by Michael Dean
The secretary touched her stiff, heavily-permed hair, then stood in a fluid movement and bustled out of the room. Hirschfeld was breathing deeply. He glanced down at the papers on her desk – lists of names by the look of it. What else? What was he expecting? A Bill of Lading? Freight loading instructions?
Before very long, Hirschfeld heard a bicycle being leaned against the outside of the building. Deppner came in to the outer office, closely followed by the secretary.
Deppner was of medium height and build, with black, slicked-back hair. His SS uniform was dusty; the jacket was half undone; his boots were filthy.
‘Good afternoon, good afternoon! Heil Hitler!’ The salute was the flapping, bent-elbow version.
‘Heil Hitler.’ Hirschfeld saluted back – the same way
‘Come on, come through. Normally there’s only one transport a week. But all this week we’ve got two a day, because of a backlog of Jews. You know how it is.’
‘I can imagine,’ Hirschfeld murmured, following Deppner through to his office. Apart from one or two signs of the secretary’s influence – a geranium plant, a small table with a decorative samovar on it – the office was regulation issue. The furniture was standard; there was an imposing safe in the corner.
‘Take a seat, take a seat. So …’ Deppner sat behind his desk, and ran his hands through his slick hair. ‘So you’re from Rauter, eh? Dr … er …’
‘Hirschfeld.’
‘Hirschfeld? Not Hirschfeld of the Hirschfeld List?’
‘Yes.’
‘Menschenskind! I’ve been meaning to write to you. But you know how it is at the start of a new enterprise. So much to do …’ Hirschfeld nodded, sympathetically. ‘Ever since we opened up, every other Jew keeps whining that we can’t deport him because he’s on this damned list. So I telephoned Rauter, and I said what is this list, does it actually exist? Rauter said it did. He said it’s called the Hirschfeld List, of useful Jews. That’s about as far as I’ve got.’
Hirschfeld nodded. He licked his lips.
‘Do you want coffee, or something? Something stronger? Schnapps? We’ve got some decent Weinbrand in. Not that paint-stripper the Dutch drink.’
‘Coffee’s fine. Thank you.’
Hirschfeld took out his letter from Rauter; the letter which allowed him to prevent the deportation of Jews whose work was necessary to the Reich. He laid it on Deppner’s desk, facing the commandant. Deppner didn’t seem to notice.
‘Bärbel, mein Schatz!’ Deppner roared through to the outer office. ‘Two coffees and two big chunks of your delicious apple cake, if you please.’
‘Here’s the letter,’ Hirschfeld murmured. He blinked. ‘From Rauter.’
Deppner glanced at it. ‘Fine, fine. Just let me know who’s on this damned list. And what I’m supposed to do with them, if I can’t deport them.’ He looked serious for a moment. ‘They can’t stay here. This isn’t a hotel.’
‘No, no.’ Hirschfeld said. ‘They’d be sent back to their duties.’
Deppner seemed to be losing interest. He was glancing out the window at Hirschfeld’s car. ‘That’s a fine beast, you’ve got there …’
‘Herr Deppner, I need two prisoners on the Hirschfeld List now, if you would be so kind. Both are electrical engineers, currently working on the cruiser Arminius, in Amsterdam harbour. Along with other key personnel, they are to travel to Germany tomorrow, where they will eventually continue working on the ship.’
Deppner laughed. ‘Now? You want them now?’
‘Yes. I’m taking them back with me. Because of the unrest in Amsterdam, transport is currently disrupted.’
Deppner laughed again, shaking his head in mock wonder. He looked Hirschfeld in the eye, putting his tongue in his cheek. Then he took Rauter’s letter, and read it carefully. He even held it up to the light and fingered the paper.
Eventually, he shrugged. ‘This is genuine,’ he said, nodding at the letter.. ‘So I’m covered, whatever happens. You’re a Jew, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. The two prisoners I need are Piet Maasland and Willem Verduyn.’
The secretary came in, carrying a tray with coffee and cake. ‘Maasland and Verduyn are on the transport,’ she said, speaking to Deppner with easy familiarity. She put the tray down and nodded out the window. ‘Out there.’
‘Do you know what they look like?’ Deppner said.
The secretary nodded. ‘Yes. They came in last night. Maasland is a little chap. The other one, Willem Verduyn, is dark with broad shoulders.’ She looked into Deppner’s eyes, coquettishly. ‘He looks very strong.’
