by Michael Dean
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 not 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.
He had no desire for the company even of the few knokploeg members he respected – Joel mainly, also Lard - Ben for his fighting skill. Robert and Joel had gone for a drink once, to the Kamer Twintig, an unpretentious watering-hole round the corner from the coal shed hideout. A respectful Joel had tried to get Robert to talk about his army career, about the Queen, about Prince Bernhard. But Robert had knocked back beer after beer with jenever chasers, in sullen silence. Neither of them suggested repeating the experience.
Robert returned to the Kamer Twintig on his own, though - again and again- even to the same corner table. This predictable pattern of behaviour was in wilful disregard of his SOE training, but Robert didn’t care. The evening before they were due to go Schiedam, to steal the limpet mine, he sat there as usual. It was nine o’ clock on a dark rainy night, and he was twiddling his glass of jenever in the bar’s gloomy, tatty interior, one of a total of three customers.
He picked at the squares of Gouda cheese and mustard, in a saucer. He thought of Charlotte Black. It
had occurred to him, many times, to visit one of the brothels along the docks - whores were one of the professions thriving during the occupation. But he couldn’t. He felt as old and as dead as an extinct volcano.
He imagined himself rotting in a grave, blissfully free of life, buried in a valley, with dead hills his guardians. If he had believed in God, he would have asked God to kill him. But he didn’t believe in God, any more than he believed in anything else.
The Black Birds. The Black Birds. Dragging himself any further through life was pointless. It wasn’t fear of tomorrow’s operation at Schiedam. Fear would have been a sign of life. He was indifferent to the coming operation, too
He tried to look back, as there was no point in looking forward: He had hauled himself to the top of the mountain – coming from nowhere to succeed in the army, to become ADC to Prince Bernhard. It was not that there was nowhere else to go, rather that there was nothing left of him to go there – go anywhere. He was finished, dead inside. If he had had any curiosity as to why he was in this state, he would not have been in it.
As a kind of mindless exercise, the mental equivalent of press-ups, he put up a token resistance to his inner demise: Else Hirschfeld loved him with all her being. That was a minor embarrassment, nothing more. He had a son. Ha-ha! He gave a dry, cackling laugh aloud, at the thought of the sarcastic runt that was Manny. He had work to do for his country – but it no longer interested him. Why not? Don’t know. He didn’t care that he didn’t know. He suddenly jumped up and strode outside, banging too much money down on the counter, as he left.
Back at the hideout, Joel was out, somewhere. Tinie was sewing, putting the finishing touches to the NSB uniforms. Manny was sitting on the bottom bunk, sketching her sewing. The sight of Manny sketching lit a blazing fury in Robert.
‘Come on,’ the father said to Manny. ‘You can’t go to Schiedam tomorrow with no unarmed combat training at all. Haven’t had any, have you? Come on, you little pansy.’
Tinie looked alarmed. Manny shrugged, put his sketch down and walked over to his father. Robert tripped him and threw him violently on the cement floor. Tinie said ‘Stop it!’ crisply. Manny got to his feet and faced his father again.
‘This is how you kill a sentry, silently,’ Robert said, chopping at Manny’s windpipe, hard enough to make him choke.
‘Robert, I said stop it,’ Tinie said. ‘That’s enough.’ She stood up.
Robert ignored her. ‘Try and punch me.’
‘What are you trying to prove?’ Manny was gasping, fighting for air.
‘Shut up. Try and punch me.’
Manny stepped forward and swung in an ark. Robert caught his wrist and bent his arm behind his back and upwards, until he yelped: ‘You’re breaking my arm.’
Robert let him go. He stuck his chin out, without a word, but unmistakeably inviting the punch. Manny feinted with his left, then shot a fast right jab into the side of Robert’s mouth, with all his strength. There was a crunch. Manny thought he had broken Robert’s teeth.
Robert gave a bloody grin, sank to his knees, then rolled onto the floor, half under the car. Manny thought he was larking about. He just stood there. Robert didn’t move. Then he twitched, oddly. Then he was still.
Tinie jumped off the bunk, and bent down over him. ‘Manny, I think he’s dead.’
*
When Joel Cosman came back to the hideout, moments later, he found Manny and Tinie side by side, holding hands like Hansel and Gretel, standing over the dead body of Robert Roet.
Joel knelt down beside Robert, then rolled him clear of the car. ‘For Christ sake. What happened?’
Manny was in shock. ‘I … I … I hit him.’
Joel was sniffing Robert’s mouth. ‘He’s bitten through his cyanide tablet.’
‘What shall we do?’ Tinie said.
Joel thought for a moment. ‘Get rid of the body. And his clothes. And the transmitter. And his gun. Dump the lot in the canal.’
Joel opened the boot of the car. He hauled Robert’s body up, under his armpits, with Robert’s head rolling against his chest. Tinie helped him, lifting Robert’s legs by the ankles. They pushed and rolled the dead weight into the boot. Manny stood motionless, watching them, turned to stone by the enormity of his father’s death. Breathing heavily, Joel heaved the transmitter on top of Robert’s body. It bashed his dead face. Tinie helped him pack Robert’s clothes and gun in his rucksack. That was then tossed on the back seat of the car. Joel threw Robert’s false ID to Manny. ‘Burn this.’
