*
I’ve never seen Meanbeard this furious. He’s frothing at the mouth. Foambeard.
‘You and all those other cops are a pack of scabs! Turncoats, the lot of you!’
‘What are you talking about?’
He jumps up off his chaise longue, comes over to stand right in front of my chair, and starts his tirade. ‘No, that’s not going to work, friend. Don’t play dumb with me. I had to calm Gregor down. Do you know what kind of position you’ve put me in? I presumed you would keep me informed and that’s what I told him, an SD man. “Gregor,” I said, “the boy’s on our side. You can rely on it. If he knows something, we’ll know it too.” Now he’s rubbing my nose in those words. And I guarantee you that’s no laughing matter with a man like him. From one moment to the next, Gregor turned into a hurricane. Roaring. And this, and that! They’ve had to cancel tonight’s operation entirely. And you undoubtedly know why. Your station’s crammed with Jew-lovers. No, damn it. That’s putting it too nicely, you stupid idiot! Because don’t try telling me no money changed hands. The raid’s off. Happy now? But you’re all going to pay. The lot of you! If not one way, then the other. But it’s going to happen!’
‘I simply didn’t know a thing about it,’ I say, as calmly as I can.
‘No, that much is fucking clear. It’s a good thing Eduard Vingerhoets knew more than you. The Finger warned Gregor straight away. He’s someone you can rely on. It’s time you got to know your friends a bit better. He knows which side you’re on. I told him again.’
‘That bastard hates me.’
‘Get it into your thick skull: the Finger is one of the few friends you’ve got on the force. But the question remains, can we really trust you? The question remains, are you one of us? With the Finger there’s no doubt, but you? Well, do you have anything to say? Did you or didn’t you know your division was so rotten some of the cops are on those hook-nosed bastards’ payroll? Yes or no, what’s the story?!’
He looks down on me. He’s sprayed his outburst all over my face.
I try to control my rage. Does everyone really think they can do whatever they like with me, that I’m at their beck and call, the way my father is so fond of saying? Suddenly an enormous hate rises in me, a hate that sweeps away the smouldering humiliation I’ve been going through recently. Why on earth am I holding back? Why do people just keep on taking it until they’re nothing but soulless dummies? I’ve finished school, I’ve done my training, it’s enough. I soaked it all up, took what was worth taking, and the rest of my education, that thinly disguised brainwashing that never really took, is over. I wipe the saliva from my face and stand up like a man.
‘Did you have to spit in my face like that?’
‘Sorry, what? N’as-tu pas honte? You’re shameless!’
I straighten my back and show him Angelo. I let him see himself being knocked over like a pawn on a chessboard, dragged over the floor by the hair to the stairwell and kicked all the way down. I see Angelo’s fists descending on him like hammers and skilfully beating his bearded face to a pulp. I see Angelo’s face covered with splatters of blood and how he then unbuttons his fly and pisses on the mush that was once a head. It only happens in my head, but I make sure he realizes. And it works immediately.
‘All right, take it easy,’ I hear him say. ‘I’m a bit on edge.’
‘Exactly,’ I say.
‘I know you’re different. But you have to understand… my position.’
‘Maybe you should start out by making an effort to understand just who you’re dealing with.’
‘Goodness.’ Meanbeard puts on an uncertain smile. ‘Tough talk.’
‘Don’t ever shout at me again,’ I say and leave.
‘No,’ Lode says, ‘not with me. I’m not going to be a part of it. You can scream till you’re blue in the face.’
The chief looks at his log. ‘I’m going to have to make a note of that, boy.’
‘Do whatever you like.’
We’re on night duty. It’s about three in the morning, 28th August 1942. We’re being drummed up for a new operation. There we stand, like little children. And now one of us is talking like a man. Or a fool. There’s not much difference.
Gaston tugs on Lode’s sleeve. ‘Have you lost your mind? Don’t make a fuss. You know what it can lead to.’
Someone says, ‘It’ll be Breendonk for you, pal.’
That’s the rumour. Anyone who refuses to cooperate goes straight to the camp of horrors, that’s what people are saying. So: here are the names. Go to Terlist Straat. Round them all up.
‘If none of us go, nothing will happen.’
‘You’re making it even worse. This is insubordination, Metdepenningen!’
Gaston leans in towards him. ‘Don’t exaggerate, chief. Leave it. We’ll talk him round.’
Lode looks at the rest of us, shakes his head and leaves without wasting another breath on it. I waver. I don’t want it to end like this. I can’t see myself being beaten into submission in a camp, surrounded by victims and swine, begging for a scrap of bread and finally realizing that it was my own fault, that I was the one who had stopped the wheel of fate forever.
We’re gathered in a deathly quiet Terlist Straat. This time there are no Germans present. This time we really are alone. The names are shared out. There are about twenty of us, maybe more. Two of us are guarding the synagogue in the street. That’s where we have to lock them up.
Gaston says again that we shouldn’t make a fuss. I sigh.
‘We’re going to stay calm, Wilfried. Just knock on the door and—’
‘Be polite?’
It’s Gaston’s turn to sigh. We’re spread out in front of the doors
