The helmet was being shoved back onto his head and someone took him to the open car. The officer shouted commands; Schulz and the other wounded, and probably dead, were laid out in the third truck. All the other soldiers had to pile into the first two. A few minutes later the convoy was back on the road, leaving the burning truck behind.
As Amsterdam approached, the officer kept shouting past him at the driver. Suddenly he asked Anton who the hell he was anyway,
verfluchtnochmal
, and where was he supposed to be going? Anton understood, but he was breathing so convulsively that he couldn’t answer. The officer gestured as if to throw something away and said he didn’t give a shit,
scheissegal
. Anton kept seeing Schulz’s face. He had been lying right next to the truck; he had wanted to pull Anton out to safety. It was all Anton’s fault, and now Schulz would surely die.
They drove into the city through a gap in the embankment. A bit farther on, the officer stood up at a street corner and waved the drivers of the first two trucks straight ahead (briefly Anton caught a glimpse of his own vomit on the hood of the first one), after which he motioned to the third to follow him. For a while they drove along a wide canal that was practically deserted. Now and then they crossed a street where groups of women and children in rags poked around for something between the rusty trolley rails where the stones had been removed. Through narrow, silent streets with dilapidated houses they reached the gate of the Western Hospital. Inside, the hospital was a city in itself, with its own streets and large buildings. They came to a halt near an emergency shed with an arrow saying
Lazarett
. Immediately several nurses ran out. They dressed quite differently from Karin Korteweg, for they wore dark coats down to theirankles and much smaller white caps that enclosed their hair like snoods. The officer and the men on the back seat stepped out of the car. But when Anton wanted to follow, the driver held him back.
The two of them drove alone into the city. Anton looked about with a leaden weight in his head. After a few minutes they passed behind the Rijksmuseum, which he had visited with his father, and came into a wide square with its center fenced off. Here stood two huge, rectangular bunkers. At the opposite side of the square, right across from the Rijksmuseum, was a building shaped like a Greek temple, with a lyre on the roof.
Concertgebouw
was written in big letters under the tympanum. In front of this building was a low structure bearing the sign
Wehrmachtheim Erika
. Several of the large, free-standing villas to the right and left clearly had been taken over by the Germans. The car stopped at one of these. A sentinel with a gun over his shoulder looked at Anton and asked the driver if this was the latest recruit.
In the hall too they laughed at him, the little boy with his helmet and oversized coat, but soon an officer who was about to climb the stairs put an end to their teasing. He wore shiny high boots and all kinds of braid and badges and ribbons, and around his neck hung the Iron Cross. Perhaps he was actually a general. He came to a stop, four younger officers remaining a few steps behind him, and asked what was going on. Anton could not understand what the driver, who had snapped to attention, answered, but clearly it was about the plane attack. As he listened, the general took a flat Egyptian cigarette out of a package and tapped it on the lid, where Anton read Stanbul. One of the young officers instantly offered a match. He tipped his head back briefly, blew the smoke straight up in the air, and dismissed the driver with a wave of the hand. Anton had to follow him up the stairs with the four young officers, who laughed and whispered among themselves. The general’s back, straightas a ramrod, leaned forward in at least a twenty-degree angle, Anton guessed.
They came to a large room. With an irritated gesture he ordered Anton
As Amsterdam approached, the officer kept shouting past him at the driver. Suddenly he asked Anton who the hell he was anyway,
verfluchtnochmal
, and where was he supposed to be going? Anton understood, but he was breathing so convulsively that he couldn’t answer. The officer gestured as if to throw something away and said he didn’t give a shit,
scheissegal
. Anton kept seeing Schulz’s face. He had been lying right next to the truck; he had wanted to pull Anton out to safety. It was all Anton’s fault, and now Schulz would surely die.
They drove into the city through a gap in the embankment. A bit farther on, the officer stood up at a street corner and waved the drivers of the first two trucks straight ahead (briefly Anton caught a glimpse of his own vomit on the hood of the first one), after which he motioned to the third to follow him. For a while they drove along a wide canal that was practically deserted. Now and then they crossed a street where groups of women and children in rags poked around for something between the rusty trolley rails where the stones had been removed. Through narrow, silent streets with dilapidated houses they reached the gate of the Western Hospital. Inside, the hospital was a city in itself, with its own streets and large buildings. They came to a halt near an emergency shed with an arrow saying
Lazarett
. Immediately several nurses ran out. They dressed quite differently from Karin Korteweg, for they wore dark coats down to theirankles and much smaller white caps that enclosed their hair like snoods. The officer and the men on the back seat stepped out of the car. But when Anton wanted to follow, the driver held him back.
The two of them drove alone into the city. Anton looked about with a leaden weight in his head. After a few minutes they passed behind the Rijksmuseum, which he had visited with his father, and came into a wide square with its center fenced off. Here stood two huge, rectangular bunkers. At the opposite side of the square, right across from the Rijksmuseum, was a building shaped like a Greek temple, with a lyre on the roof.
Concertgebouw
was written in big letters under the tympanum. In front of this building was a low structure bearing the sign
Wehrmachtheim Erika
. Several of the large, free-standing villas to the right and left clearly had been taken over by the Germans. The car stopped at one of these. A sentinel with a gun over his shoulder looked at Anton and asked the driver if this was the latest recruit.
In the hall too they laughed at him, the little boy with his helmet and oversized coat, but soon an officer who was about to climb the stairs put an end to their teasing. He wore shiny high boots and all kinds of braid and badges and ribbons, and around his neck hung the Iron Cross. Perhaps he was actually a general. He came to a stop, four younger officers remaining a few steps behind him, and asked what was going on. Anton could not understand what the driver, who had snapped to attention, answered, but clearly it was about the plane attack. As he listened, the general took a flat Egyptian cigarette out of a package and tapped it on the lid, where Anton read Stanbul. One of the young officers instantly offered a match. He tipped his head back briefly, blew the smoke straight up in the air, and dismissed the driver with a wave of the hand. Anton had to follow him up the stairs with the four young officers, who laughed and whispered among themselves. The general’s back, straightas a ramrod, leaned forward in at least a twenty-degree angle, Anton guessed.
They came to a large room. With an irritated gesture he ordered Anton
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