Free The Enemy Within by Michael Dean Page B

and laid into them. The two WA went down and stayed down. The Jews, and one of the waiters, then got hold of the remaining WA and pushed and dragged them all into one corner. To Hirschfeld’s great satisfaction, they beat them to a pulp.
    The leader called out ‘Stop, that’s enough!’
    The Jews stopped instantly, leaving the WA groaning or unconscious. The Jewish leader walked across to Hirschfeld, through the wreck of the cafè. He was good-looking – his face dominated by a hawk-nose. Hirschfeld remembered seeing him at the Waterloo Plein market.
    ‘I’m Joel Cosman,’ he said.
    Hirschfeld’s breath and poise were returning, although his head ached. ‘Hirschfeld,’ he said. ‘Hans-Max Hirschfeld.’
    Cosman nodded. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Manny’s uncle. The Secretary General. I’ve seen you before, somewhere. At synagogue, was it?’
    ‘Not for quite a while.’
    ‘I’d make yourself scarce if I were you. There’ll be more NSBers here soon. And they’ll call in the Moffen .’
    Hirschfeld wasn’t so sure about that. Rauter loathed WA toughs causing disorder on the streets, distracting people from work. But he was hardly going to say that to a knokploeg leader.
    He sat down heavily, still in shock, and took a sip of his cold coffee. Cosman turned on his heel. He and his followers ran back to their car, which coughed into life, then disappeared from view.
    Ernst Cahn reappeared from somewhere – had he been out the back? The waiters and Long Freddy staggered to tables, to nurse their wounds. Hirschfeld wondered if he could help Cahn, in some way; put in a word when the authorities came. But the ammonia bomb had been premeditated. Cahn would have had WA raids before; he’d laid an ambush. There was nothing Hirschfeld could do. He said goodbye to Cahn, wished him luck, and left the Koco .
    *
    Thankfully safe back in his office, he sent Annemarie van Dijk out for some mercurochrome, for his back. The bruising where he had thudded against the wall was becoming painful. When she returned, she agreed, with some amusement, to apply the salve herself, as Hirschfeld lay on his front in his underpants on the office sofa - the site of their so-nearly consummated encounter.
    ‘How did you get these?’ the secretary asked, tracing scratches on Hirschfeld’s back, with two fingers covered with red mercurochrome.
    ‘I am a passionate man,’ Hirschfeld replied. ‘Ouch! Go easy, Annemarie.’
    The secretary laughed. ‘Perhaps you should take your own advice, meneer Hirschfeld. And at your age, too. There! You’re finished. Be careful as you put your shirt on. That stuff stains.’
    After a late lunch of a cheese roll and glass of Karnemelk , taken at his desk, the Secretary-General finally and thankfully absorbed himself in his work. He made a couple of rapid calculations on a notepad, regarding shipbuilding workers’ wages.
    A call came through from Rost van Tonningen. The NSBer screamed down the line. ‘I just wanted to let you know that your friend Ernst Cahn is in gaol in Scheveningen. Happy now? You satisfied, Hirschfeld?’
    ‘Neither happy nor satisfied, as it happens,’ Hirschfeld said. Scheveningen Prison, known mordantly as The Orange Hotel, was a torture centre used for opponents of the Reich. ‘Who’s dealing with him?’
    ‘We are, of course. The NSB. Three of my men were badly burned in that attack by a mob of your Jews. Some fiendish Jew substance was thrown over them; brewed in your estaminets. I’ve complained to Rauter. I’ve requested your arrest, Hirschfeld. You were there. Don’t deny it, you were seen.’
    Hirschfeld glanced at his watch. He would phone Rauter when van Tonningen finished screaming, but if anybody was going to arrest him they would have done it by now. ‘I just happened to be there,’ Hirschfeld said, down the phone. ‘I was drinking a cup of coffee.’
    ‘But with Cahn!’ yelled van Tonningen, triumphantly. ‘With the Jew agitator Cahn, who’s already