by Michael Dean
While they were standing there, frightened and confused, there was a knock at the front door. He and his sister stared at each other. Hirschfeld went down and opened the door, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. It was his chauffeur, Hendrik Vandenputte. Hirschfeld’s departmental Mercedes was parked outside.
‘There’s been a call, meneer…’
Hirschfeld ran upstairs to get dressed.
They drove in silence to the Prime Minister’s flat, at 30 Bezuidenhout. The other ministers were all there – Steenberghe, Van Kleffens, Welter … The Prime Minister, Dirk de Geer, had waited for him before they all opened the sealed envelopes with the Contingency Plan for a German invasion.
‘It’s over…’ de Geer mumbled, before he had even finished reading. ‘The government’s going to London, along with Her Majesty and the rest of the Royal Family. We’ll all rest up there, before travelling to America. The Nazis will be in London in weeks, if not days.’
Hirschfeld nodded, stunned.
‘You’re to stay here, Hirschfeld,’ de Geer continued. ‘Look after the Department of Trade and Industry, as best you can. Keep control of the economy in Dutch hands for as long as possible. You know the Germans; you know what to do. For God’s sake don’t antagonise them, there’ll be hell to pay for our people.’
The head of the defeated Dutch forces, General Winkelman, called for a return to work. Unemployment had shot up to an untenable 26%, higher than at any time during the ‘30s.
At Hirschfeld’s first meeting with the Nazi Reischskommissar - Seyss-Inquart - it was agreed that the metalworkers would go back to work, making ships for the German navy. Using civilian labour to help the occupying power’s war effort was against international law. But the metalworkers had no work at all. If they went much longer without pay, they’d starve.
Sabotage in the shipyards in north Amsterdam started almost immediately, inspired by the likes of Hirschfeld’s nephew, Manny. There were go-slows; there was organised absenteeism, deliberate shoddy workmanship and wholesale diversion of the plating metal to make cooking utensils and other goods.
All this was against the national interest: Dutch labour to work in German factories was voluntary, except for the unemployed. But industrial saboteurs were sent by force, if they were caught. This could spread. Hirschfeld feared it could pave the way for Holland to become a vast slave- labour pool for Germany, with no industry of its own. Shipbuilding would be transferred to Bremen, Hirschfeld’s own birthplace, using deported Dutch workers under slave conditions.
So when the Nazis asked him to draft a proclamation, demanding a stop to economic sabotage, what was he to do? Along with two other Dutch Secretary Generals, Schriek from the Department of Justice, and Frederiks, from the Home Office, he had put out the notice that had made him the most hated man in Holland:
It said that in these grave times, damaging the occupying power by acts of sabotage was futile. It said that those who tried to do so were harming only their fellow Dutch citizens. And it ended with a thinly disguised appeal to turn saboteurs over to the Occupying Authority.
He had acted – he had always acted – in accordance with the Beamtengeist – the public-spiritedness of public officials. Dutch public officials were one of the pillars of the state. They did their duty to the state, via their political masters. They had always done so, for centuries.
And anyway, if he had refused to draft and sign the proclamation, the Nazis would have sacked him as Secretary General and replaced him with someone who would. They may not have appointed another Dutchman at all. The last vestige of a restraining influence would have gone.
That didn’t stop the wilder elements in the resistance attacking him – attacking him even more than Frederiks and Schriek, for some reason. The personal detail in the underground press attacks could only have been supplied by Manny. One of the abusive titles they gave him – Number One Bootlicker – had been coined by Manny in his, Hirschfeld’s, own dining room.
Hirschfeld glanced at his watch. It was exactly noon. The door swung open and Rost van Tonningen walked in – eyes gleaming. He gave Hirschfeld a barely polite ‘Goedemorgen’, sat directly opposite him at the rectangular table, and stared at him.
Although present as head of the Department of Special Economic Affairs, created by the Nazis to increase National Socialist influence on economic life, van Tonningen was wearing his NSB uniform– black with the light blue collar patches of a political leader.
Brilliant though he was, van Tonningen had weaknesses: He could be slapdash, on occasion, through over-confidence. He was often badly prepared for meetings like this one. Hirschfeld hoped he would not have checked the relevant statistics, as he himself had done, so carefully.
