by Michael Dean
‘Moffen?’ Ben Bril asked.
Joel shook his head, in the darkness. ‘Nah. Dutch police. The SD Manny saw must be daytime only. They were armed, though.’
‘Surprising,’ Manny muttered. The Dutch police had been disarmed, but maybe they made an exception for night-guards on installations.
Manny led the way to the gate. It was higher than he had remembered it. And there was barbed wire at the top. Joel nodded at the three strands. ‘Someone’s cut it,’ he said. You could just make out that all three strands had been cut in the middle, with the two halves pushed together.
‘Communists?’ Manny whispered.
‘Looks like it.’
‘How did they know when we were coming?’ Lard said.
‘They didn’t. They did this after Manny’s visit. Nobody spotted it.’ Joel cupped his hands together in front of his groin. ‘Up you go, Manny,’ he said.
Manny put a foot in the stirrup of Joel’s cupped hands. Joel straightened, lifting him effortlessly to the top of the gate. Manny hauled himself over, pushing aside the strands of cut barbed wire, and dropped down on the other side.
Lard helped Ben, then Joel, up and over the same way. Lard, as by far the biggest and heaviest, stayed on watch outside the gate.
Manny led Joel and Ben to the shed where the munitions were stored. There was no sign of a guard, or any other activity, inside the perimeter of the docks. The Prinz Eugen was a huge black mass, in its dry dock.
Joel took out the burglar’s key Robert had made from piano wire. He applied Robert’s training – from the criminal arts part of the SOE course – which Robert had passed on to the knokploeg. The padlock on the shed yielded quickly. Manny led them to where the depth charges and the limpet mines were. He had imagined, a million times, that the refit may have finished - that they might have been put back in the Prinz Eugen. They were still there.
‘Take a depth charge as well?’ Ben Bril murmured to Joel.
Joel Cosman shook his head. ‘One limpet mine’s enough to blow the Armenius to hell.’
He lifted the mine and grunted – it was clearly heavier than he had expected. ‘OK let’s go.’
Joel was clutching the limpet mine to him like the breastplate of a medieval suit of armour. Its concave centre piece ran down his sternum, its wings stuck out uncomfortably from his chest, just within the ambit of his arms. The long fuse dangled from the bottom and trailed on the ground. He led the way outside, walking flat-footed to spread the load. Ben closed the padlock on the shed behind him.
Joel staggered back toward the gate with the limpet mine, gruntingly accepting Ben’s offer of help when they were about half way there. They arrived back at the gate, with the bulk of Lard Zilverberg pacing on the far side of it.
‘Help me up to the top of the gate,’ Manny said. ‘Then hand the mine up to me.’
Joel nodded, breathing heavily. Ben Bril picked Manny up bodily, lifting him first from under both armpits, then pushing him up with a hand excruciatingly in his groin. Manny sat astride the top of the fence, taking plenty of cuts from the barbed wire, despite the communists’ cutting it.
Ben mimed to Joel to make a springboard by bending his knee. This Joel did and Ben jumped on it, holding the limpet mine above his head and throwing it over the fence, in an incredible feat of strength. Manny, at the top of the fence, helped it over. Lard Zilverberg broke its fall, though its weight sent him thudding down onto the pavement.
Manny jumped down. Ben then helped Joel over. At the third attempt, he managed to pull himself to the top, then jumped down. Lard and Joel manhandled the mine back to the car. It just fitted into the boot, but stuck out enough to stop the boot lid being closed. They discussed using the side-roads back to Amsterdam, but decided to chance it.
Joel had the one working pistol the knokploeg possessed. He resolved to shoot his way past the gendarmes at the roadblock on the way back, if necessary. But their luck held. It was nearly three in the morning by the time they reached the outskirts of Leiden. The road was deserted, the control point abandoned. The gendarmes had gone home.
*
Else had been released from her cell at the old Colonial Building, after three days – when Rauter was finally convinced that Tinie had left her flat in Batavia Straat, and would not return.
It was obvious to Rauter, and even to the rabid van Tonningen, that neither Else nor Hirschfeld knew where Manny and Robert Roet were. So Hirschfeld, to van Tonningen’s fury, was allowed to return to work, as if nothing had happened – especially as they required the detail on factory production for Giskes’ plan to trap RAF bombers.
