away in the direction of the railway viaduct over Plantin en Moretus Lei, one of them blows his whistle. The shrill blast has the demonstrators cracking up, like a gang of guttersnipes seeing their fathers humiliated. Immediately afterwards the stained glass of the great synagogue is shattered. I see Omer, the lawyer with the deep voice, pull a fence over before joining others in furiously kicking at the front door, while the rest cheer them on. The wood cracks and they’re inside. Applause. Frightened wailing is heard from inside and then it’s like the building itself vomits out a family that was apparently living in the caretaker’s apartment. A woman, two children and a man are kicked down the steps and run for their lives, unable to completely avoid the sticks raining down on them. They’re lucky that, apart from a couple of hotheads, nobody wants to pursue them too stubbornly. I see them following the railway towards Grote Hond Straat, where the seventh division has a station. Then the building starts coughing up things instead of people: chairs, books, rolls of paper. The rioters trying to force their way into the synagogue shrink back a little until there’s a lull in the hurling. Omer comes out gripping a long iron rod he uses to smash the windows that haven’t been shattered yet. People grab the prayer books and Torah rolls and rip them to shreds. Smoke starts wafting out of the synagogue. More applause and whistling. Everything is being filmed. I see a camera crew standing to one side. Germans, presumably. It’s all been arranged in advance. It’s all a performance, as serious as an Easter procession, but with slogans and shattered glass instead of candles and hymns. Look, says Angelo, this is your epoch. Look at what you’ve let yourself be led to, the event where you can still do more than just be a witness. Participation is only one stone away. I see a grotesquely fat woman kick one of the books over the ground, follow it, kick it again, shouting all the while that she doesn’t want to dirty her hands on it. She reaps a few chuckles of appreciation. The rest of the fences around the synagogue are down now too, bent like reeds by what’s known as the will of the people. More black smoke billows out of the smashed windows. I’m standing in the doorway of one of the houses on Van den Nest Lei, somewhat sheltered. A well-groomed man in a three-piece pinstriped suit asks me for a light, calmly, as if what’s going on is no big deal, and I provide it, as if we two are standing together at a summer festival with a few innocent traditional games as entertainment. He cups his hands around the flame, lights his cigarette, nods his thanks and whispers, ‘It’s taken long enough. They were warned. Now they’re getting their just deserts.’ Without waiting for my reaction, he strolls off to the debris that has accumulated around the building, uses one hand to pick up a chair that has not yet been completely destroyed and smashes it down on the cobbles before striding away from the chaos. Meanwhile Omer has wrecked every last window. He balances the iron rod on one shoulder, looking around for more work, sees me standing in the doorway and winks, as if disassociating himself from the violence he has helped cause. I look away, pretending I haven’t noticed. The fire brigade siren comes closer. That doesn’t make any kind of impression on those present. There are still no police in sight. I watch as Omer kicks a Jewish woman in the stomach. She is down on the ground with her arms wrapped around the bars of the bent fence and doesn’t make a sound. She is lying there like a stuffed doll. He kicks her again, then looks around as if he has done something daring and liberating and is waiting for applause. But I am the only one who has seen what he just did and he’s not looking in my direction. I am the only one who is picturing Omer’s head in a puddle of blood. The fire brigade arrives; the firemen leap out and rush to attach the rubber hose to the fire engine. They are abused as the lowest of the low. Someone throws a stone at one of them. It glances off his helmet. Without a moment’s hesitation, the fireman storms over to the stone thrower and floors him with one mighty blow. Police whistles sound. They now come running from all directions to form a cordon around the firemen. The party’s over. I slip off—my house is just a hundred metres away in Kruik Straat. Windows have been broken in my street too; I can hear people crying and there are still a few rowdy youths wandering around with sticks. One of them is squinting at our front door, probably to see if there’s a name over the bell that could be Jewish. I grab him by the scruff of the neck and bash his head against the front door. ‘Not here…’ I say. The boy collapses in a crooked heap on our doorstep, his hands over his face, whimpering. I grab him by the throat with an iron grip and lift him up against the front door. His nose is buggered and blood is gushing out of it. I squeeze harder. I swear I notice my heartbeat slowing down. I swear equally solemnly that I feel like going further and I know I’m capable of it, no problem at all. His companions are keeping their distance, too scared to do anything, mouths gaping. ‘Please,’ the boy jabbers, ‘please.’ Bubbles of blood and spit on his lips. ‘Please, who?’ I ask. ‘Please, sir…’ I let go.
Upstairs those who call themselves my parents look at me with frightened eyes.
‘I thought they’d already got inside,’ my mother quakes.
My father scratches his ear
Вы читаете Will
