The Enemy Within (13 page)

‘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 press. 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.