The Enemy Within Read online

  This news was received in polite silence by the two guests.

  ‘Our proximity to our ancestors, here in this part of the world, helps us to imbibe their spirit,’ Himmler continued, spooning up soup with a vigorous elbowing motion.

  Van Tonningen fought down the disappointment welling up inside him. He forced himself to feign interest in what he would normally have considered obscurantist tripe.

  ‘We are close to the site of the battle of the Teutoburg Forest, where our great Germanic ancestor, Hermann, defeated the Romans. And I have given much thought to how the SS Knightly Order being trained here, in this castle, can best drink from their holy blood and essence. And I believe … I believe I have found a way.’

  The empty soup plates were being removed. Himmler was going through a vegetarian phase, so the next course was a Macaroni cheese, served with leeks.

  ‘And what way is that, Herr Reichsführer?’ prompted Rauter.

  Schellenberg allowed himself a faint smile. It was interrupted by another spasm of chesty coughing. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured. ‘My health is poor.’

  Himmler ignored him. ‘Babies conceived in cemeteries will inherit the spirit of whoever is buried there,’ the Reichsführer-SS informed the company. ‘I have compiled a list of suitable cemeteries. Girls of pure blood from the BDM will be brought to my SS elite guards there, late at night, for breeding on the graves. This programme, together with the elimination of those of corrupted blood, especially the Jews, will, in time, usher in a new era peopled by the Teutonic heroes of the past, made flesh again.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Schellenberg.

  Himmler was nodding to himself, as coffee was served. Van Tonningen, used to Dutch coffee, grimaced at its grainy bitterness. But a subtle shift in Himmler’s manner warned him they were about to get down to business.

  *

  ‘Outline the situation in the Low Countries, if you please,’ Himmler said, waving at Rauter, as if introducing him on stage. ‘We believe the Dutch are a cognate Aryan race,’ he added, generously, to van Tonningen, who nodded in acknowledgement.

  Rauter took a deep breathe. ‘I shall speak about the general situation in the Netherlands, Herr Reichsführer,’ he said, ‘and then Herr van Tonningen will report on the atrocity which is the immediate cause of our visit to you, at this time.’

  Schellenberg motioned to two of the waiters. ‘Obersturmbahnführer Sanne and Dr Brandt are needed,’ he murmured. ‘One moment, please,’ Schellenberg added to Rauter, who obediently paused.

  The two officials had obviously been waiting nearby, as they arrived in the dining-room instantly and together. Sanne, Schellenberg’s deputy, was in SS uniform; Brandt, Himmler’s personal secretary, wore a black suit, with a wing-collared white shirt. Both were carrying a pile of bulky files. At Himmler’s nod, they sat at two of the laid places near the foot of the table.

  ‘As you know, Herr Reichsführer, we have three areas of priority,’ Rauter began. ‘The re-directing of Dutch industry to help our war economy, the transfer of Dutch labour to the Reich, and the expulsion of Holland’s Jews to the east. Until now, it has been thought that all three would be best achieved by engaging the co-operation, as far as possible, of the Dutch civilian population.’ Rauter looked at van Tonningen, who nodded support.

  ‘Of the three,’ Rauter continued. ‘The re-directing of Dutch industry to support the war effort is the most significant. We would greatly prefer to build warships in Dutch shipyards, both because of their productive capacities, which exceeds even what we have in Hamburg and Bremen, and for geographical reasons.’

  ‘And that is where Hirschfeld is so important,’ Himmler said.

  Van Tonningen was so surprised at the mention of the hated name, here at the very epicentre of Aryanism, that he choked on his coffee.

  ‘Indeed,’ Rauter said.

  ‘Dr Brandt, the background, if you would be so kind,’ Himmler said.

  Brandt opened a file, but did not refer to it. ‘Hirschfeld has been important to us since the earliest days of the incorporation of the Netherlands into the Reich,’ he began, as if quoting a well-known saying. ‘His liaison with Oberst Nagel had our troops included in the central distribution of petrol supplies, which was vital for the war effort, in the early days. He was also a key figure in countermanding General Winkelman’s instructions that no help was to be given to the German war effort.’

  ‘What!’ Van Tonningen said, louder than he intended. ‘Hirschfeld formally protested at the overriding of the League of Nations Guidelines for occupied countries. I was there when he did it.’

  ‘We know that,’ Schellenberg said.

  ‘We let him do it,’ Sanne put in, in a conciliatory manner, smiling at van Tonningen. ‘We knew that the General Instructions …’ he used the Dutch word, Aanwijzingen, ‘… were of great significance to the Dutch. We had to let them let off steam. And anyway, Hirschfeld is more use to us if he is not seen as completely our creature.’

  Schellenberg took up the story. ‘What really mattered was his co-operation with the Rüstingsinspektion Niederlande – the so-called Armament Inspection Group, under Thomas von Schrötter. With Hirschfeld’s help, von Schrötter got Fokker, Aviolanda and De Schelde making components, aircraft and flying-boats as well as re-tooling for the production of U boats and cruisers in the docks. It would not have happened anywhere near so quickly without him.’

  ‘Hirschfeld’s own nephew is involved in sabotaging the construction of German warships as we speak,’ van Tonningen shouted, his tiny features tense with strain.

  Schellenberg glanced at his assistant. The information was clearly new to both of them.

  ‘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 ex
plained 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 E
urope, 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.