by Michael Dean
Robert sat, trying to conceal his dismay at the dismal room.
‘It will do for now,’ Tinie said, reading his expression. ‘Can I get …’
‘No, no,’ he said, hastily. ‘I’m fine.’
There was a rap on the door. Robert tensed. Tinie mouthed ‘It’s OK’ and opened it a fraction.
‘Mevrouw Kuipers!’
‘May I come in a moment? I need to speak to you about something.’
‘Not at the moment, mevrouw Kuipers. It’s not convenient.’
Mevrouw Kuipers peered over Tinie’s shoulder. ‘I have been asked to move. But you have another gentleman caller, haven’t you? I’m sure they take precedence over my little problems.’
‘It’s not a question of precedence. I …’
‘I have been asked to move, you see. I don’t take gentleman callers. But I am not a Jewess, like you. They want only Jews to live here. So it is I who must move. My father and grandfather lived here, before it was called the Jewish Quarter. But now I must leave …’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, so am I. Your people have driven me out …’
Tinie shut the door in her face. ‘Come on,’ she said, in a small tight voice to Robert. ‘It’s time we got out of here. I know where Manny is. He’s only just gone there, just today. I’ll take you.’
‘How do you manage, with that monster next door?’ Robert asked Tinie, when they were in the street.
Tinie shrugged. ‘I do worry that she’ll report me,’ she blurted out – something about Robert inspired trust.
‘Report you for what?’ Robert said.
Tinie blushed, but did not answer.
Neither of them looked Jewish, a huge advantage for Jews in occupied Amsterdam. Tinie decided to risk catching a tram. In any case, the knokploeg hideout was out of walking distance. She had been relieved when Lard Zilverberg turned up, out of the blue, to collect Manny’s clothes, and his stuff. – relieved Manny would be safer with them than with her. She had insisted on knowing where he was hiding out, though. And Lard had told her. He had also sealed up the hideout he had made for Manny.
About half-way through the tram journey, four uniformed NSBers boarded the tram, two at each end. They walked through, staring at all the passengers. None of them struck the NSBers as Jewish, so they got off at the next stop. Captain Robert Roet’s face was like stone.
*
When Robert and Tinie arrived at the hideout, a frantic Manny did not know who to hug first. He finished up by stretching his small frame as far it would go round both of them. He then warmly introduced Joel to Robert - ‘He’s my long-lost father.’
Then Manny and Tinie sat on a bunk, holding hands, looking at each other.
Robert had a long talk with Joel – he had time before the meeting with Lievers. Joel told him all about the knokploeg; about the hideout, about ambushing the NSB on the Blaauw Brug; about this morning’s operation to steal the ID cards, ration cards and clothes coupons. Joel also showed him Lard’s work, filling in false identities on the ID cards.
Robert was impressed. He said he would like to use Joel’s boys when he blew up the Armenius, especially as Manny knew the shipyard, and had provided the drawing. Manny gave a wave from the bunk, as his name was mentioned. He was riding high …
They needed only to arrange an explosives drop, Robert explained. He said he would consult the resistance man on the ground, Lievers, about arranging it. He had Manny’s sketch of the docks ready to show him. He said he would tell Lievers about the knokploeg, too. He looked at his watch. It was time to go and meet Lievers.
10
Hirschfeld was working in his office by artificial light. He had been arriving earlier and earlier, and had today started work at six am. It would be another half-an-hour or so before the first light of dawn touched the waters of the Binnen Amstel, and reflected them up to his window. He was now doing two full-time jobs. He felt like a man with both arms stretched upward, holding up the ceiling.
The establishment of the newspaper, Het Joodsche Weekblad, to aid communication between the Occupying Authority and the Jewish population, had been the most difficult administrative task of his career.
The main problem was, there was no item more difficult to get hold of in the Netherlands than a printing press. They were associated, in the mind of the Occupying Authority, with subversive, underground material. This was ironic, in a way, because the various Geuzen groups could rarely afford even a second-hand printing press. Hirschfeld had not seen a single piece of subversive literature printed on one - it was all banda machines, spirit duplicators, or even scruffy hand-written pieces of paper.
But armed only with his single-sheet typed authority from Rauter, which he dare not let out of his sight, he had to order one to be sent to the home of his Jewish editor, Simon Emmerik, smack in the middle of the Jewish Quarter. He also had to raise the finance for the printing press from various Jewish sources. Rauter had laughed his head off when he had suggested an allowance to set up the newspaper.
Still, the press was in place now. So any notices from the Occupying Authority could be printed out, as well as Het Joodsche Weekblad, itself.
He was off, soon, to see Simon, to check on progress. But before that, he had to digest a report from Peter Lambooy, of the Nederlandsche Scheepsbouw Maatschappij. Sabotage at the NSM shipyard, it appeared, was on the increase, despite the pay-rise he had arranged for the workers.
Lambooy’s report detailed all the tricks the workers got up to: Tiny flecks of grit were being dropped in lubricating oil; parts were being sent to the wrong section of the yard; the wrong parts were being ordered; unnecessary signatures of authorisation were being sought for every little thing; rivets and screws were left loose or, occasionally, deliberately over-tightened.
Hirschfeld took his spectacles off and smacked Lambooy’s report in exasperation. There was nothing new about any of this. The cruiser Prinz Eugen was under repair at Schiedam at this very moment - a major contract for the Netherlands, won by him. And the same sabotage problems were being encountered there – that and spare parts deliberately being sent to the wrong area of Holland.
What was so annoying, to Hirschfeld, was the whining tone of Lambooy’s report. He seemed to hold Hirschfeld responsible for the problems the sabotage had caused. In fact, it was Lambooy’s job, as Director of Production, to get to grips with these issues.
There was a noise from the outer office. Hirschfeld listened, taut as a wire. His secretary was not due in for another hour.
‘It’s only me,’ she called out.
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 pr
ess. 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 deconsecration, 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.