Deppner roared with laughter. ‘I’ll bet he does. But you can’t fuck the merchandise, Bärbel. Sorry about that.’ He glanced at Hirschfeld, who had gone white. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘The train hasn’t left yet. Your friends are still aboard. Your friends who, funnily enough, don’t have Jewish names.’ Deppner gave Hirschfeld a quizzical look. ‘Bärbel, go and get them off the train. Tell Franck I said it’s OK. Then show them to Dr Hirschfeld’s car. They can wait for him there.’ Deppner turned to Hirschfeld. ‘Is that alright with you?’
‘Yes.’ Hirschfeld said. ‘That’s fine. Thank you.’
‘Oh and Bärbel,’ Deppner called out, just as the secretary had reached the door.
‘Bring the lists in here and leave them on my desk, please.’
The secretary brought lists of names in, put them down on the commandant’s desk, then went to the train to get Piet Maasland and Willem Verduyn taken off it. Deppner sipped coffee and bit into a huge wedge of apple cake, waving at Hirschfeld to do the same.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ Deppner mumbled through a mouthful of cake, ‘to tell me who else is on this list. Necessary to the Reich war effort, or whatever it is.’ He laughed again with his mouth open, showing half-masticated cake.
Hirschfeld stared at the list. His vision swam. How many lives …? How many people dare he ask for? To gain time, he picked up Rauter’s letter, folded it carefully and put it back in his pocket.
He looked at Deppner. He shrugged. ‘Herr Deppner …’
‘You can have five, Dr Hirschfeld. I really wouldn’t push your luck, more than that. I’ll have them sent back to Amsterdam, by truck.’
Hirschfeld just stopped himself saying ‘Thank you.’ He looked down the pages of names. He recognised a friend, an enemy … This was intolerable. He could not play God like this. But five people could be saved. The Jewish Council …? The frummes from the synagogue? The cantor was on the list. So was Rabbi Saarlouis. The resistance …?
He chose five from the resistance. The five who, he believed, could damage the Moffen the most. He took out a pen and carefully ticked the names.
Deppner took the list, looked at the names, and nodded. ‘I don’t know how you’ve managed to wangle this,’ he said, quietly, finishing the last of his cake. ‘I expect you’ve got something on Rauter.’ Deppner laughed again. ‘Not Jewish, is he?’
Hirschfeld took a sip of coffee, to steady himself. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘They say Heydrich’s Jewish. They say Rosenberg’s Jewish. I’ve even heard that Hitler himself has Jewish blood, and it was hushed up. What a complicated world we live in, eh, Hirschfeld? Who’s a Jew, and who isn’t? Mind you, go back far enough and we all are. Now there’s a thought.’ Deppner roared with laughter.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hirschfeld saw Manny and Joel through the window, in camp-issue overalls, each carrying an identical haversack. They were being brought by Jewish Police guards, and settled in the back of the car. He heard Manny’s voice.
He shut his eyes for a second. ‘There’s something else,’ he said.
The secretary came back into the office. She looked questioningly at Deppner.
‘Five ticked here,’ Deppner said, crisply, nodding at the list. ‘Not to be deported. I’ll arrange transport later, back to Amsterdam.’
She nodded, took the lists back, then bustled back to the outer office, shutting the d
oor softly behind her.
‘Piet Maasland’s girlfriend is here,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘She’s pregnant. But …’
‘But she can’t possibly be on a list of Jews useful to the Reich,’ Deppner supplied. ‘So you’ve had to think of something else. Go on then, how much?’
Hirschfeld put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket, and took out the money – half the money Lambooy had withdrawn from the bank. The other half, he hoped, was still in the Production Director’s safe. He dumped the money on Deppner’s desk. There had been no time to find an envelope; the notes spread out untidily. ‘Ten thousand,’ Hirschfeld said.
Deppner gathered up the money. ‘I’d have done it for much less than that,’ he said. He shook his head in mock sorrow. ‘I don’t know … The one and only thing you Jews are supposed to be good at is money, and you get that wrong, Dr Hirschfeld. What a poor specimen of a Hebrew you are.’
Hirschfeld looked him in the eye. ‘Actually, Herr Deppner. I wouldn’t disagree with you about that.’
Deppner snorted contemptuously, went to the safe, opened it and put the money inside. Then he shut and locked it again.
