The Enemy Within (14 page)

Rumours of what might be coming next, of what was to be announced by this new Jewish Council, rippled up and down the narrow lanes of the tenements, in and out of the stalls of the Jewish markets at Waterloo Plein and the Uilenberg, across the plumply prosperous lounges of the Plantage.

The deconsecration, perhaps destruction, of Amsterdam’s synagogues was widely feared. Physical restriction to within the ghetto looked likely – why else seal it off? The well-informed – like Hirschfeld– knew this had already been suggested, by Rost van Tonningen among others, but Rauter had blocked it, so far, because of the economic chaos it would cause.

The rumour least spoken was the one most dreaded: That the Nazis would deport the Jews to the east, perhaps for forced labour.

*

The ornate hall of the Diamond Exchange was packed with Jews, the majority from the Jewish Quarter; but there was a decent turnout from the Sarphati Park, Transvaal, Plantage and Retief Straat areas. Rauter’s instructions were that Asscher and Cohen, as leaders, should run the Jewish Council according to the Nazi leadership principle - that is as a dictatorship.

The two of them had come to Hirschfeld, saying that would never work, in the Jewish Community. Hirschfeld had encouraged them to ignore Rauter, at least on this point, and elect a committee. Provided the Nazis could deal with the leaders, they would accept that.

So, after Asscher had opened the meeting, he called for names. The mood was subdued, and the election of a fifteen-man committee was proceeding more quickly than Hirschfeld had expected. To his amazement, he spotted the diminutive figure of his nephew among the fifteen hundred or so attendees of the meeting. It beggared belief. Manny was wanted by the Occupying Authority, so was Joel Cosman, who was sitting next to him.

Tinie was on the other side of Manny, one of no more than five females in the hall. He did not know whether to admire their cheek, or condemn their foolhardiness for showing their faces in broad daylight like this.

But worse was to follow. His nephew popped up like a Jack-in-the-Box to propose his, Hirschfeld’s, name for the committee. Why did Manny do these things? Was he sniggering behind his hand? Was this some complicated ironic gesture? Joel Cosman seconded the proposal.

There was some murmuring at the mention of Hirschfeld’s name. He had no illusions about the depth of his unpopularity in the community. In response, Manny bobbed up again. He sympathised, he said, with this spontaneous negative reaction. He then made a fluent case for those with the closest connections to the Nazis to be elected, as they would be ‘in the know’ and so able to help the community.

Hirschfeld himself proposed the election of Rabbi Saarlouis, the Chief Rabbi at the Portuguese Synagogue, as an alternative to himself. In the end, Hirschfeld
and
Rabbi Saarlouis were elected, along with thirteen doctors, accountants, professors and lawyers from the Jewish middle-classes.

All of them went up on the dais, where chairs were hastily found for them. From up there, Hirschfeld had an excellent view of Manny, grinning his head off at him, Tinie was staring at him, he thought. He avoided her gaze.

At the centre of the newly elected committee, Abraham – Bram - Asscher gave the crowded hall a moment more to settle. The mood was restless. Apprehension, if not downright fear, dampened down any excesses of emotion, exuberance, spirit, bolshieness, rudeness, liveliness, chatter, eloquence, humour – all the bubbling stew of the spirit that would have been present at a meeting of Jews, had it not been instigated by Nazis.

And then he stood. Bram Asscher was a tall grey-haired figure, with a long head; his low pixillated ears not detracting from his dignity. Despite a reputation as a no-nonsense figure, he embodied solidity. He was as solid as his company’s headquarters – the massive
Diamantslijperij
Asscher
building on Tol Straat, in the Pijp - a crenulated brick building, which looked like a cross between a factory and castle.

Asscher had been born in Amsterdam, as had his father and grandfather. He spoke for the city as a Liberal member at the Regional Assembly. Nothing could be more fixed, more rooted, more immovable, safer, than Asscher.

‘As you know, some of us have been asked to facilitate contact between the Occupying Authority and the Jewish Community, which we hope will make matters easier for everybody. The first issue to deal with is that of weapons. I’m sure you’ve all seen the appeals for the community to hand over weapons. The response has been disappointing. Please ensure that any weapons are handed in at the police station on Jonas Daniel Mayer Plein.’

There was a ripple of indignation, as an audience consisting of professionals, academics and hard-working, working-class family men expressed helpless indignation at the impossibility of handing in weapons they did not possess.

‘Or it may be,’ Asscher continued, ‘that you know of groups who have weapons. In which case these weapons should be brought to the attention of the authorities.’

From his place toward the middle of the hall, Manny let out a long sardonic whoop at this thinly veiled appeal to betray the
Geuzen
. People shifted in their chairs to look at him. He pasted a grin on his face and stared resolutely at Asscher. Joel Cosman was grinning, too. Even Tinie was smiling.

Hirschfeld suppressed a groan as Manny got to his feet. It was amazing how much bigger he looked, the Secretary General thought, when he was about to open his mouth.

‘I have a question,’ Manny sang out. Asscher nodded to indicate his willingness to take the question.

‘Is it true that a member of our newly elected Jewish Council, meneer Hirschfeld, has provided the Nazis with a list of every Jew in Amsterdam, using records from the Public Records Office?’ Manny was now in lawyer mode, speaking from a crib, clutched in his fist. ‘And would you not agree, meneer Hirschfeld, that by providing this list, you have accelerated the establishment of a ghetto in Amsterdam? And you have eased the way to the deportations of Jews, which meneer Asscher is about to announce.’

Manny sat down. Hirschfeld was white. Joel, Tinie and a few of the younger element scattered throughout the hall cheered. The main response was inchoate – the noise level rose, but whether in support of Manny or condemning him was impossible to say.