This lack of attention to detail was, in Hirschfeld’s view, typical of fanatics. And van Tonningen was nothing if not a fanatic: He wanted the total Germanization of the Netherlands, including the replacement of the Dutch language by German. He also viscerally hated all Jews.
Hirschfeld was afraid of him, physically. Van Tonningen was quite capable of personal violence; he had started and finished the only fist-fight in the history of the Dutch second chamber. Hirschfeld poured himself some water from the dusty jug on the table, as a way of avoiding his gaze.
Eventually, the towering figure of Obergruppenführer Hanns Albin Rauter – he was six and a half feet tall - rolled in, in his Sipo/SD uniform. He was fifteen minutes late.
Rauter reported directly to Himmler. His brief, as head of security, meant he attended all economic meetings, as security was the basis of all activity – economic or otherwise.
‘Hou Zee,’ he said to Rost van Tonningen. It was the NSB greeting, an old sailor’s cry - Hold Steady.
‘Hou Zee, Herr Obergruppenführer. And a very good day to you,’ van Tonningen shot back, in sing-song, Vienna-accented German. He had worked as an economist in Vienna, for the League of Nations.
‘’Morning, Hirschfeld’
‘Good morning, Herr Rauter.’
Having established who was in charge, Rauter allowed himself a smile, stretching the scar which ran from below his bottom lip, diagonally across his chin. Rauter had told him, in detail, more than once, how his bravery under fire in Rhombon in 1915 had resulted in this wound. It was puckered into a cleft, reminding Hirschfeld of a vagina, opening and closing as Rauter spoke.
Hirschfeld moved uneasily on his hard chair, moving his weight from one buttock to the other. In response to a nod from Rauter, he opened the meeting.
‘As a first step toward the Aryanization of the retail sector,’ the Secretary General said, ‘we wish to begin with the market traders and peddlers, establishing who is a Jew and who is not.’
‘Oh, come on, Hirschfeld!’ Van Tonningen banged the table, his handsome, small-featured face flushed. ‘As two markets consist entirely of Jews, and all other markets are Jew-free, we just withdraw the licences of anyone trading in the two Jewish markets.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Hey presto! The markets Aryanized! No more Jewish traders!.’
This was it. The Jewish traders’ livelihoods, if not their lives, depended on Hirschfeld winning this: ‘Do you know how much we make in licence-fees from Jewish traders, meneer van Tonningen?’
Silence.
‘Well, do you?’
‘No,’ van Tonningen ground out
‘300,000 guilders per year. So we would lose that. And you can double that loss, because if we withdrew trading licences from the Jews, they would become liable to unemployment benefit.’
Hirschfeld stared at van Tonningen, who shot him a venomous look, clenching his fists. But there was no reply. The Secretary General let out a barely discernible sigh. He had just saved the two Jewish markets.
‘So this is what we do, as a first step to Aryanization,’ Hirschfeld said, breezily. ‘We declare all old licences invalid. We print new licences. As they are collected, we form two queues, a separate one for the Jews. Jews get the new licence marked with a J. Simple. Two officials
could do it in a day.’
‘What stops the Jews joining the Aryan queue?’ Rauter asked.
Hirschfeld hesitated. Rauter had hit the weak point of his plan. He did not want to tell the Obergruppenführer this, but there was now no alternative: ‘The Public Records Office has details on everybody in Amsterdam. It includes their religion. The officials can check on the list.’ At least it would be Dutch officials, he would make sure of that. The Nazis could still be kept away from the information – with any luck.
‘We could put a J on the Jews’ identity card at the same time,’ van Tonningen said.
‘Too laborious,’ Hirschfeld rejoined, with a touch of well-prepared indignation. ‘It would take hours. It would also increase resentment of the authorities among the non-Jewish population, which we are trying to avoid.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Hirschfeld! ’ Van Tonningen shouted. He turned to Rauter. ‘Jewish trading licences are fine. But Jewish identity cards increase resentment. Hirschfeld’s just playing for time, trying to shield his Jew friends.’
Hirschfeld couldn’t have put it better himself. He turned in his seat, ostentatiously addressing Rauter only. ‘We have a proverb, here in the Netherlands, Herr Rauter. “Easy does it.” Let’s go with the grain, eh? We’ll issue the new trading licences first.