Hirschfeld produced what was required of him immediately, and sent it over to van Tonningen’s office. He made no attempt to dissemble or mislead - he was too frightened. He feared that the days when he could work against Rauter or van Tonningen were gone forever.
He guessed that Peter Lambooy had got wind of his narrow escape. Either that, or reporting directly to Rauter, as the NSM Director of Production was openly doing now, gave him a greater sense of his own power. At any rate, Lambooy clearly felt he had established a mastery over the Secretary General, even though Hirschfeld was, in theory, considerably senior to him.
This new dominance was signalled by the frequency of their meetings, by who called the meetings, and above all by the venue. Lambooy summoned the Secretary General to his office at the docks whenever he felt the need. Hirschfeld dropped everything and obeyed the summons. He had become Lambooy’s creature - Lambooy’s victim.
Lambooy’s Jew.
Lambooy had managed to establish, in the collective mind of the Occupying Authority, that blame for the sabotage-induced production delays on the Armenius - his own area of responsibility – lay with Hirschfeld. The excuse for these frequent meetings was that an ongoing anti-sabotage operation was in hand, periodically reviewed.
The Director of Production had identified workers, particularly among the skilled fitters, who could be persuaded to turn informant, in exchange for a large bribe. The men who had sabotaged the Armenius’s propeller, the easiest of the saboteurs to identify, had confessed under torture. They were shot. The incidence of casual, ad hoc sabotage – grit in the engine oil, material going missing – had been greatly reduced.
Hirschfeld was still resisting having specialists sent over from Germany to oversee work on the ship, fearing that once Dutch autonomy in production was breached, a flood of German supervisors would take over everything. On this, at least, he had so far prevailed over Lambooy.
New propellers had now been fitted, and the Armenius had resumed sea-trials. Although she was not yet seaworthy, she was due to be officially launched at a ceremony presided over by the Reichskommissar for the Occupied Territory of the Netherlands, Dr Arthur Seyss-Inquart.
*
Tinie’s frequent bouts of morning sickness, in the coal shed hideout, made it clear to everybody in the knokploeg that she was pregnant. Tinie was embarrassed, both by her state, and by the smells and sounds she was producing, so closely confined with Manny and Joel. But she was also quietly joyful at Manny’s child growing inside her.
Manny himself was like a clockwork toy with its mechanism jammed on fast. All flailing arms and jerky movements; his manic solicitude, the joy exploding out of his small body knew no normal bounds. He was sick as often as Tinie was. His happiness was other-wordly - he had never been more irritating.
Fortunately, planning the blowing up of the Armenius distracted the knokploeg from the worst excesses of Manny’s happiness. The launch ceremony, in particular, was a godsend. With everybody preparing for the ceremony, distracted by it, there could not have been an easier time to slip into the docks. And there was no shortage of informants, happy to tell them about Nazi plans for the day.
The knokploeg focussed in on the catering arrangements. Tinie, delighted to be of use, was busy altering or making black trousers, white jackets and white gloves, as worn by the waiters. Lard Zilverberg, assisted by Manny, had con
structed an ingenious gurney: The flat top of it was formed by the limpet mine, covered with a sheet of hardboard. A crisp white tablecloth fitted neatly over it.
They gleefully discussed timing the explosion for the middle of the Reichskommissar’s launch speech. The Dutch mockingly pronounced Seyss-Inquart’s name as zes’n quart - six and a quarter. Manny, in particular, was all for blowing him into his constituent quarters, during his speech. But they reluctantly agreed it made more sense to sneak in earlier, while the bustle of preparations would cover their movements.
*
On the day of the launch, they drove up to the docks in the caterer’s van - the caterer being a patriotic Dutchman who was only too pleased to help. Just as they drove in, Manny had what he regarded as an other-worldly experience.
He saw Hein Broersen walking along, just outside the shipyard - Hein, who was either at the bottom of the sea or in London. Manny shrugged his shoulders. The impossible was impossible. There was nothing not composed of matter - call it God or anything else. So he was mistaken. Simple as that. Hein was Everyman – lots of men looked like him.
