by Michael Dean
‘There are no trams.’
‘What do you mean, there are no trams?’
‘I walked here. May God forgive you, Max, because I never will. Such a brother!
The wrong one left this family. The wrong one went to Canada. You should have gone, not Alfred. Look at you, Max. You’ve never had any friends, except the ones I find for you. You’ve never had a proper girlfriend, unless you count that … what’s her name, she was married to your colleague? Your subordinate, of course.’
‘Get out!’ Hirschfeld shouted. ‘You’re going mad, Else. Don’t you realise that? I’ll do what I can. I always do what I can. I’ve spent my life doing my best for other people – for all I’ve got to show for it. Now get out of my office!’
Else blinked - the same tic as Hirschfeld. She turned on her heel and flounced out. He heard the door of the empty outer office being slammed behind her. He let out a long sigh of relief, put his hat on, and struggled into his coat and muffler.
Normally, he would have told Annemarie to ring down for Hendrik, his chauffeur. Tell him to get the car ready. But with no secretary in place, he realised he didn’t know how to do it, himself. He walked out of the building and into the courtyard.
There were no cars parked outside at all. This was highly unusual. He walked over to the garage. It was locked. His own car and three others were parked inside. The chauffeurs had a room next to the garage, where they could relax and hang about. That was locked, too. He knocked on the door. No reply.
It was too far to walk to the shipyard. There was nothing for it, but to try to catch a tram. He walked as far as Rokin, to have the biggest selection of trams heading to the docks. Kalver Straat was oddly silent and near deserted. The few passers-by only emphasised the unusual emptiness of the street. Hirschfeld listened. Nothing. It was odd. It was very odd. Hadn’t Else just said there were no trams? He wished, now, he had asked her what she meant.
As he turned into Rokin, he saw a blue number 7 tram stopped in the middle of the street. Nearly opposite, was a D route bus, also stopped. They were deserted. Their doors were open, but there was nobody aboard.
Hirschfeld was nonplussed. As he stood there, blinking behind his spectacles, a tram came along and squealed to a halt at the tram-stop near him. He blew out his cheeks in relief, and hustled his portly frame forward. He got on at the front, paid the driver to go as far as the harbour, one way, and sat down.
The only other passenger was a middle-aged woman in a red coat, which had seen better days, and a hat with a feather in it. She had an empty leather shopping bag on her lap. Hirschfeld bade her a polite good morning, raising his hat, and received a prim nod in return.
As the tram was setting off, a group of youths leapt on at a run, just as the middle door was closing. Hirschfeld looked at them, wide eyed with alarm. They all wore flat workers caps, with long jackets and baggy trousers.
‘Stop this tram!’ called out the leading youth, authoritatively. He had a foxy intelligent face. The tram driver slammed the brakes on, then looked at him curiously. ‘We need all transport workers to join the strike, immediately,’ foxy face said.
The tram driver gave a weary nod. He clearly knew what foxy face was talking about, which was more than Hirschfeld did.
‘Look mate,’ the driver said to foxy-face. ‘I got no quarrel with your cause. But what I have got is two small kids, and another on the way. They said they’d dock our pay. And if I lose this job … You know, these days …’ The driver obviously felt he did not need to make it any clearer.
‘If all the comrade transport workers join the strike …,’ foxy face said, in a tone of pleasant reasonableness. ‘…we can bring Amsterdam to a halt. We can show the Moffen they cannot behave like this. We can put down a marker.’
Foxy face took a step forward, addressing Hirschfeld now. Hirschfeld gave him a glassy smile.
‘The Moffen have attacked our city, comrade. Our city. They threw Jewish women off their bicycles, in the street, and beat them up. They broke down the doors of houses in the Jewish Quarter, and attacked the women and children they found inside. They took away hundreds of our city’s Jewish citizens. And this in the heart of our free city of Amsterdam.’ Foxy face paused, making sure Hirschfeld was following him. Hirschfeld nodded. ‘These men were workers from the diamond industry, the shipbuilding industry, the fishing industry. They were traders, transport workers. They are our comrades. They are the lifeblood of our city.’ Foxy face put his head on one side, in a friendly way. ‘Did you know all this, meneer?’
