The Enemy Within (5 page)

‘We got Hirschfeld to publicly condemn sabotage,’ Schellenberg said.

‘So what?’ van Tonningen shouted. ‘You do know Hirschfeld is a Jew?’ He forgot himself as far as to yell this at Himmler.

It was received with indulgent smiles round the table.

‘Your feelings are understandable, Herr van Tonningen,’ Himmler said. ‘But …’ he gave a flickering smile. ‘Hirschfeld is a
useful
Jew. And the usefulness is more important than the Jewishness. For now.’

Schellenberg was smiling broadly. ‘I tell you what,’ he said to van Tonningen. ‘I’ll play you a tape of Hirschfeld in action. That will cheer you up.’

Everyone except van Tonningen seemed to know what that meant. Everyone else was laughing, though Rauter’s laughter was forced.

Schellenberg took one of Sanne’s files and opened it. ‘Yes, here we are. In … when was it? … 1933, Hirschfeld was part of a Dutch trade delegation to the Reich. For his evening’s entertainment we took him to
Salon
Kitty
. We have him on tape.’

‘Hirschfeld’s performance is one of my favourites,’ Himmler said, as if he were talking about rival recordings of classical music. ‘Second only to Count Ciano.’

One of the SS waiters appeared with a tape recorder, plugged it in and placed it next to Himmler.

‘You mean, you’re blackmailing Hirschfeld?’ Van Tonningen yelled out. ‘How? He’s not married, you know.’

‘Oh, I don’t think his sister or the synagogue elders would think much of him if they had a look at our files,’ Sanne said, to more laughter round the table. ‘But, no, we’re not blackmailing him. We don’t have to.’

After some hissing from the spool of tape as it circled, Hirschfeld’s pellucid northern German sounded out over the table, giving precise and detailed sexual instructions, much of it to do with the degree of submission he required.

‘Now here’s an interesting bit,’ Himmler said, ‘interesting about the man.’ The Reichsführer re-spooled the tape and pressed ‘Play’ again. Hirschfeld’s voice sounded more formal and tense. He had clearly just arrived at the brothel. It was being made clear to him that women from nearly every country in the world were available to him.

‘How interesting’, Hirschfeld’s voice said, which raised a laugh round the table.

Himmler stopped the tape again and explained that Arthur Nebe, Chief of the Criminal Police in Berlin, who had extensive connections in the vice squad, had been in charge of recruitment of prostitutes. ‘Some of the German women on offer are surprisingly well-born,’ Himmler added. ‘But just listen to this.’

‘One of our German ladies is a countess,’ came a female voice, over the tape, obviously the brothel Madame. ‘And we have others who are aristocrats, actresses, even …’ there was a long pause. ‘wives!’ This raised another guffaw round the table.

‘Including
the wives of some of the people you have met here. Would you like that?’ asked the Madame ‘or …’

‘Do you have Dutch girls?’ came Hirschfeld’s voice, thin and nervous. ‘I would prefer Dutch girls, if you please, Madame Kitty. Dutch girls who speak German.’

Himmler switched the tape off, with the air of a successful conjurer at a party. Van Tonningen, at first hiding a shocked and supercilious reaction, was now fascinated.

‘Anyway,’ Rauter resumed, feeling that serious discussion had been sidetracked long enough. ‘Production affecting the war effort is now threatened by the increased turbulence in Holland that van Tonningen will describe for you in a minute. The voluntary programme to get Dutch labour to work in the Reich is being affected by the increasing number of ‘divers’, as the Dutch call them, simply disappearing out of society. This whole ‘work with the grain of society’ stuff, Hirschfeld’s line if you like, is now questionable. Van Tonningen, over to you.’

Rost van Tonningen was delighted at Rauter’s change of sides, as he saw it, abandoning Hirschfeld, or at least abandoning his policy. He outlined the Jewish knokploeg’s attack on the NSB, as if describing a military operation from a textbook. His voice rose, however, as he reached the involvement of the German
Orpos
.