Inside the shipyard, Joel, Ben, Lard and Manny, dressed as waiters, pushed a gurney full of sandwiches and cakes along the quayside, a good hour before Seyss was due to arrive. The Arminius was in wet dock, facing out to sea.
Shipyard workers passed them, either ignoring them or concentrating their glances at the goodies on the gurney. There were Dutch police at the gates, but there were none in evidence on the quay. Seyss would be accompanied by an SD guard, when he arrived, which was another reason for getting the limpet mine attached early.
A groin led nearly a mile out to sea, along one side of the wet dock. It was slippery with lichen. The four of them steered the gurney with care. Ben Bril went ahead and set up a small collapsible table, to give them a reason for heading along the groin with sandwiches and a cake. In a nice touch, Ben even planted a small Dutch flag on the table. When they were past the ship, distant yet visible from the quay, they stopped the gurney.
The trickiest part of the operation was coming now.
The other three shielded Joel from view, while he stripped off his shoes, socks, shirt and trousers. They had practised this manoeuvre for hours in the hideout, and got the time down to under thirty seconds. Joel had trunks on. He slipped into the water.
Lard put Joel’s clothes in a specially built compartment, under the top of the gurney. They lifted the top of the gurney off, transferring sandwiches and cakes to the small table. Then the hardboard cover was pulled off the limpet mine. It was slid over the side, down to Joel, who dived underwater with it.
Manny, hardly daring to breathe himself, sneaked a look at the distant quay. Nobody appeared to be paying them any attention. The ship’s bulk hid them from anyone who wasn’t directly opposite the groin.
Joel was swimming freely, just under the water, the mine, for the first time, easily manoeuvrable. He dived to half way down the Armenius’s hull and attached the magnetic mine to the metal ship. It held, as firm as the limpet it was named for.
The timer had been set to blow in half an hour, the shortest setting available. To his horror, Manny saw the L-fuse - the long-lead yellow delay fuse - bobbing in the water, above the mine. As he stared at it, in the clear water, it curled into a question mark shape, making itself more and more obvious, demanding attention. Manny looked at Ben and Lard, in alarm. Ben shrugged, but he looked tense. Lard was expressionless.
Joel swam round the prow of the ship, coming up and taking his first breath on the far side, where the ship itself would hide him from the quay. There were steps up to the groin. The others hid him, clustering round him, while Lard produced a towel from the compartment under the top of the gurney, and vigorously dried him. Joel then got his clothes back on, as quickly as he could.
They wheeled the empty gurney back to the quay, out of the docks and back to where the caterer’s van waited for them. In another half an hour, the Arminius – the newest addition to the Nazi navy – would explode.
*
Secretary General Hirschfeld was to be a guest on the platform, a couple of rows behind Rauter, one row behind Rost van Tonningen, for the official launch of the Arminius. He had prevailed on Else to accompany him, as she did to most formal functions.
His sister had needed a lot of persuasion. Since hearing the tape in Rauter’s office, she had changed toward her brother. She refused to cook for him; she barely spoke to him. She spent hours alone in her room, crying loud and bitter tears.
Dressed in her best, but looking utterly miserable, she took her seat, while Hirschfeld went to find Lambooy. The Production Director had insisted that he report to his office on arrival.
Lambooy droned on, praising his latest anti-sabotage measures and production initiatives. Then he insisted they walk about, supervising the last-minute detail of the arrangements. Such was the Director of Production’s dominance, he did not even wait for an answer, striding off ahead, letting Hirschfeld follow in his wake.
Facing the ship, bleachers had been built. There was a red carpet, a forest of Blood Flags, and a brass band from Radio Amsterdam. A workers’ honour guard would be standing to one side, carrying an assortment of tools, but they had not turned up yet.
A microphone had been put in place, for Dr Seyss-Inquart to say a few words, as he had so tellingly done in The Hague, when he had promised to respect Dutch law, Dutch customs and Dutch freedoms, days after Nazi soldiers had seized and occupied the Netherlands.
