’s name. He was to take it to Rauter, at the Colonial Building and give it to the Obergruppenfuhrer personally. Hendrik saluted, and drove off.
In the doorway of the house, Else flung her arms round her son with a grip of steel, only allowing herself to be prised gently away from him when the boy started to choke. Ushered inside, Joel and Manny were found clothes of Hirschfeld’s, which did not fit, but were at least clean, and had not been provided by Nazis. Food was then heaped, wine flowed. They played klezmer music; Jewish music. Tinie danced with Manny, then with Joel. Hirschfeld and Else danced.
The celebration was interrupted by a phone call. Hirschfeld took it in his study. It was from Rauter, who was still at his desk, as Hirschfeld had known he would be. He had read Hirschfeld’s report, delivered by Hendrik.
The report’s account of the sabotage attempt on the Armenius, blaming Lambooy, had a final section saying that Lambooy had paid the strikers at the shipyard to stay away. The Director of Production had withdrawn 20,000 guilders from the bank, the report said. This was unauthorised. Half of this had been used to fund the strikers; the rest was still in Lambooy’s safe.
Rauter swore, softly, down the telephone line. Hirschfeld had never heard him swear before. He said he would send troopers to the shipyard now. If 10,000 guilders was found in the safe, Lambooy would be arrested. Hirschfeld expressed sorrow at Lambooy’s behaviour. As he hung up, he hoped Lambooy hadn’t stolen the money.
Rauter phoned back an hour later: Lambooy was under arrest. He asked Hirschfeld to appoint a replacement.
‘Another telephone call? Who was it this time?’ a drunk and happy Else asked, as Hirschfeld re-appeared at the dance floor their parlour had become.
‘Oh … nobody important,’ Hirschfeld said, with a most unusual mischievous pout. ‘Just one of my friends’
As they were drinking the umpteenth toast to Holland’s queen, to the brave Christians of Amsterdam, who had gone on strike to help the Jews, to the resistance, to all those who were fighting for Holland, in word or deed, there was a massive explosion in the distance, and the sky lit up orange.
They all made their way, drunkenly, to the window. There was a ball of fire in the sky. They stood in a line, with their arms round each other.
‘It’s the RAF,’ said Hirschfeld. ‘They’ve hit the docks.’
*
The docks were blazing, but there were no planes in the sky. A lone plain face shone in the moonlight, as the shell of the Arminius turned white hot and sank. All of its guns and ammunition had been in place, so when the skilfully placed charge went up, the cruiser was completely destroyed.
The Bureau Inlichtingen agent responsible had been the best his instructors had ever seen, on the explosives course at Arisaig, in the west Highlands of Scotland. He was nothing less than an artist, with plastic explosive - blowing old locomotives to smithereens in a glory of creative destruction. And his SOE instructors were artists too, in their way. They had taken the blank canvas that was Hein Broersen, and painted a warrior on it.
Hein had parachuted in on a blind drop, so only de Tourton Bruyns knew he was back in Amsterdam. As he trudged home, through dark, deserted streets, Hein’s thoughts were of Manny.
Hein Broersen admired Manny – Manny’s brains, Manny’s wit, Manny’s charm, Manny’s sophistication. He remembered every second of that wonderful evening at the Tip Top. Manny taking on the Moffenmeid – that Nazi whore – and her escort, with not a thought for his own safety. No wonder he had a lovely girlfriend like Tinie. Hein had never had a girlfriend. Hein envied Manny, but did not begrudge him.
Back in his gloomy broom-cupboard of a room, he sat down alone, broke open a bottle of beer, and drank to the destruction of the cruiser Arminius.
‘It’s good to be back in Holland,’ Hein thought. ‘Drinking good Dutch beer, in your own armchair.’
Author Note
The 1941 strike by the people of Amsterdam - in protest against the Nazi raid on the Jewish Quarter, and the taking of Jewish hostages - is commemorated in the city every February. And long may it continue.
However, this is a work of fiction. Changes have been made to real events, to their setting, to the participants, and to the chronology: It wasn’t the death of an Orpo which kick-started the raid, it was a WA-man called Koot. Hirschfeld was in The Hague at the time, as he was throughout the events described – so was Major Giskes, of the Abwehr. Though as far as I know, the two never met. And Rost van Tonningen didn’t perpetuate the medieval blood libel about Jews drinking Christian blood – it was Rauter, in a report to Himmler, of 4 March, 1941.