‘As a German policeman lay on the ground, having been assaulted by at least a dozen Jews, two of these beasts … I am sorry gentlemen this is not a pleasant story …’ He had their attention. ‘Two of these beasts, their names are Emmanuel Roet and Joel Cosman, knelt to his neck, pierced his jugular vein with teeth sharpened for the purpose, and
drank
his
Christian
blood
…’ Van Tonningen finished at a crescendo shriek, over the roar of outrage which swept round the table ‘…
for
ritual
purposes
. Oh, and yes, gentlemen, Emmanuel Roet is your friend Hirschfeld’s nephew. The very shipyard saboteur I was telling you about. What do you think of that, eh?’

Himmler’s anger was not diluted by surprise. ‘Measures must be taken,’ he murmured. Then he repeated it, with exactly the same cadence. ‘Measures must be taken.’ He stared out at the company behind his rimless
pince
nez
. ‘I will explain to you, gentlemen, what I have in mind.’

5

Just as Hanns-Albin Rauter and Rost van Tonningen were heading towards Wewelsburg Castle, in the chauffeur-driven Mercedes, Hirschfeld’s sister, Else, looked down from the ladies section of the Portuguese Synagogue, in Jonas Daniel Meyer Plein. She beheld the Friday evening prayers, which ushered in the sabbath.

Far, far, below her were the rows of pews where the men, in their enveloping prayer- shawls, were keening the sabbath service, while rocking backwards and forwards from the waist. At both ends of the pews, candles burned bright. She saw them refracted through the light of larger candles in the gorgeous, gold chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, hanging low over the male congregationalists.

Else was wearing her best black wool coat and a rather daring Florentine hat. She sneezed massively. Surely the start of a cold, if not flu? She thought of her
cholent
, in the oven, at home – the sabbath meal. She imagined it catching fire and burning the house down. No point worrying.

Her gaze swept the vast synagogue. On the
blema
- a raised area in the centre - the cantor, Abraham Katz, his thick beard now flecked with grey, chanted the service. Else stood for the singing of the Psalms.

She shot a sideways glance at her friend, Leen de Beer, next to her. The de Beers, Leen and Mozes, were the Hirschfelds’ closest friends. Else and Max bought kosher wine from their shop in the Jewish Quarter. Mozes, in his twill trousers and beret, would pour out samples for them to try, until they were sozzled. Then she and her brother bought more than they intended. This happened every fortnight.

On Saturday afternoons, the four of them went to the Artis together - the zoo with its lovely scenic park, and ancient trees. They’d stroll around, she and Leen nattering away about this and that, while the men strode ahead, hands behind their backs. You didn’t have to pay on Saturday, not if you were members. It would have violated the sabbath to use money.

‘
Nishtasay
punee
een
yshoon
el
-
menoochosay
,’ sang Leen, lustily, in perfect tune with the boy-choir, to the right of the ark. Else, whose Hebrew was basic, guiltily read the Dutch translation, on the facing page of the prayer book: ‘For forty years was I wearied with that generation and said, they are a people of erring heart, who have not taken cognizance of my ways; so that I swore in my wrath: They shall not come into my rest.’

What did it mean? Oh well. You’re not supposed to worry about what it meant. It’s the word of God.

Her eyes wandered to the ark. It was open, its velvet curtains drawn back. Inside were the scrolls of the law, in rich blue velvet covers, topped with silver bells. On the outside of each scroll, against the sumptuous velvet, a solid silver breastplate hung from a silver chain. And against that, hung down the
yod
– the pointer – thicker at the top, tapering towards its end.

Else tried to look away, but she was transfixed - she couldn’t. The
yod
reminded her of Robert, Manny’s father. His … well, his
thing
. She felt that familiar tightening in her tummy, going down, as she recalled her only experience of a man. Her shame made her cheeks flush; a fleeing fleck of powder fell on the revere of her coat.

She glanced sideways at Leen, wide-eyed with guilt, in case her friend had read her sinful thoughts, in this holy place. Leen smiled at her, and continued to flaunt her excellent Hebrew by singing half a phrase ahead of the rest of the congregation, without even looking at the prayer book in her hands.