The Armenius itself - H class cruiser - looked glossy and imposing bobbing gently in its wet dock. Lambooy walked past it and looked along the groin. There, in the distance, was a trestle table with sandwiches and a Dutch flag on it.
‘What the hell’s that doing out there?’ Lambooy said.
Hirschfeld shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘Let’s go and have a look.’
‘Why don’t we just take our places? Eh? The Reichskommissar will be here shortly.’
Lambooy looked at him suspiciously. ‘No he won’t. There’s a long time to go yet. Come with me.’
‘Very well.’
Lambooy’s long strides took him ahead, with the flabby Hirschfeld struggling along in his wake. They were half-way along the groin, when Hirschfeld spotted the coil of fuse, just below the surface of the water. He caught Lambooy up and touched his arm.
‘I wouldn’t mind a sandwich myself, actually.’ He laughed – it broke and came out as a squawky giggle.
Lambooy had reached the table. ‘There’s no swastika here,’ he said. ‘Just a Dutch flag. Why is that?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘Did you know these sandwiches and cakes were going to be here?’
‘I am in charge of trade and industry in this country, Lambooy. I do not concern myself with catering arrangements.’
Lambooy shot him a glance. ‘Something’s going on,’ he said.
‘Alright, let’s go and find the company responsible for the catering, and ask them.
Come on.’ Hirschfeld tried to turn back, positioning himself between Lambooy and the all too visible fuse.
But as Lambooy walked back, he was peering into the water. As they drew level with the fuse, Hirschfeld touched him on the arm again. ‘I’ll speak to the caterer about having that table removed, Lambooy. Leave it to me.’
Lambooy saw the fuse. ‘What the …? You knew about this, Hirschfeld, didn’t you? You’ve been trying to distract me. Guard! Guard!’
‘No, of course I didn’t …’
Hirschfeld was shaking. Two Dutch police were coming onto the groin, in response to Lambooy’s shout. He thought they were coming for him. He pictured himself in the Colonial Office again, faced by van Tonningen and Rauter. This time it would not be mere questioning, however unpleasant. This time they would send him down to the torture cells.
‘Lambooy, please …’ he said.
There was a thudding of boots on the concrete groin as the two
Dutch police drew close. They saw the fuse. Both of them dived into the water, mercifully ignoring Hirschfeld. One of them grabbed the fuse and yanked it clear of the mine.
‘Excellent!’ Hirschfeld croaked out, to Lambooy. ‘You see that? We’re saved! Thank heavens! The attack has been stopped!’
Lambooy gave him a hard look, then turned away.
The next edition of the resistance newspaper, Geuzenactie, published a photograph of Hirschfeld, as the man who had foiled the blowing-up of the Armenius. It was captioned A Traitor to the Dutch People.
PART III
14
The sealing off of Amsterdam’s Jewish Quarter was as complete as it was going to be. The Nazis could not completely encircle such a huge, irregular area with barbed wire or walls. But people increasingly behaved as if they had. The inhabitants of the Jewish Quarter joined all the barriers and all the wire together, in their minds, mentally closing the physical gaps. Manny called it an optical ghetto.
The optical ghetto encompassed a large chunk of east Amsterdam: It ran round the outside of Waterloo Plein, taking in the Jewish Market; Jonas Daniel Meyer Plein, with the Portuguese Synagogue; then north-east up Rapenburger Straat to Rapenburger Plein.
For a long stretch, the ghetto ran parallel to the Oosterdok, where the Arminius still rolled at anchor, then across the fetid Oude Schans, along the canal - the Eilandsgracht - eventually dropping steeply due south along Kloviniers Burg, then east again until it met the guard post at the Blaauw Brug – the southern entry to Waterloo Plein.
Rauter, Seyss-Inquart and Himmler, at a meeting in Berlin, agreed that this area was now sufficiently sealed-off to be attacked, as they had always intended, in revenge for the killing of the German Orpo.
At the meeting, Rauter gave a situation report: The voluntary deportations of Jews had met with only limited success; there was serious unrest among the Christian population at the anti-Jewish measures; the take-up of labour places in the Reich by Dutch workers was poor; there were continual acts of industrial sabotage, culminating in the failed attempt to destroy the cruiser Arminius.
