Some of the accusations we have to take seriously, others our inspector ignores, waiting for the Germans to take the initiative or, more specifically, the Secret Field Police, who have the task of suppressing all sabotage, resistance or other forms of dissent. The prison in Begijnen Straat is already full to overflowing. Far too many people are being picked up for far too many trifles. A lot of cops laugh their heads off when talk turns to Begijnen Straat.
‘It’s one big knocking shop, mate, incredible. It used to be bad, but it’s only got worse.’ I’m finished for the day and want to go home, but Jean still has things he wants to talk about. ‘A mate of mine works there. It’s a complete den of iniquity, Wilfried, it beggars description. And everyone keeps thinking the Germans are so proper. My arse! I hear stories about Germans who take bribes from prisoners for a so-called dentist’s appointment so they can go see their wives. Under supervision, mind! There are so many people coming and going, it’s like a railway station. Pay enough and you can go in there as a visitor without a pass or anything. No problem. Meanwhile they’re jammed into those cells and every now and then one of them cops a beating from those same German guards because he hasn’t slipped them enough pocket money and it just keeps on like that. Zu Befehl? I don’t think so. Those blokes follow orders when it suits them, otherwise they wipe their boots on ’em.’
Money talks. Jean knows all about that. He reads my expression and treats me to a shameless grin.
That very night, behind the zoo, we catch two cheeky little buggers daubing V-signs and ‘England forever’ on the Provincie Straat pavement.
‘Defacing a public thoroughfare!’ Jean says, grabbing one of the scamps by the collar.
The other one howls, ‘We had to. Our dad made us!’ He twists his fists in a plea for mercy. Oh, poor us!
‘Nice. Betraying your own father just like that.’
Jean gives the boy a whack around the earhole.
They’re shivering. The people are restless, as they say. It’s another cold winter, food is scarce and hardly anyone can afford to heat their flats properly. The occupier has issued warnings: listening to foreign radio is prohibited. But behind their curtains many people still delude themselves they’re safe. Yesterday there was a demonstration for more bread, led by housewives. It didn’t last long, of course. But still…
Jean straightens his belt and looks at me, ‘What are we going to do with these fellers?’
‘We should really take them to Begijnen Straat…’ I reply, playing the role Jean expects.
‘I think so too.’
‘Our dad will be furious, officer!’ The little chap is getting more and more agitated. His brother, who Jean still has by the collar, stays icy calm.
‘Seeing as he encouraged you two to do this, maybe we should go drop in on your father too.’
The icy one looks at Jean and says, ‘We’re patriots. You?’
Jean gives the back of the boy’s neck a good squeeze. ‘Vandals, more like it.’
‘Ignore my brother! He’s not all there. He was born like that!’
‘Really?’
‘Let us go… We’ll never do it again.’
The icy one shrugs. ‘Do what you like. We’ll track you down after the war.’
‘Unbelievable…’ Jean gives the boy a good shaking.
The other brother raises his hands in despair. ‘Stop… Don’t…’
I ask him where he lives.
‘Tol Straat,’ he quakes.
‘That’s on the other bloody side of town. Piss off. Go play silly buggers in your own neighbourhood!’ Jean gives both boys a shove, followed by a kick up the bum for the calm one.
‘Blackshirts!’ the boy shouts as they both start to run.
Jean watches them disappear. ‘It makes your head spin, doesn’t it? And it’s going to get worse, a lot worse. Brace yourself…’
Five weeks later it got worse.
‘What?’ Jean asks the chief. ‘Could you say that again, please? I didn’t quite get it.’
‘Get your ears cleaned, Jean. I’ve told you. It’s about what not to do. The Germans have given some individuals—that’s what it says here: some individuals—permission to paint pro-German slogans on walls and streets this evening and all weekend. Under no circumstances are we to intervene.’
‘Are we allowed to help, then? I mean, who knows if these blokes can even spell—’
‘Jean, I’m sick to death of you.’
‘That makes two of us, chief. That makes two of us.’
We leave the station. Another night patrol.
‘Where were they going to make a mess of our streets again?’
‘Along The Boulevard. Around the opera house, the National Bank, the courthouse…’
‘Let’s take the National Bank.’
‘That’s not our district any more, Jean.’
‘Don’t be daft. The whole city’s my district.’
We follow The Boulevard south through the freezing cold.
‘Real sausages. My cousin brought them with her from the Campine. We’ve got farmers in the family.’
‘It’s been a long time…’ I say.
‘I don’t offer them to everyone.’
‘I know, I know.’ I’m on my guard. If I accept them, will it cost me? But real sausages… What difference does it make?
‘I’ll bring them tomorrow.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
Jean stops and looks at me. ‘No strings attached, huh? It’s because we’re partners.’
‘I don’t have anything to offer you anyway.’
Jean lays a hand on my shoulder and laughs. ‘As if I didn’t know that…’
A little further along in the semi-darkness we see three men bending over the pavement opposite the overloaded cream cake we call the National Bank. One of them is squatting down with a paintbrush in one hand. A tin of paint by his side. As if in a silent film, Jean opens his eyes wide and holds his index finger up to his lips.
He whispers, ‘Let’s get at ’em…’
We approach silently. The men don’t look up. In big clumsy letters they’ve daubed ‘Germany victori…’
Suddenly Jean roars,