Hirschfeld, panicking, tried to speak, but nothing came out. ‘No,’ he croaked out finally.
‘Been away, have you?’ foxy face said.
The other four men, lounging in the aisle of the stopped tram, all sniggered.
‘Will you join us?’ said foxy face, earnestly.
With relief, Hirschfeld saw the question was addressed to the tram driver.
The tram driver, in a gesture so stagy it could have been from a performance at the Tip Top, or the Hollandse Schouwburg, pushed his peaked cap back and scratched his head, thinking. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘The transport workers are solid …’
‘Except for you,’ said one of the men behind foxy face.
‘Shut up, Jan,’ foxy face said. ‘Like I said, the transport workers are a hundred per cent. So are the shipyard workers.’
‘And the diamond polishers,’ supplied the middle-aged woman. ‘My husband’s a diamond polisher. We only found out yesterday his best pal is a Jew. Nobody thought to mention it before. What difference does it make? And now they’ve taken both his sons away. The Moffen have. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.’
‘Then what are you doing on this tram?’ said Jan. ‘Strike breaking.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ The woman in the red coat sounded contrite. ‘ I was just trying to get hold of some meat. I’m not as young as I was. But I’ll walk.’ And with that the woman gathered up her shopping bag and struggled off the tram, to cheers from the CPH men, except foxy face, who turned back to the tram driver.
‘We need the trams rock solid, comrade,’ he murmured. ‘Then everything comes to a halt. Come on. Please!’
The tram driver, with another larger-than-life gesture, gave a massive shrug. ‘Oh alright.’
He got off the tram without another word, and walked away, whistling self-consciously.
Foxy face turned to Hirschfeld. ‘And what about you, comrade. What do you do?’
‘I’m a civil servant,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘A clerk,’ he added hastily, as he saw their faces harden. ‘I have a small job at the …er Ministry for Trade and Industry.’
‘You’re going the wrong way,’ Jan said, softly.
Hirschfeld went white, but foxy face ignored the remark. ‘The ministries are solid,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s on strike.’
So that was why he couldn’t find a chauffeur. Rauter can’t have known anything about it; he would surely have said something on the phone. No wonder the shipyard engineers hadn’t turned up to be sent to Germany. He still needed to get to the shipyard, but he must phone Rauter from his office first.
Foxy face smiled, with real charm. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘With us or against us? And don’t look so scared, comrade. We’re not the fascists. We don’t beat people up.’
‘I’m with you,’ Hirschfeld said, forcing a smile. ‘Good luck to you.’
He doffed his Fedora at the communists, got off the tram, walked back through the near deserted streets to his office, and phoned Rauter.
*
Rauter had by now been told about the strike. Hirschfeld had never heard him so at a loss. He half expected a summons to the Colonial Building, but no, Rauter still wanted him to go to the shipyard, and get all the shipyard workers back to work – not just the missing engineers.
‘How am I supposed to get there?’ Hirschfeld said, the freedom of the telephone allowing him a grimace, rather than his us
ual wooden expression when dealing with Rauter.
‘I’ll send a car,’ Rauter said, and hung up.
While he was waiting for the car, Hirschfeld decided to find out if his own department was on strike. He walked through the still deserted outer office, along the corridor where the senior clerks had their glass-fronted cubicles. Not more than one in five had anybody in it, working.
As he approached the large light room where the girls of the typing-pool plied their trade, there was no clatter of typing. He pushed the door open, fearing to find the typing-pool deserted. It was not as bad as that, but only half-a-dozen of the girls – just over a quarter, Hirschfeld estimated – had turned up for work. They were all sitting at their desks, but none of them was doing any work. The murmur of conversation stopped when he appeared.
He spoke to a brunette, with shoulder-length hair, who was meeting his eye. ‘Where is everybody?’
The head of the typing pool, mevrouw van Weezel, a calm, pleasant woman in her forties, said ‘They are obeying the call to strike, meneer Hirschfeld.’
‘And you are not? You, all, here?’
‘That’s exactly what we were discussing,’ mevrouw van Weezel said. ‘None of us has done any work yet. We were thinking of going home.’