Else’s thoughts jumped from the father to the son: Yes, Manny was in synagogue. But, as Manny mocked everything, he was no doubt mocking his prayers, too. He was right at the back, where the youths always gathered, near an exit, so they could slip out for a cigarillo and a chat.

Oh, and look at him! He’d created a sort of Mexican bandit look from his prayer shawl, by knotting its holiest part, the fringed
tzitzis
, round his neck. The shame of it! Else blushed all over again.

Manny was chatting non-stop to a group of cronies in the pews in front and behind him. One or two, Else thought, were friends from his time at Leiden University. But she also recognised his childhood friends, Joel Cosman and Ben Bril. Despite being a founder member of the awkward squad, resolutely out of step, her son had always made and kept deep friendships. At least there was that!

Else sighed. Manny was due at her and Max’s house later that evening, for the sabbath meal. She wanted it to be cosy, with good talk and togetherness -
gezellig
. That’s a Dutch word, Else mused, but it should really be Yiddish.

She wanted them to be a proper
gezellig
Dutch family. But they weren’t: Manny was Robert’s son, not Max’s, so they weren’t a proper family. And the Nazis were saying they weren’t Dutch. They weren’t
gezellig
, because Max and Manny kept shouting at each other. She hoped it would go off well, between Manny and Max, just once.

She feared the worst. But still, no point worrying, eh?

*

Manny had not yet arrived for the sabbath meal. Hirschfeld slumped, eyes closed, in his capacious, though lumpy, armchair, in the cluttered main room. He took consolation in the very weight of the burdens life placed on his shoulders. Not born the oldest brother, he had become the oldest brother …

The sounds of his childhood floated back to him. His earliest memories were sounds. They had lived opposite the train station in Bremen. The whistle of the trains and the hissing of the steam carried his father away, as he travelled all over Europe, as an agent for Cunard Line, then White Star Line, then, finally, representing his own travel business.

And then … ‘
Ich
habe
ein
Shiksa
geschwängert
– ‘I’ve made a Christian girl pregnant’ Hirschfeld’s mother, Clara – the
shiksa
concerned - had told him the story herself, laughing. Hirschfeld’s mother was a Christian; his father had ‘married out.’

So ‘the Jew Hirschfeld’, as Rost van Tonningen was so fond of calling him, was not a Jew at all, according to Jewish law, which follows the mother’s religion only when determining who is and who is not a Jew. The Nazis, however, took a broader view.

But
… the boy born – just - in wedlock to Clara Schaper, now just about Hirschfeld, was not Hans-Max, but his older brother, Alfred.

Alfred was not stupid, but he wasn’t all that bright either. Hirschfeld heard again – more sounds - his mother’s howls when Alfred left for Canada, never more to be seen or heard from. Overnight, Hans-Max became the oldest son. And as his father was away so much, he became the man of the family.

Why had Mendel Leib Hirschfeld moved the family to Holland? Hirschfeld never knew, and it was too late to ask either of his parents now. He possessed his father’s naturalization certificate, though. Mendel had died a Dutchman.

He had also died broke. The first world war did nothing for the travel business. The
Anglo
Kontinental
Reisebüro
– German name – his father’s travel company, was among the first casualties. A couple of hard years followed, but at the age of only seventeen Hans-Max graduated, and got a good job in banking. His salary saved the family.

Hirschfeld opened his eyes - and found himself looking at the picture on the wall, opposite him. It was a copy of Quentin Metsys’
The
Money
Changer
and
His
Wife
. Manny had painted it. It had been presented to Hirschfeld personally, and a proud Else had made him hang it prominently.

The picture showed a seated moneychanger, weighing gold in a balance. There was a concentrated, almost adoring, expression on his face, as he looked at the gold. Next to him, his wife is watching the gold, not her husband, while absent-mindedly turning the pages of a prayer book.

‘Damn!’ Hirschfeld muttered to himself, aloud.