Bram Asscher hesitated. ‘We are not here to discuss this …’ There was a roar at that, so after another hesitation he said ‘The information you refer to is freely available at the Town Hall. Do you seriously think they wouldn’t have found it? They
are
the Occupying Authority. One of the buildings they occupy is the Town Hall.’

Manny bounced to his feet, his compact frame appeared to be vibrating. ‘That is nowhere near good enough, meneer Asscher. That information could have been withheld. It could have been tampered with, it could have been destroyed. And had that been done, who knows how long we could have delayed the
Moffen
?’

‘And what would have been the point of that?’ Asscher shouted back.

‘What would have been the point?’ Manny crowed his words back at him. ‘What would have been the point? I’ll tell you what the point would have been, meneer Asscher. I’ll tell you and all the Quislings like Hirschfeld, who work with and for the
Moffen
what the point of resistance is, shall I? The point, meneer Hirschfeld, the point, meneer Asscher, meneer Cohen, is to delay, obstruct and defy the
Moffen
until the cowardly British finally get off their fat imperial arses and fight. The point, you milksop Quislings, is to rally round our beloved Queen Wilhelmina, like our brave
Engelandvaarders
are doing, and kick these crackpot brutes of Nazis out of our country. That is the point!’

By now a proportion of the audience were cheering, a few were booing, nearly everybody was talking.

Who knows whether Manny would have continued his peroration, but it had now become impossible. Too late, Hirschfeld wished they had appointed stewards, with armbands, to throw troublemakers out.

In an inspired piece of demagoguery, Manny leaped on his chair and, wobbling unsteadily, began to scream out the Dutch national anthem, the
Wilhelmus
, itself a song of the original
Geuzen
. .

Joel Cosman leaped to his feet and joined in. Tinie stood and sang. All over the hall others joined in, some standing some not. They got as far as the seventh stanza:

My
God
,
I
pray
thee
,
save
me

From
all
who
do
pursue

And
threaten
to
enslave
me
,

Thy
trusted
servant
true
.

O
Father
do
not
sanction

Their
wicked
foul
design
,

Don’t
let
them
wash
their
hands
in

This
guiltless
blood
of
mine
.

Then they broke off singing, and Manny led three cheers for the Queen, for Prince Bernhard, and for the Netherlands. Bram Asscher waited until they had finished. Then, in a flat defeated monotone, he said arrangements would shortly be announced to deport the first Jews from Amsterdam.

*

Rauter had designated two Assembly Points for the deportation of Jews from Amsterdam: Central Station and the Tip Top theatre. The idea, presumably, was that the old, the infirm and children not strong enough to get as far as Central Station on foot, from the Jewish Quarter, could be brought by lorry from the much nearer Tip Top.

The first Hirschfeld heard of the deportations was when Simon Emmerik showed him a notice for
Het
Joodsche
Weekblad
, given to him by the Occupying Authority, to be printed on the front page. NSBers also gleefully posted it as a notice all around the Jewish Quarter. Rauter, to Hirschfeld’s disappointment, had not consulted him. Indeed, he had by-passed him.

The deportations were the first public issues Hirschfeld had ever discussed with Else. Else was strangely calm about them; it was Hirschfeld who was fretful and edgy.

‘What should I tell people?’ Else asked. ‘People ask me, because I’m your sister.’

She
loved embroidery, and was pulling threads through of a
cholla
cloth she was making. It showed the children of Israel in the wilderness, in blue white and yellow.

‘Tell them not to go,’ Hirschfeld said, forcefully. ‘Tell as many people as you can!’ He was yelling.

She had stopped sewing and looked up, questioningly, at him, her head on one side.

‘Alright,’ she said.

Sitting at his desk, in his office, on the day designated for the deportations, Hirschfeld was unable to work. He went and stood at the window. He saw Hendrik, the chauffeur, lovingly polishing the Mercedes in the sunshine.

It was really too warm for a coat, but Hirschfeld took one anyway. He jammed his brown Fedora hat on his head and marched out.

Outside, Hendrik straightened up from his polishing and pulled at his white moustache, clearly about to ask if he was needed. Hirschfeld scurried by, eyes averted, giving him a muttered ‘
Dag
, Hendrik’ in passing. He walked quickly along the Binnen Amstel and crossed the Blaauw Brug, glancing up occasionally. There were high, wispy, cirrus clouds in a blue sky - not a typical Dutch sky at all.

On the Blaauw Brug, he passed a Jewish family heading for the Tip Top – a father, mother and two small boys. They were shabbily dressed; the father was carrying a suitcase, the little boys were clutching books and toys.

His head was exploding. Had the Nazis got hold of the lists from the Public Records Office? Manny, in that speech at the Jewish Council meeting, attacking him, assumed they had. He was not so sure. They had had no time to send out letters, to people listed as Jewish. And surely he would have heard something, seen at least one letter, if they had? They were relying solely on Asscher’s announcement and public notifications.

Weren’t
they? And in that case …

With no clear plan in mind, he made his way along Nieuwe Amstel Straat, which runs alongside the Waterloo Plein Market. Even at this early stage, it was obvious that the numbers obeying the call to deportation were low – a trickle, where Rauter would have expected a stream.

Nearer the Tip Top, he saw the first people he knew. It was like a blow in the face. There was Abraham Katz, with his wife and what must be his oldest daughter. He had a small
yarmulke
, for outside, pinned to the back of his head.

‘Reverend!’ Hirschfeld touched him on the arm of his shiny black jacket. The cantor jumped, but seemed relieved to put his suitcase down. ‘Reverend, ladies. What are you doing?’