the typically Dutch tafelkleed – the table covering which looks to foreigners like a carpet – on the second desk in the office, where the secretary or stenographer sometimes sat.
An office said a lot about a man, in Hirschfeld’s opinion. This one spoke of an understanding of the Dutch, which in the context of the occupation meant a willingness to go with the grain. Hirschfeld knew very well that this was not due to any moral quality, on Rauter’s part, rather to an intuitive understanding of the quickest way to get things done. He was a pragmatist, Rauter was, as was Hirschfeld.
This alignment of attitudes, however, stopped short of an alliance. There was no bond, no fellow feeling, between them. Such a bond would have been inimical to both of them. It would also have threatened the very pragmatism which had enabled it in the first place.
Even so, Hirschfeld counted himself lucky that Rauter was his point of contact with the Occupying Authority. Other Nazis he knew well – Böhmcker, Schmidt – would have been much more problematic to work with. So the sight of Rauter’s face tense with anger caused the Secretary General no little anxiety.
After the briefest of greetings, Rauter came straight to the point. ‘I’ve been to see Himmler. Your Jews have fouled their own nest. Two of them have murdered a German, and drunk his blood in one of your Jew rituals. One of the two was your nephew, apparently.’
‘What? Are you sure?’ Hirschfeld was shaking.
‘Yes. We’re looking for him. Do you know where he is?’
‘No. We lost touch years ago.’
‘Just as well. Anyway, steps are now being taken to rein in the Jews. It’s your own damn fault. Here’s the order.’
Rauter threw it across the desk. It was badly typed, on Himmler’s notepaper, and signed by the Reichsführer-SS himself. Hirschfeld read it as slowly as possible, giving himself a chance to recover from the news about Manny:
An order has been issued to establish a Central Office for Jewish Emigration in the Occupied Netherlands , which would serve as an example of the solution of the Jewish question for all European countries . The Central Office for Jewish Emigration will be in charge of concentrating all Dutch Jews , supervising their everyday life , and of the centralised processing of emigration .
Hirschfeld breathed deeply. He had no doubt what emigration meant. It meant forced labour, probably in the east. He moved in his seat, shifting his shoulders into position, his body mirroring his mind’s acceptance of his load. He was thinking so hard, his head was bursting, but outwardly his demeanour was mild and respectful.
‘I wouldn’t use the word emigration in the title,’ he murmured.
‘Agreed. I thought the same.’
‘ Joodsche Raad – Jewish Council?’
Rauter made a note. ‘Yes. Agreed. You’ll head it, of course.’
Hirschfeld pretended to think about it. ‘It would be better if I didn’t.’
Rauter raised an eyebrow. ‘Because …’
‘In the Jewish community, I’m perceived as being too close to the Occupying Authority. Figures with greater independence would … meet less resistance.’
Rauter nodded again. ‘Who?’
‘Let them choose their own board, their own …’
‘No! Take too long. We’re not waiting for a load of chattering Jews. Names. Now.’
Hirschfeld took his time. ‘I’d use two leaders,’ he said, finally.
‘Why?’
‘Keeps the organisation weak.’
Rauter permitted himself a half-smile. ‘You should have been an Aryan, Hirschfeld. Which two?’
‘I’d use Abraham Asscher.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Diamond merchant. Has his own company. Leader of the business community. He’s also head of the Netherlands-Jewish Board of Deputies. And … for moral authority … Professor David Cohen. ‘
Rauter rang for a stenographer to take minutes. A lady in a severe costume appeared instantly, and sat at the second desk, typing onto a soundless keyboard, placed on the tafelkleed
An office said a lot about a man, in Hirschfeld’s opinion. This one spoke of an understanding of the Dutch, which in the context of the occupation meant a willingness to go with the grain. Hirschfeld knew very well that this was not due to any moral quality, on Rauter’s part, rather to an intuitive understanding of the quickest way to get things done. He was a pragmatist, Rauter was, as was Hirschfeld.
This alignment of attitudes, however, stopped short of an alliance. There was no bond, no fellow feeling, between them. Such a bond would have been inimical to both of them. It would also have threatened the very pragmatism which had enabled it in the first place.
Even so, Hirschfeld counted himself lucky that Rauter was his point of contact with the Occupying Authority. Other Nazis he knew well – Böhmcker, Schmidt – would have been much more problematic to work with. So the sight of Rauter’s face tense with anger caused the Secretary General no little anxiety.
After the briefest of greetings, Rauter came straight to the point. ‘I’ve been to see Himmler. Your Jews have fouled their own nest. Two of them have murdered a German, and drunk his blood in one of your Jew rituals. One of the two was your nephew, apparently.’
‘What? Are you sure?’ Hirschfeld was shaking.
‘Yes. We’re looking for him. Do you know where he is?’
‘No. We lost touch years ago.’
‘Just as well. Anyway, steps are now being taken to rein in the Jews. It’s your own damn fault. Here’s the order.’
Rauter threw it across the desk. It was badly typed, on Himmler’s notepaper, and signed by the Reichsführer-SS himself. Hirschfeld read it as slowly as possible, giving himself a chance to recover from the news about Manny:
An order has been issued to establish a Central Office for Jewish Emigration in the Occupied Netherlands , which would serve as an example of the solution of the Jewish question for all European countries . The Central Office for Jewish Emigration will be in charge of concentrating all Dutch Jews , supervising their everyday life , and of the centralised processing of emigration .
Hirschfeld breathed deeply. He had no doubt what emigration meant. It meant forced labour, probably in the east. He moved in his seat, shifting his shoulders into position, his body mirroring his mind’s acceptance of his load. He was thinking so hard, his head was bursting, but outwardly his demeanour was mild and respectful.
‘I wouldn’t use the word emigration in the title,’ he murmured.
‘Agreed. I thought the same.’
‘ Joodsche Raad – Jewish Council?’
Rauter made a note. ‘Yes. Agreed. You’ll head it, of course.’
Hirschfeld pretended to think about it. ‘It would be better if I didn’t.’
Rauter raised an eyebrow. ‘Because …’
‘In the Jewish community, I’m perceived as being too close to the Occupying Authority. Figures with greater independence would … meet less resistance.’
Rauter nodded again. ‘Who?’
‘Let them choose their own board, their own …’
‘No! Take too long. We’re not waiting for a load of chattering Jews. Names. Now.’
Hirschfeld took his time. ‘I’d use two leaders,’ he said, finally.
‘Why?’
‘Keeps the organisation weak.’
Rauter permitted himself a half-smile. ‘You should have been an Aryan, Hirschfeld. Which two?’
‘I’d use Abraham Asscher.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Diamond merchant. Has his own company. Leader of the business community. He’s also head of the Netherlands-Jewish Board of Deputies. And … for moral authority … Professor David Cohen. ‘
Rauter rang for a stenographer to take minutes. A lady in a severe costume appeared instantly, and sat at the second desk, typing onto a soundless keyboard, placed on the tafelkleed
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