‘Bärbel,’ he shouted.
The mood in the commandant’s office had changed completely. Deppner’s face was contorted with rage.
The secretary stood in the doorway, glancing from one to the other, registering the change immediately. ‘Yes, Herr Deppner?’
‘Fetch …’ He turned to Hirschfeld. ‘What’s the name of this girl?’
‘Tinie Emmerik.’
‘Fetch Tinie Emmerik. She’s to go in the car, with the two men.’
‘Very well, Herr Deppner.’
‘And show Dr Hirschfeld out. He’s just leaving.’
*
Hendrik headed the Mercedes back south through Drenthe at top speed, trying to reach Amsterdam before the curfew started. Orpos might open fire on any car driving after curfew, and ask questions later.
Hirschfeld sat in the front, next to Hendrik. In the back, Joel moved to the jump seat, to give Manny and Tinie space, at least, even if privacy was impossible. Manny was crying. He and Tinie were holding hands.
Near Deventer, they came to a patch of woodland, glimpsed a stream and stopped.
The three released prisoners had not been allowed to wash. They were uncomfortably aware that they smelled bad. Joel already had head lice, which had subdued him in a way armed SS troops had not managed to.
In the stream, Manny and Joel stripped, ignoring the winter cold, and washed in the fast, shallow water. They rinsed out the camp overalls, too, as best they could. Tinie walked to the wood, to relieve herself, then joined the men, washing in the stream.
Hendrik discreetly peed in a ditch, then resumed his place at the wheel.
At first, Hirschfeld sat in the car, staring out of the front windscreen. Then he gave a huge sigh, and made his way to the bank of the stream. He watched them washing, wishing he could join them in the water, but unable to.
‘Don’t stay in too long,’ he called to Tinie. ‘It’s cold …’
Tinie nodded, and made her way out to the meadow.
‘Tinie,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘I have to say something to you.’
Tinie nodded, dripping wet, her short hair plastered to the side of her head. Manny, seeing them together, came to stand at her side. Joel stayed in the stream, just managing a few swimming strokes in its shallows.
‘Tinie , Manny …’ said Hirschfeld. ‘…all my life I have been plagued by my responses to women. I have felt desire beyond my power to control. These feelings have never, unfortunately, led me to love. I fear they have led me away from it.’
Tinie nodded. Manny put his head on one side, like a curious puppy. His attitude was mocking, but his face was serious.
Hirschfeld gave another huge sigh. To Manny’s amazement, the portly Secretary
General struggled to his knees, in the mud of the meadow. ‘Tinie, I have done you massive wrong,’ he said, his head bowed. ‘I must say to you, Tinie, as clearly as I can, that I am sorry. I apologise for what I did, and for the suffering I caused you and your family.’
‘Get up, Max.’ Tinie said, softly. ‘You are not to blame.’ Hirschfeld struggled to his feet. He stood before her, head bowed. He was crying. ‘Max, I asked you to be my protector. I was pleased enough when you accepted the arrangement. Another man … might have been worse.’
‘No, Tinie!’ Hirschfeld shook his head vigorously from side to side. ‘I hid behind that argument for long enough. Wrong is wrong. I have learned that from Manny.’
‘The Moffen isolate us from each other, Uncle Max, ’ Manny said, gently. ‘Then they trick us, so we can better do their bidding. They make us dirty, ‘ Manny indicated his own still grubby body, ‘then they tell us we are inferior because we are dirty. They make us verminous, then call us vermin.’
Hirschfeld was crying again, unabashed, with no shame at his tears. Tinie and Manny were crying, too.
‘Manny, I knew I could never be a father to you,’ he said. ‘But now …now that we have spoken to each other like this, may I dare to hope that we are, at least, friends?’
‘Yes,’ Manny said. ‘Yes, Uncle Max.’
‘We will always be your friends,’ Tinie added.
‘Come,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘Come, my children, I have delayed us long enough. Let us resume our journey.’
*
‘What happens next?’ Joel said, as they sped south.
‘Tonight you must all stay at my house,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘You must rest. We will give you plenty of food, and find some new clothes for you. Manny, your mother will be overjoyed to see you, of course.’
‘And then?’ said Joel.
‘Then I will contact a man by the name of Bruyns. He will arrange for the three of you to join the SOE’s Spanish escape route.’
‘To England?’ Manny said.