The painting had been hanging there for over a year, but for the first time it occurred to him what Manny meant by it. It would be typical of Manny to present him with a painting with a hidden meaning, then laugh up his sleeve every time he saw it on the wall. So he, Hirschfeld, was a money-changer, was he? The personification of greed; giving Holland’s gold away.

There was a drum-roll of bangs on the door, announcing the arrival of Hirschfeld’s nephew for the sabbath meal.

*

The three of them sat at the sabbath table, Else at the head. Else had felt unwell since early that morning. She feared her cold was turning into something significantly worse. She would have taken to her bed, had her son not been coming over.

Coughing and clutching her fist to her chest, she blessed the sabbath bread - plaited, with seeds on top - removing the ornate cloth from it as she did so. She then lit the candles and launched into the sabbath blessing:

‘
Ki
vahnu
vaharta
v’otanu
kidasha
– Almighty God you have chosen and sanctified us,’ she read laboriously, from a prayer book.

Manny snorted.

He and Hirschfeld helped themselves to soup, from the silver tureen, in the middle of the table. Hirschfeld had his spoon poised above his plate of oily chicken soup, when his sister began stumbling through the blessing of the wine.

Hirschfeld put his spoon down. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Else!’

‘
Boray
paree
hagoffen
,
’
shouted Else, defiantly, rushing the blessing to its end.

‘What’s suddenly made you so religious? We need to stop all this.’ Hirschfeld blinked at his sister, then waved at the panoply of self-conscious sabbath observance.

His arm was also meant to take in the two volumes of newly-published Hebrew poetry, in pride of place on an occasional table near the sabbath candles. Else had queued for them for hours, beating a crowd of predominantly female Jewish shoppers to it, before they sold out. She had triumphantly born the volumes home, lifted by their presence in her house, even though she couldn’t read them.

‘Why?’ Manny said, his chin dripping with soup. ‘Why do we have to stop being observant, Uncle Max? Because the Nazis wouldn’t like it?’

‘Manny! Please! Don’t start!’ Else’s eyes were pleading.

Hirschfeld shook his head at Manny. ‘And why are you, of all people, defending religious observance?’

Manny’s mouth was full. This was the first proper meal he’d had in three days.

‘For
the same reason we celebrate
Anjerdag
– Prince Bernhard’s birthday. And grow orange flowers. To show the
Moffen
they haven’t won yet.’

Else gathered the empty soup-plates and disappeared into the kitchen. They heard her talking to old Gerk Heemskerk. Gerk was here in his capacity as
shobbus
goy
- the Christian who came to switch the cooker off, so none of the Jews in the household would have to break the sabbath by an act classed as work.

This extension to Gerk’s duties – he also did the garden twice a week - was a recent affectation on Else’s part. It horrified Hirschfeld, as he could think of little that would more effectively draw attention to their Jewishness, outside the Jewish community.

Else brought the
cholent
with cooked barley –
kasha
- in its blackened oven-proof dish. Because
cholent
is a slow-cooked dish – potatoes, beans, some meat - it could be put in the oven before
shobbus
started, requiring the
shobbus
goy
only to take it out again and switch off the oven. This old Gerk had just done, before going on his way with a
dubbeltje
tip, left on the dresser by Else before sabbath came in.

Manny, who was drunk already, gulped down more wine before furiously assaulting his
cholent
and
kasha
. ‘So, what’s new with your friends, Uncle Max?’

‘My friends?’

‘Your friends the Nazis.’

Hirschfeld was tired. He was not interested in food, regarding eating as a tiresome chore, even when it was not accompanied by an attack from Emmanuel Roet. He did have a weakness for wine though, and silently fetched and opened another bottle of kosher Cordon Rouge.

He spoke as he sat down again. ‘Manny, listen to me, a minute. Whether we like it or not, the Germans control Holland. Now, one of the differences between being an adult and being a child, is that adults live in the real world. Not the world as we would like it to be. I therefore have to deal with the Germans.’

‘So, to want to change is childish, is it? To want the
Moffen
out of our country ... is that childish, Uncle Max?.’