The Enemy Within (28 page)

‘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.’

‘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.

They all made their way, drunkenly, to the window. There was a ball of fire in the sky. They stood in a line, with their arms round each other.

‘It’s the RAF,’ said Hirschfeld. ‘They’ve hit the docks.’

*

The docks were blazing, but there were no planes in the sky. A lone plain face shone in the moonlight, as the shell of the
Arminius
turned white hot and sank. All of its guns and ammunition had been in place, so when the skilfully placed charge went up, the cruiser was completely destroyed.

The
Bureau
Inlichtingen
agent responsible had been the best his instructors had ever seen, on the explosives course at Arisaig, in the west Highlands of Scotland. He was nothing less than an artist, with plastic explosive - blowing old locomotives to smithereens in a glory of creative destruction. And his SOE instructors were artists too, in their way. They had taken the blank canvas that was Hein Broersen, and painted a warrior on it.

Hein had parachuted in on a blind drop, so only de Tourton Bruyns knew he was back in Amsterdam. As he trudged home, through dark, deserted streets, Hein’s thoughts were of Manny.

Hein Broersen admired Manny – Manny’s brains, Manny’s wit, Manny’s charm, Manny’s sophistication. He remembered every second of that wonderful evening at the Tip Top. Manny taking on the
Moffenmeid
– that Nazi whore – and her escort, with not a thought for his own safety. No wonder he had a lovely girlfriend like Tinie. Hein had never had a girlfriend. Hein envied Manny, but did not begrudge him.

Back in his gloomy broom-cupboard of a room, he sat down alone, broke open a bottle of beer, and drank to the destruction of the cruiser
Arminius
.

‘It’s good to be back in Holland,’ Hein thought. ‘Drinking good Dutch beer, in your own armchair.’

Author Note

The 1941 strike by the people of Amsterdam - in protest against the Nazi raid on the Jewish Quarter, and the taking of Jewish hostages - is commemorated in the city every February. And long may it continue.

However, this is a work of fiction. Changes have been made to real events, to their setting, to the participants, and to the chronology: It wasn’t the death of an
Orpo
which kick-started the raid, it was a WA-man called Koot. Hirschfeld was in The Hague at the time, as he was throughout the events described – so was Major Giskes, of the
Abwehr
. Though as far as I know, the two never met. And Rost van Tonningen didn’t perpetuate the medieval blood libel about Jews drinking Christian blood – it was Rauter, in a report to Himmler, of 4 March, 1941.

Some of the more unlikely-looking aspects of the story have a basis in truth: There really was a list – it was called the Barnevelde List – which approximated to the Hirschfeld List, in the story. The details of life in a transit camp are taken from eye-witness accounts – though Westerbork didn’t start functioning as a transit camp until June 1942, nearly a year and a half after the attack on the Jewish Quarter.

*

After the war, a Commission of Enquiry found that Hans-Max Hirschfeld’s actions as Secretary General, during the occupation, had been guided solely by the welfare of his country, and that he had rendered considerable service. But also that he had damaged the spiritual resistance of the Dutch more than necessary. It recommended honourable retirement, by mutual consent. Hirschfeld successfully resumed his career in banking. He died in 1961.

Hanns-Albin Rauter survived an attempt by the Dutch resistance to kill him. He was sentenced to death by the Dutch Special Court in The Hague, in 1949, and executed. Rost van Tonningen committed suicide, at the second attempt, while in Allied custody, in June 1945.

Ben Bril survived Bergen-Belsen, and died in his bed, at the age of 91. He is likely to remain the youngest boxer ever to represent his country at an Olympic Games. His background as the son of a market trader is fictionalised.

Unfortunately, Erich Deppner, Commandant of Westerbork, also died in his bed, at an even greater age than Ben Bril.

Joel Cosman is a historical figure, but he did not play for Ajax. I have no idea what happened to him, and I’d be delighted if anybody could tell me.

Manny Roet, Tinie Emmerik and Robert Roet do exist, but only in my head. And in yours, if my story found favour with you – and that’s really what it’s all about.

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