‘To England. Yes. It’s a long route, but safe.’
‘Thank you, Dr Hirschfeld!’ Joel said.
Hendrik, the chauffeur, gave a raffish smile. ‘If I was a few years younger, I’d be going with you, meneer Cosman,’ he said. ‘If I may be so bold, what will you do when you get there? Join the resistance and come back?’
‘Oh no!’ Joel Cosman looked out at the sky, as if straining for the sight of an aeroplane. ‘I’ll join the RAF. Bomber Command. That’s the way to really hit back at them.’
‘There are plenty of Dutch flyers,’ Hirschfeld said.
‘I’ll join up, too,’ said Manny.
‘No, Manny!’ Tinie shook her head. ‘I’ve only just got you back. You can be a father.’
‘I agree.’ Joel grinned. ‘You’d be a dreadful pilot. You’re as blind as a bat for a
start.’
Manny admitted they had a point. ‘I know what I’d like to do, one day,’ he said.
‘What?’ Tinie gazed at him with amused adoration. ‘Become rich and famous,
I suppose.’
‘No! Yes! No, seriously. I’d like to write a history. The Nazis tell lies about us. About the Jews. I’d like to make a true record of everything that has happened to us.’
As he said that, Manny fell into an exhausted sleep, on Tinie’s shoulder.
*
They reached Amsterdam just before the 7.30 curfew. Some trams were running again. They heard gunfire in the distance.
‘What’s going on?’ Joel said.
Hirschfeld told them about the strike.
Manny was moved to tears. ‘How wonderful of them! How brave of the Christians to try and help us!’
Hirschfeld shrugged, awkwardly. ‘I just hope there aren’t too many casualties. I’m afraid the gunfire you can hear is the SS killing anybody they see, on the streets, until people go back to work.’
‘How many …?’ Joel tailed off.
‘I’ve no idea. But I think the strike will peter out tomorrow. Everybody knows the Moffen would slaughter limitless numbers, to get their way.’
&nb
sp; ‘Yes! But they did it!’ Manny insisted. ‘People did it, that’s what matters. We must never forget. We must never forget.’
When they stopped outside Hirschfeld’s house, at Plantage Parklaan, Hirschfeld spoke to Hendrik, in private. He told the chauffeur there was a report on his desk, clearly marked with Rauter’s name. He was to take it to Rauter, at the Colonial Building and give it to the Obergruppenfuhrer personally. Hendrik saluted, and drove off.
In the doorway of the house, Else flung her arms round her son with a grip of steel, only allowing herself to be prised gently away from him when the boy started to choke. Ushered inside, Joel and Manny were found clothes of Hirschfeld’s, which did not fit, but were at least clean, and had not been provided by Nazis. Food was then heaped, wine flowed. They played klezmer music; Jewish music. Tinie danced with Manny, then with Joel. Hirschfeld and Else danced.
The celebration was interrupted by a phone call. Hirschfeld took it in his study. It was from Rauter, who was still at his desk, as Hirschfeld had known he would be. He had read Hirschfeld’s report, delivered by Hendrik.
The report’s account of the sabotage attempt on the Armenius, blaming Lambooy, had a final section saying that Lambooy had paid the strikers at the shipyard to stay away. The Director of Production had withdrawn 20,000 guilders from the bank, the report said. This was unauthorised. Half of this had been used to fund the strikers; the rest was still in Lambooy’s safe.
Rauter swore, softly, down the telephone line. Hirschfeld had never heard him swear before. He said he would send troopers to the shipyard now. If 10,000 guilders was found in the safe, Lambooy would be arrested. Hirschfeld expressed sorrow at Lambooy’s behaviour. As he hung up, he hoped Lambooy hadn’t stolen the money.
Rauter phoned back an hour later: Lambooy was under arrest. He asked Hirschfeld to appoint a replacement.
‘Another telephone call? Who was it this time?’ a drunk and happy Else asked, as Hirschfeld re-appeared at the dance floor their parlour had become.
‘Oh … nobody important,’ Hirschfeld said, with a most unusual mischievous pout. ‘Just one of my friends’
As they were drinking the umpteenth toast to Holland’s queen, to the brave Christians of Amsterdam, who had gone on strike to help the Jews, to the resistance, to all those who were fighting for Holland, in word or deed, there was a massive explosion in the distance, and the sky lit up orange.