We’ll discuss new identity cards later. Step by step.’ Delay by delay.
Rauter gave him a long, shrewd look. Hirschfeld met his gaze. There was a rapping at the door. A Sipo/SD officer came in. ‘Excuse me, Herr Obergruppenführer, may I speak with you in private?’
Rauter shook his head. ‘No. Here. What is it?’
‘I regret to report, there has been a cowardly attack on an NSB group in uniform. On the edge of the Jews’ area. Several NSB have been hurt. But there is worse news, Herr Obergruppenführer. Some of our Orpos intervened. It is my sad duty to inform you that one of them has been killed.’
‘What? Who is responsible?’ Rauter ground out.
‘A gang of Jewish rabble, Herr Obergruppenführer.’
‘That’s intolerable!’ shouted Rost van Tonningen, his tiny features contorting.
‘The idiots!’ Hirschfeld shouted, nearly as loudly. All the tension from the meeting exploded out of him. He was shaking with anger.
‘Jews?’ Rauter said. ‘Jews killing a German policeman? Is that possible?‘
‘I’m afraid so, Herr Obergruppenführer.’
‘I shall deal with this.’ Rauter stood and put his cap on, pulling the peak straight, with deliberation. ‘Conclusion of the meeting: We re-licence all the market traders, giving the Jews licences marked with a J. Identity cards can wait. Further measures against the Jews will be announced shortly, as soon as I have consulted my superiors.’
Rauter stalked out of the room.
Rost van Tonningen glared at Hirschfeld. ‘ I know what you’re doing, Hirschfeld. I see through you!’ He wagged a finger at the Secretary General. ‘Eventually Rauter will have no further use for you. You mark my words. You’ll be on a one-way train out of here with the rest of the Hebrews.’ Van Tonningen tapped his nose. ‘Maxie!’
4
The black Mercedes limousine purred past Paderborn and pulled off the Autobahn. The SS driver turned the car south-west towards Büren. He switched the headlights on; two butter-yellow cones of light pushed into the dusk ahead of them.
Here, the landscape of the Alma Valley flattened. The crops were not only visible but audible, as they rattled and rustled in the stiff late evening breeze. The sound formed a permanent back drop – like wireless interference – to the non-stop chatter of Rost van Tonningen.
The NSBer habitually spoke as if addressing a meeting, even when speaking to only one person, in this case Obergruppenführer Hanns Albin Rauter, who was next to him on the back seat. Rauter regretted the necessity of bringing him along to meet Himmler. But Himmler himself had insisted on it.
The Obergruppenführer looked out the window, enjoying the last of the scenery before the gloom enveloped it. The area reminded him of Austria, of his native Carinthia. The woods made him think of the woodcraft skills his father, the forester, had taught him as a boy. Hanns Albin Rauter lovingly caressed his scar – his past.
Being a country boy had done him no harm at all with Himmler. And neither had the Munich connection – he had been sent to Munich in 1933 to build up the Fighting Group of German Austrians in the Reich. He had met Himmler then; visited his home and the chicken farm. Since then he had been Himmler’s man. Himmler had arranged his promotion to Brigadeführer SS, at the outbreak of war. Himmler had him sent to Holland at the same time as Seyss-Inquart, and made sure he had more power – as well as a higher SS rank - than the puppet Reichskommissar.
Van Tonningen was droning on. The subject of his monologue, unvarying since they had left Amsterdam, was Hans-Max Hirschfeld. For all his supposed intellectual brilliance, in Rauter’s view, van Tonningen was as rigid mentally as he was physically – sitting bolt upright, no part of his back touching the car’s leather seat.
‘I intend to raise the matter of Hirschfeld with Reichsführer-SS Himmler,’ van Tonningen was saying, for the fourth or fifth time.
Rauter nodded. ‘Go ahead.’
His tone implied a confidence he did not feel. Himmler was unpredictable, especially on race issues. If van Tonningen succeeded in getting rid of Hirschfeld, much of the resultant instability in Holland would land on him. He flicked a speck of dust from the front of his SD uniform, imagining the speck was Rost van Tonningen.
