On the leaflet distributed beforehand, People’s Defence introduces itself as ‘a popular movement’, which makes me picture a crowd applauding a steaming turd. The speech is dismal. The man thinks he’s in a courtroom full of paid-off judges. It’s all wheedling variations on ‘We all know that…’ and ‘We too feel sullied by…’ There are occasional growls of assent as well as a somewhat impatient ‘Hear, hear!’
The film is pitiful. It makes the period drama look like a sophisticated masterpiece. This so-called documentary shows how under the surface every Israelite, no matter how Western their clothing, is a rat, a parasite that latches on to all that is beautiful and pure, which, of course, includes all those present in the cinema. ‘Sickening!’ someone shouts, and he’s not talking about the quality of the film—he means the things that are being palmed off as truths and making his stomach churn with indignation.
Meanbeard has read my expression in the semi-darkness and spontaneously whispers that it is rather crude, though based on fact, because this is real footage from the Warsaw ghetto, and I shouldn’t start thinking the whole thing has been staged.
‘It’s really like that there,’ he concludes, before somebody behind us hisses for silence.
With the credits still rolling, someone starts shouting that he’s ‘fed up with it’.
Another joins in and bellows, ‘Jews out!’
‘The bastards, the dirty bastards!’
‘It’s gone on too long!’
I start to stand up, but Meanbeard grabs me by the wrist and tells me with a wink that I might not need to see the rest, given my position. Without giving me a chance to reply he hops up out of his own seat and into the aisle. Together with him the whole audience has risen in an uproar. People throng to the exit as if they’ve been putting up with the lice and fleas for too long and can’t wait to rush home for a soothing bath.
Outside, a gathering mob is openly wielding sticks and iron bars. For a moment I think we’re their target and I’m going to be stuck in the middle of a bloody riot on Keyser Lei with no other cops to lend a hand. After all, on Easter Monday almost the entire police force is on leave. On days like this there are never more than two or three patrols doing their rounds in each division. The armed gang at the exit greets us with a mighty ‘Jews out!’ They’ve obviously been waiting for us to join them. I see the uniforms of the Flemish SS here and there and start getting jittery. I feel naked standing here as an ordinary civilian, an anonymous cop on his much-needed day off. The mob forms a raucous procession and turns into Pelikaan Straat. Some of the cinemagoers walk away, but most join the demonstration. Even before reaching the corner myself, I hear a shop window shattering. Meanbeard is nowhere in sight, probably at the very front, surrounded by his lawyer friends. In Pelikaan Straat I see bricks flying. One shop after the other takes a battering. People on the upper floors look down from behind curtains. A furious shopkeeper rushes out, but only just escapes the clubs that threaten to rain down on him. He quickly slams his front door behind him. I distance myself a little, then sprint unnoticed down Vesting Straat. The station is dozing in a siesta silence like a Mexican cantina on a scorching-hot day. Nobody in sight. I shout and bang on the wooden desk.
‘Red alert, lads, red alert!’
The chief finally shows his face. ‘Wils, don’t you have the day off?’
My story has him reaching for the telephone. Before speaking into the receiver he gives me a quizzical look. ‘Which direction are they going?’
‘What do you think?’ I shout.
I run out, following the distant racket to the Jewish quarter.
You may be asking yourself, dear boy, why I followed them. I couldn’t stop them. Out of uniform I didn’t stand the slightest chance, and my presence as an ordinary citizen could count against me later. In all honesty I have to admit I was probably being dragged along by the excitement of it, nothing else. Does that make me an unthinking follower and, therefore, a dirty bastard? You can answer that question for yourself and if I am a bastard in your eyes, maybe you should skip this bit. Because, yes, of course, it’s true: there’s a bastard inside every follower. But I think you’ll keep reading, whatever you think of me, because nobody, not even you, is consistent, only lunatics in a loony bin are consistent, locked up in their own heads, fanatically clawing at their version of reality, which nobody understands but them. But let’s not talk about that, not yet anyway. Now we’re heading for the synagogue on the corner of Van den Nest Lei and Oosten Straat, in retrospect the mob’s obvious target.
I catch up to the racket near the corner of Baron Joostens Straat, where someone or something I can’t see is causing a hold-up at the front. There is glass everywhere. A Jew is lying on the street, groaning and bleeding, almost engulfed by the furious crowd. Someone drags him back into a house by the collar of his coat. The street noise sounds hollow, echoing off walls, making me think of fairground revelry that has got completely out of hand. At the front of the demonstration I see sticks raised in the air and then policemen beating a retreat, jeered by everyone. They probably tried to stop the mob, but with only two of them that was hopeless. Running