‘This strike is futile,’ Hirschfeld said, looking from one to the other. ‘Does anybody seriously think the strikers will not go back to work, eventually? Today? Tomorrow? The next day? What does it matter? And what will it accomplish? Can it undo the attack on the Jewish Quarter? No. Will it cause the Occupying Authority to release the hostages they have taken - quite wrongly in my view, and certainly illegally? Again, no. Not a chance. All that we accomplish by unfocussed, ill thought-out resistance of this nature, is to make life more difficult for ourselves.’
There was a deep silence. It was obvious to Hirschfeld that he was not winning them over. He tried again. ‘I tell you bluntly, ladies, there will be reprisals. These may well involve loss of life. I say that sadly, knowing the more hot-headed elements in the Occupying Authority, which unfortunately I do. And, arguably, those who provoke the Germans into those actions bear a share of the responsibility for the consequences.’
Some of them were shaking their heads. They were staring at him now, angrily.
‘That’s a council of despair,’ the long-haired brunette murmured.
‘What would you recommend that we do, then, meneer Hirschfeld?’ mevrouw van Weezel said.
Hirschfeld paused, making sure he had their full attention:
‘I have just been on the telephone to the Occupying Authority,’ he said. ‘The strike is already coming to an end. Anybody who goes back to work now will not suffer any reprisals. I cannot defend the jobs of those who do not. I suggest you all resume your tasks of the day.’
He paused again, to let that sink in. ‘I also offer a bonus of one day’s wages to anybody prepared to help a colleague by telephoning them, from our ministry here, telling them the strike is over, and bringing them back to work. A list will be kept of the date and time of returning to work of all employees in this ministry. Mevrouw van Weezel, you will kindly start this list now. Putting your own name at the head, recording that you did not take part in the strike.’
Mevrouw van Weezel looked at him. Her eyes were sad. ‘I was at school with a girl called Leesha Cohen,’ she said, speaking slowly. ‘Apparently, Leesha was out shopping, in the Jewish Quarter, when the attack came. The soldiers beat her. She’s in hospital. She’s lost an eye. Meneer Hirschfeld, this isn’t right. Come to think of it, I think I’ll go and visit Leesha now.’
‘They probably won’t let you through, to the hospital in the Jewish Quarter. Not yet, anyway,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘I’d try later, if I were you.’
Mevrouw van Weezel shook her head. ‘I’m not educated, meneer Hirschfeld. Not like you. But I know what’s right and what’s wrong.’
She took a black patent-leather handbag from her desk, took her coat from the coat stand and walked out, buttoning up the coat as she went. Two of the other women followed her.
Hirschfeld turned on his heel. On his way back to his office, he stopped at the cubicle of the senior clerk, Pieter de Haas. He fully expected to find de Haas at his desk, working, and he was.
‘Ah, de Haas,’ said Hirschfeld, with slightly strained joviality. ‘I knew I would find you at your post - at your tasks.’
De Haas was in his early forties, a mediocrity who rose by persistence, a modicum of plodding diligence, and a knack for the skilfully-timed betrayal of colleagues. He stood, as Hirschfeld came in; a shabby figure in a shiny black suit and old-fashioned celluloid collar. He pasted on a smile and awaited instructions.
‘Emotions are running high, over this attempt at a strike,’ Hirschfeld said, in what he hoped was a light tone. He then outlined the scheme for getting workers to telephone their colleagues, and the keeping of a list of returning workers, that had just been rejected by mevrouw van Weezel.
‘Put your own name at the head of the list, de Haas,’ Hirschfeld said, ‘in a column for those who did not take part in the strike. In due course, this information will be transferred to personal files, flagged to be considered in the next round of promotions.’
Pieter de Haas beamed. ‘Thank you, Dr Hirschfeld,’ he said. ‘I’ll make a start immediately.’
As Hirschfeld closed the door behind him, de Haas’s face froze. He took out his gold NSB party pin from a drawer in his desk and kissed it. He glared at the door which had just closed behind Hirschfeld.
‘You wait, Jew boy,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘You just wait.’
*
Hirschfeld got back to his office only a couple of minutes before the car sent by Rauter arrived. To protect Hirschfeld from possible civic unrest, Rauter had sent two Orpos, armed with rifles and side-arms. Hirschfeld, wincing, sent them back down to the car, then followed, after a decent interval.