*
Passing through the Niederhagen Forest, they glimpsed the barbed wire and low brick buildings of the KZ. This particular concentration camp existed solely to provide slave labour to rebuild their destination, Wewelsburg Castle, to Himmler’s specifications. Rauter had heard there were no Jews at this particular camp; they were considered too lowly for the elevated work of building Himmler’s headquarters of the Aryan people. Most of the inmates were Jehovah’s Witnesses, transferred from KZ Sachsenhausen.
Suddenly, dramatically, high on a wooded hill, Wewelsburg Castle presented the long base of its triangular shape to the occupants of the approaching limousine. Van Tonningen, craning forward to peer out the driver’s side-window, like a schoolboy, glimpsed a solid round tower at one corner and a slimmer tower, topped by a cupola, at the other. He knew the castle was seventeenth century - he had read up on it. He understood and approved of the Nazi mission to re-align the past to fit their vision of the present. Indeed, he wished to be a part of this process; he wanted Holland to be a part of it.
Passing the guard-post, the car rolled to a halt in a cobbled courtyard. To Rauter’s barely concealed pleasure, Walther Schellenberg emerged from a stone archway and strode across to them, leaving two baggage-flunkeys struggling to keep up. He had left a heavy oak iron-studded door open behind him. Rauter uncoiled his long body and legs from the car, into the arc of light coming from the doorway. As they greeted each other, Rauter’s eyes were drawn to Schellenberg’s scar - bizarrely, it ran across his chin in exactly the same place as Rauter’s own.
Schellenberg’s Heil Hitler greeting was cut short by a hacking cough. He had an SS-Totenkopf cap-badge, though Rauter knew him as a skilled and subtle Intelligence Officer, specialising in foreign affairs. Heading the SS troops at Wewelsburg’s attached KZ was just a sideline. Schellenberg mastered his coughing fit. His breath was just visible in the cold evening air.
As Rost van Tonningen, ignored so far, came round the side of the car, Schellenberg gave him a quick appraising glance, head-to-foot, so obvious it was almost insolent. He was placing him on axes of racial purity and significance - and it looked like it.
Van Tonningen stared back, his face a mix of Dutch intellectual arrogance and awe at his surroundings. Unlike Rauter, he had no idea who Schellenberg was, and was underestimating him because he was supervising the transfer of the baggage from the car boot to the castle. Rauter noticed van Tonningen’s attitude to Schellenberg, a
nd hoped it would not be the last mistake the NSBer made during their stay.
After the briefest of periods to unpack and refresh themselves, Schellenberg appeared again, to lead them to the north wing of the castle for dinner. The panelled dining-room was one of the few parts of Wewelsburg which looked finished. The dining-chairs had high backs made of pigskin. The oak table had places laid for twelve. The guests were told that it was always laid for twelve, after the twelve knights of the Arthurian Round table, even when, as now, fewer than twelve were eating.
Himmler appeared while the guests were still standing, waiting to be told where to sit:
‘Heil Hitler, die Herrschaften! Herzlich Willkommen in Schloss Wewelsburg!’
There was a volley of heel-clicking; Hitler salutes punched the air.
‘Everything in order?’ Himmler peered at them. ‘Schellenberg has seen you well-settled, I trust?’
Schellenberg smiled.
‘Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer!’ said Rauter.
Van Tonningen, not trusting himself to speak, just nodded.
They all sat down. Himmler was flanked by Schellenberg, on his right, and Rauter on his left. Rost van Tonningen was next to Schellenberg.
A swarm of male waiters, all blonde, blue-eyed and good-looking, dressed in snow-white jackets, black trousers and white gloves, served a first course of watery vegetable soup. As they did so, Himmler explained the runic symbols on the oak shields hanging from the panelled walls.
The swastika itself was a runic symbol, Himmler informed them, nodding at the example on the shield opposite him. The rune in the next panel was the Wheel of the Sun. Others were the Rune of Sacrifice, the Rune of Life, with its bars pointing upward from the stem, the Rune of Death, with its bars at the base of the stem, pointing downward.
‘Beneath us, on the floor below,’ Himmler went on, ‘is a crypt, a realm of the dead. I will show it to you tomorrow, before you leave. There, the heads of my glorious dead SS officers are placed, to help us to communicate with the ancestors whose blood yet runs in our veins. I myself carry the blood of an ancient German King. His name was Heinrich, the same name as me. He defended Teutonic civilisation against the Slavic hordes. I am his reincarnation.’