Manny tried to catch it and dropped it.
Tinie picked it up. ‘I’ll see to it,’ she said.
Joel got into the driver’s seat of the car, then waved to Tinie to pull the lever on the wall, which activated the hydraulic system. The machinery whirred smoothly; the car rose up. When the ceiling was in place again, Tinie heard the car start up, above them, and pull out of the hideout, taking Robert and his worldly effects away to be thrown into the canal. Manny heard nothing, saw nothing. He felt cold.
*
The four-man knokploeg team set off for Schiedam on a moonless night. There was Manny, Lard Zilverberg, Ben Bril - replacing Robert - with Joel Cosman driving. All of them were in NSB uniform.
A cover story had been unexpectedly easy: Manny had spotted that this month marked the tenth anniversary of the founding of the NSB - the Nationaal-Socialistische Beweging, the biggest Nazi party in Europe, outside Germany. Manny, Lard and Ben were senior officers in the Amsterdam NSB, going to Rotterdam for a celebration. Joel was an NSB chauffeur.
Getting enough petrol for the trip had been the main problem. Manny had solved it, making use of his inside knowledge of Hirschfeld’s life. They had sneaked into the compound where his official car was kept overnight, and drained the petrol tank. So Hirschfeld was helping a resistance operation, albeit unwittingly. This gave Manny much gleeful pleasure.
To the knokploeg, Manny talked of Hirschfeld as a Nazi, even though he knew his Uncle Max had his own resistance contacts, and that he was in touch with Gerbrandy’s government in exile. Once, a while ago, he had asked his mother if the Nazis were aware of Hirschfeld’s resistance links. She had shrugged, which he assumed meant yes.
There were two bottles of champagne in the back of the car, ostensibly to celebrate the great NSB anniversary. Cheekily, there were also a few copies of Volk en Vaderland, the NSB newspaper. Manny and Lard, the two in the back, had opened a bottle of champagne, and were passing it backwards and forwards, swigging from it. Occasionally, they passed it to Ben, in the front. Joel had also taken a swig or two, while driving.
The road-block, on the main Amsterdam-Rotterdam road, was just north of Leiden, reminding Manny of his sunshine days as a law student. There was a makeshift barrier, with a couple of Maréchaussee - Dutch gendarmes - standing at it.
Joel had their forged ID cards ready. He waved them arrogantly out of the wound-down window as he slowed to a crawl. One of the gendarmes signalled the car to halt, but saluted when he saw the blue flashes on the NSB uniforms. The gendarme gave the ID cards a cursory inspection, handed them back, then saluted again, before waving the car on.
As they pulled away, Manny’s tenor voice rang out with one of the anti- NSB songs which had made its author, a certain meneer Van Atten from Rotterdam, one of the most popular men in the Netherlands:
May I ask you one sad question?
Did you know about the tenth of May?
Did we Dutch stand hard against the Germans?
Or did you go missing, on that day?
Did the young men of the Netherlands,
Fight against the German fire.
Or did you go and hide your head,
In next door’s farmer’s barn, instead?
Never a great one for subtlety, Manny then lowered his NSB uniform trousers, seized the front page of Volk en Vaterland, and wiped his arse on it.
‘Oy!’ Ben Bril protested. ‘That stinks.’
‘I know!’ Manny shrieked back.
‘It’s an NSB newspaper.’
They all burst out laughing. Manny’s laughter was particularly wild, obliterating not so much the death of his father, or even that he had been its unwitting instrument, as the death of the hope that one day his father would love him.
He took another huge swig of champagne, then launched into Van Atten’s song about Rost van Tonningen. But the others had had enough. The massive Lard folded him in half and sat on him, until he promised to put his trousers back on, and stop singing.
They were expecting another check outside Delft, but none materialised. They took the Vlaardingen- Hook-of-Holland road toward Schiedam, by-passing Rotterdam. When they reached the docks, Manny used his sketch to give directions to Joel, to the gate he had used last time. Joel eased the car past it, turned into a side street, then into another, smaller one, where there were no lights, and parked against the kerb. He switched off the car’s lights. They sat there in silence. It was black as a Nazi’s soul, and death still.
Joel Cosman looked at his watch. ‘Five past twelve,’ he announced.
Manny had it from Johnny, the communist contact, that the first tour of the perimeter by sentries was at half-past midnight. ‘We could go in,’ Manny said. He was breathless.
Joel shook his head. ‘Wait for the sentries,’ he said. Then he put his head on one side and went to sleep.
Manny looked at Lard, wide-eyed. Ben Bril shrugged. The sound of Joel breathing filled the car. At twelve twenty-five, Joel woke up. ‘Wait there,’ he said. ‘I’m going to check they’ve gone past.’
Joel slipped off into the darkness. At quarter to one he still had not returned. ‘We should go after him,’ Manny said, his voice high with panic. Lard shook his head. Ben Bril said ‘No’, softly.
Five minutes later, there was a soft tap on the rear window. Manny screamed. Ben Bril swivelled his broad shoulders and grunted. Joel opened the driver’s door. ‘Idle bastards were late,’ he said. ‘But they’ve gone now.’