The car had a swastika pennant on the bonnet. As Hirschfeld opened the back door, the chauffeur saluted and confirmed that he wished to go to the NSM shipyard.
‘Yes,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
Hirschfeld guessed the black Mercedes was Rauter’s own. It purred through the near-deserted streets of Amsterdam. Hirschfeld, peering out the window past his Orpo guard, noticed there were still no trams running. But there was no military presence on the streets either. And he did not see one NSB or WA uniform, which was very unusual. Clearly the Occupying Authority and its acolytes had no idea how to react. A strike gave them nobody to shoot at, Hirschfeld thought.
He tried to dismiss his driver and escort when they reached the NSM shipyard, but one of the Orpos politely told him that Obergruppenführer Rauter had ordered them to stay with him, until his business was concluded. Hirschfeld wondered whether he was being guarded or put under guard, but he put the thought out of his mind.
Lambooy, in his office, was self-satisfied to the point of smugness. Having carried through the policy of the transfer of skilled specialists to the Reich, without Hirschfeld’s knowledge, he obviously thought that any problems posed by the strike, including the non-appearance of the skilled specialists, could be laid at Hirschfeld’s door. Lambooy was beginning to behave like a superior dealing with an underling.
‘Ah, Hirschfeld! We were expecting you a little earlier. Better late than never, I suppose.’
‘I’ve been in discussion with Herr Rauter,’ Hirschfeld said, crisply, nodding backwards at his Orpo guard, who were waiting outside in the car, visible through the office window. ‘How many workers have reported for work, today?’
‘I didn’t count them at the gates, but …’
‘How many, approximately. Don’t be flippant, Lambooy. This is a serious situation.’
Lambooy shot him a look. ‘There are about a hundred, in and working. Fifteen of the specialists have now reported for transfer to Germany. That’s out of three hundred.’
‘Never mind the specialists for now ...’ Lambo
oy smirked at that, Hirschfeld ignored it. ‘Get all the others into the canteen for a meeting. ‘Then go to the bank. Get ...’ Hirschfeld calculated rapidly. ‘Get twenty thousand guilders in small notes and bring it to me, here.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘We’re going to offer the workers who are here money to contact the strikers, and bring them back. They won’t believe the offer unless we pay up front. We’ll get them to sign for the money. They’ll be ours for life, once they’ve done that.’
Lambooy nodded, impressed. ‘Alright.’
As soon as he left, Hirschfeld checked the time. He could still reach Westerbork today, if he could somehow locate Hendrik, his chauffeur, and persuade him to drive there.
Lambooy was back more quickly than Hirschfeld expected. Without a word, he handed over a brown manila bank envelope. Hirschfeld rapidly counted the money inside, and put exactly half in his inside jacket pocket.
‘Put the rest in the safe, for now,’ he commanded Lambooy. ‘We’ll keep that in reserve.’
Lambooy nodded. Now came the trickiest part of Hirschfeld’s plan: ‘I’ll make the offer to the workers alone. Rauter wants you kept out of it, so we can deny the offer was ever made, after the strike is over.’ Hirschfeld sighed. ‘I think he’s got plans for you …’
Lambooy smirked. He put the bank envelope with half the money in the safe. Hirschfeld left Lambooy’s office. He told his Orpo guards to stay put, in the car. Then he walked over to the canteen. The workers filed in, sullen and silent.
Hirschfeld made a brief, deliberately muddled, deliberately half-hearted speech, criticising the strike in general terms. His speech would not have persuaded anybody to do anything – he did not intend it to. At no point did he mention money, a strike-breaking scheme, or any inducement to bring strikers back to work.
After ten minutes of this, he left the bewildered workers to resume the work he had interrupted. Hirschfeld went back to his car, and asked to be driven back to the ministry. There, the Orpos were finally persuaded to stop guarding him. Relishing the silence in his office, he put the last page of his report to Rauter in his typewriter, and added a paragraph to it. He then signed it, dated it with the day’s date, and left the completed report prominently on his desk, sealed in a plain envelope, with Rauter’s name on it.
