Will

‘the spoken newspaper’, there was a bombastic announcement that the Germans had invaded Russia. ‘Finally,’ my father said. ‘Or did you think the Germans were going to stay friends with those Eastern barbarians? See? What did I tell you? Men like Hitler don’t rest on their laurels. He’s going to show his strength again! And it won’t take long. The Russians are already running head over heels. They’re going to hightail it all the way to Vladivostok!’ Yes, he’s happy, because he’s finally got a new job, working as a pen-pusher at the town hall. His pal there moved heaven and earth to get him there. The only thing my father had to do was establish that he was sufficiently Flemish, which meant: join the movement. According to him it was almost too late. We’d been teetering on the edge of the precipice. ‘If we’d had to keep living off the pittance you get from the police…’ All’s well that ends well, he says. He’s got money again, along with self-respect and Flemish credentials as a cover for running after the secretaries, and Mother’s relieved to be rid of his moaning. As for Hitler: there’s not a stronger person in the world. As far as my father’s concerned, he rocks us in his arms like a giant. My father is definitely not the only one enjoying the sensational offensive against the godless Bolsheviks. Do you hear the thrum on Keyser Lei? Everyone’s talking about it. But do you know how I feel? Classy. Because I have three tickets for a matinee at Café Atlantic. A singer they’re already calling ‘our Zarah Leander’ is performing there. Yvette’s arm in mine makes me realize that things are starting to pick up. I’m not going to tell you I’ve come to know love. It’s more that I’m starting to understand it better. Your future great-grandmother is a good-looking woman: men’s heads turn and women assess her taste in clothing—simple and elegant. I think she enjoys confusing people by walking arm in arm with both of us. Which one is her boyfriend? The fellow who vaguely resembles Errol Flynn and has worked so much pomade into his hair that Yvette is teasingly calling him ‘glue head’? Or is it the other one, me that is, with the dark carbuncle eyes, strutting in a second-hand suit, off-white, which makes my father think of waffle peddlers on a beach on the Côte d’Azur? In other words, son, it’s game on and I’m one of the players, without anything being spoken, as if I simply belong.

Do you hear that? We’re inside. It’s busy. Sit down next to us. There’s a spare chair at the table. Have I already told you what Yvette’s wearing? A black skirt cut just above the knee and a blouse with orange flowers sewn onto it. She’s put up her hair again, with auburn clips. Her mouth? Painted reddish brown, as usual. Of course, she’s very happy. I’ve already told you how much she loves singing. Waiters are walking around everywhere with their noses in the air and white cloths over their right arms. We are the last to be served. It’s all German officers at the tables behind and in front of ours. Their girlfriends are in high spirits, drinking wine or crème de menthe. They speak a little German and giggle amongst themselves. The accordionist sits down. The pianist gives the audience a nod, then cracks his knuckles. Here comes the tenor José Corazon. He’s actually called Jos Malfait, the son of a famous opera singer who was a local lad but celebrated triumphs in Milan, Paris and New York. After his father’s death, ‘José’ attempted to pick up the baton. Before the invasion, during the civil war in Spain, he was briefly known for his song ‘Spanish Refugees’. At the time, everyone was singing along to his voice, which could suddenly shoot up as if somebody had grabbed him by the balls mid-song: ‘I wander down abandoned roads / A hell on earth, where I sing in misery / Life knows no mercy, I am all alone / Take pity on me, a Spanish refugee.’ And yes, he’s given up singing that particular song now that the audience is packed with officers who made such an exemplary contribution to that same civil war, taking the opportunity to test their planes so that just a few years later they could sweep over our country too with their bellies full of bombs. But the Spanish style is still his trademark. With his dyed, slicked-back hair, a little kohl around his eyes and a grin full of white teeth, he sings of bullfighters, señoritas and the sound of guitars echoing through the empty streets of Seville. Even if he now sings in German.

‘I should have brought my fan,’ Yvette whispers cheerfully.

‘A torero like that,’ her brother joins in. ‘Just your thing.’

‘He’s wearing make-up—that’s definitely not my thing.’

She favours me with a glance as she says that.

‘All the artistes do it…’ I say.

Watch now that almost everyone has started swaying to the music. José sings about the kiss of a Gypsy girl who has stolen his heart. In front of him one woman after another is being led out onto the dance floor.

‘I’m getting sick of this,’ Lode growls. Fruitlessly, he snaps his fingers at the waiters hurrying past. ‘Just a beer, that’s all I want.’

Suddenly someone in a Waffen-SS uniform is standing at our table.

‘May I invite the young lady to join me on the dance floor?’

We look up. It’s no German. He’s one of us, but clicking his heels and with his hair shaved up high on the sides, he seems almost like the real thing, as if his body and mind were steeled in Prussia and this city is only useful as a place to relieve himself. I recognize him. It’s flipping Karel, the blonde boy who used to be in my class at school. I already told