Some of the more unlikely-looking aspects of the story have a basis in truth: There really was a list – it was called the Barnevelde List – which approximated to the Hirschfeld List, in the story. The details of life in a transit camp are taken from eye-witness accounts – though Westerbork didn’t start functioning as a transit camp until June 1942, nearly a year and a half after the attack on the Jewish Quarter.
*
After the war, a Commission of Enquiry found that Hans-Max Hirschfeld’s actions as Secretary General, during the occupation, had been guided solely by the welfare of his country, and that he had rendered considerable service. But also that he had damaged the spiritual resistance of the Dutch more than necessary. It recommended honourable retirement, by mutual consent. Hirschfeld successfully resumed his career in banking. He died in 1961.
Hanns-Albin Rauter survived an attempt by the Dutch resistance to kill him. He was sentenced to death by the Dutch Special Court in The Hague, in 1949, and executed. Rost van Tonningen committed suicide, at the second attempt, while in Allied custody, in June 1945.
Ben Bril survived Bergen-Belsen, and died in his bed, at the age of 91. He is likely to remain the youngest boxer ever to represent his country at an Olympic Games. His background as the son of a market trader is fictionalised.
Unfortunately, Erich Deppner, Commandant of Westerbork, also died in his bed, at an even greater age than Ben Bril.
Joel Cosman is a historical figure, but he did not play for Ajax. I have no idea what happened to him, and I’d be delighted if anybody could tell me.
Manny Roet, Tinie Emmerik and Robert Roet do exist, but only in my head. And in yours, if my story found favour with you – and that’s really what it’s all about.
Bibliography
I read or consulted the following books while writing the novel:
Bosch, H Der Zweite Weltkrieg zwischen Rhein und Maas, Geldern, 1970
Cunningham C, Beaulieu: The finishing school for secret agents Pen and Sword military, 1998
Dolph, Harry A, The Evader
: An American Airman’s Eight Months With The Dutch Underground Eakin Press, 1991
Fennema, M & Rhijnsburger, J Hans-Max Hirschfeld Man van het grote geld, Amsterdam 2007.
Foot, M.R.D SOE in the Low Countries. St Ermin’s Press, 2001
Fowler, W France, Holland and Belgium 1940-1941, Ian Allan, 2002
Friedhoff, H Requiem for the Resistance: The Civilian Struggle Against Nazism in Holland and Germany Bloomsbury, 1988
H J Giskes London Calling North Pole Bantam War Book Series 1953
Harris, W Brave Little Dutch Girl : Memories of a Small Child in Holland during the
German Occupation 1940-45. Penzance : United Writers, 2004.
Helm, S A Life in Secrets: The story of Vera Atkins and the lost agents of SOE, Abacus, 2005
Hillesum, Etty Etty: A diary 1941-3 trans Pomerans, Cape, 1983
Hirschfeld, H-M Herinneringen uit de Jaren 1933-39 Elsevier, 1959
Hirschfeld, H-M Herinneringen uit de bezettingstijd Elsevier, 1960
Hirschfeld, G Nazi Rule and Dutch Collaboration: The Netherlands Under German Occupation, 1940-1945, Oxford, New York, Hamburg Berg Publishers, 1988
Jong, L de Holland Fights the Nazis The Right Book Club – no date
Jong, L de Het Koninkrijk der Nederlanden in de tweede wereldoorlog vol III Mei 1940, vol IV mei 1940-Maart 1941 vol V Maart ’41- Juli ‘42 the Hague 1969-1982
Jong, L de De Bezetting I-V : Een weergave in boekform van de uitzendingen der Nederlands Televisie- Stichting over Nederland in de Tweede Wereldoorlog Amsterdam, 1960-65.
Knoop, H De Joodsche Raad: het drama van Abraham Asscher en David Cohen: Elsevier Amsterdam/Brussel 1983 ISBN 90-10-04656-7
Kuper, S Ajax, the Dutch, the War: Football in Europe during the second world war Orion, 2003
Lee, Carol Ann The Hidden Life of Otto Frank Penguin, 2002
Littlejohn, D The Patriotic Traitors: A History of Collaboration in German-Occupied Europe 1940-1945 London, 1972
Macrae, S Winston Churchill’s Toyshop Roundwood Press, 1971
Marks, L Between Silk and Cyanide: The story of SOE’s code war, Harper Collins, 1998
Mason, H L The Purge of Dutch Quislings: Emergency Justice in the Netherlands The Hague 1952
