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Authors: Michael Dean
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office. On his way out, he took his coat, hat and his hand-knitted brown muffler from the hat-stand. In the outer office, Annemarie, at her desk, looked up from her work.
‘I’m going out,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘Personal business.’ Annemarie looked surprised, but said nothing. ‘Telephone Peter Lambooy at the NSM. Tell him I wish to address the shipyard workers.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘What do you mean, where? In the canteen.’
‘They won’t all get into the canteen. There’s over a thousand of them.’
Hirschfeld nodded. ‘Correct. There’s actually 1,360 of them. OK, make it outside on the docks, where they are working on the Arminius . Let’s hope it doesn’t rain. Tell him I’ll need a megaphone, or something.’
Annemarie was making notes in shorthand. ‘What time? After they finish work?’
Hirschfeld allowed himself a bleak smile. ‘No. Half an hour before. Four-thirty.’
As he left the ministry building, Hirschfeld passed his official car parked in the courtyard. His chauffeur, in shirtsleeves, was washing it, lovingly dabbing at the coachwork with a chamois cloth.
‘ Goedemorgen , meneer Hirschfeld !’ The chauffeur, an old soldier with a handlebar moustache and grey hair, straightened, practically coming to attention, embarrassed at being seen in his shirtsleeves.
‘ Dag Hendrik ,’ Hirschfeld snapped, walking on briskly, before the driver could offer him the use of the car. Attempting to help his nephew evade the authorities was hardly official business. Hirschfeld could feel the driver’s puzzled stare on his back as he strode away.
A number 14 tram rattled past him and stopped. The 14 ran through the Jewish Quarter, but he decided to walk. He needed to clear his head. He tried to recall the last time he had left his desk to subvert the Occupying Authority. He couldn’t. There hadn’t been a last time. Above him, dense grey clouds gathered, lowering, threatening fog.
Hirschfeld crossed the Amstel at the Blaauw Brug. A six-wheeled armoured car overtook him. He had never seen an armoured car on the streets before. The hatch of the turret was open; a coal-scuttle helmeted Orpo peered out. For a second, their eyes met, before the armoured car swept on, into the Jewish Quarter.
Hirschfeld recalled seeing a corps of Orpos marching through the centre of Amsterdam, three abreast, just after the German invasion. They were called police, perhaps to reassure the civilian population, and their uniforms were green, like the police in Germany, but they were soldiers alright, in their jackboots and steel helmets. And Manny had apparently killed one of them. Or at least the Occupying Authority thought he had, which came to the same thing.
At the end of the bridge, an even bigger shock awaited Hirschfeld. Two poles had been erected about eight feet high. Nailed to them, forming an arch, was a broad wooden sign with black lettering on it. In capital letters it said:
JUDEN VIERTEL
JOODSCHE WIJK
To the side of the improvised arch there were red and white wooden road barriers: two pieces of wood about three feet apart running to both ends of the bridge.
Rauter was sealing off the Jewish Quarter.
Hirschfeld stopped, breathing deeply. Rauter had not said a word about this, this morning. After a moment, he felt the colour coming back into his face. They could not, he thought, seal off the Jewish Quarter completely. It was too big. And even if they did, not all Jews would be within the ghetto, thus created.
Hundreds of Jews lived outside the Jewish Quarter, as Hirschfeld himself did. Also, there was a minority of non-Jews living among the Jews in the Jewish Quarter. Hirschfeld’s mind raced. Any measures against the Jews would be difficult, if not impossible, without a register of who was a Jew and who was not. But of course the
Germans had started that. Registration of the market traders was starting today.
Hirschfeld looked up at the sky, then down again. There
‘I’m going out,’ Hirschfeld said. ‘Personal business.’ Annemarie looked surprised, but said nothing. ‘Telephone Peter Lambooy at the NSM. Tell him I wish to address the shipyard workers.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘What do you mean, where? In the canteen.’
‘They won’t all get into the canteen. There’s over a thousand of them.’
Hirschfeld nodded. ‘Correct. There’s actually 1,360 of them. OK, make it outside on the docks, where they are working on the Arminius . Let’s hope it doesn’t rain. Tell him I’ll need a megaphone, or something.’
Annemarie was making notes in shorthand. ‘What time? After they finish work?’
Hirschfeld allowed himself a bleak smile. ‘No. Half an hour before. Four-thirty.’
As he left the ministry building, Hirschfeld passed his official car parked in the courtyard. His chauffeur, in shirtsleeves, was washing it, lovingly dabbing at the coachwork with a chamois cloth.
‘ Goedemorgen , meneer Hirschfeld !’ The chauffeur, an old soldier with a handlebar moustache and grey hair, straightened, practically coming to attention, embarrassed at being seen in his shirtsleeves.
‘ Dag Hendrik ,’ Hirschfeld snapped, walking on briskly, before the driver could offer him the use of the car. Attempting to help his nephew evade the authorities was hardly official business. Hirschfeld could feel the driver’s puzzled stare on his back as he strode away.
A number 14 tram rattled past him and stopped. The 14 ran through the Jewish Quarter, but he decided to walk. He needed to clear his head. He tried to recall the last time he had left his desk to subvert the Occupying Authority. He couldn’t. There hadn’t been a last time. Above him, dense grey clouds gathered, lowering, threatening fog.
Hirschfeld crossed the Amstel at the Blaauw Brug. A six-wheeled armoured car overtook him. He had never seen an armoured car on the streets before. The hatch of the turret was open; a coal-scuttle helmeted Orpo peered out. For a second, their eyes met, before the armoured car swept on, into the Jewish Quarter.
Hirschfeld recalled seeing a corps of Orpos marching through the centre of Amsterdam, three abreast, just after the German invasion. They were called police, perhaps to reassure the civilian population, and their uniforms were green, like the police in Germany, but they were soldiers alright, in their jackboots and steel helmets. And Manny had apparently killed one of them. Or at least the Occupying Authority thought he had, which came to the same thing.
At the end of the bridge, an even bigger shock awaited Hirschfeld. Two poles had been erected about eight feet high. Nailed to them, forming an arch, was a broad wooden sign with black lettering on it. In capital letters it said:
JUDEN VIERTEL
JOODSCHE WIJK
To the side of the improvised arch there were red and white wooden road barriers: two pieces of wood about three feet apart running to both ends of the bridge.
Rauter was sealing off the Jewish Quarter.
Hirschfeld stopped, breathing deeply. Rauter had not said a word about this, this morning. After a moment, he felt the colour coming back into his face. They could not, he thought, seal off the Jewish Quarter completely. It was too big. And even if they did, not all Jews would be within the ghetto, thus created.
Hundreds of Jews lived outside the Jewish Quarter, as Hirschfeld himself did. Also, there was a minority of non-Jews living among the Jews in the Jewish Quarter. Hirschfeld’s mind raced. Any measures against the Jews would be difficult, if not impossible, without a register of who was a Jew and who was not. But of course the
Germans had started that. Registration of the market traders was starting today.
Hirschfeld looked up at the sky, then down again. There
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