The Assault Read Online Free PDF

rooms where it had been cold for so long, hellfire now reigned. Everywhere black soot fluttered down onto the snow.
    A few minutes later, something began to creak inside and the house collapsed under a fountain of sparks as high as a tower. The dogs barked; the soldiers who had been warming themselves jumped back, one of them tripping over Ploeg’s bicycle and landing full length on the street. The others doubled up with laughter, and at the same time a machine gun began to rattle at the end of the quay. Anton lay on his side and curled up, his wrists crossed under his chin.
    When the German with the long coat opened the door and saw him lying there, he caught his breath. Apparently he had forgotten Anton.
    “
Scheisse
,” he said. “Shit.”
    Anton had to creep into the narrow space behind the seats where he could hardly see a thing. The man in the long coat sat down next to the army driver and lit a cigarette. The motor began to sputter, the driver wiped the fog off the front window with his sleeve, and for the first time Anton rode in a car. The houses were all dark: there was not a soul to be seen in the streets except now and then small groups of Germans. The two men did not talk. They drove to Heemstede and after a few minutes stopped in front of the police station, which was guarded by two cops.
    The warm waiting room was filled with men, most of them in German or Dutch uniforms. Anton’s mouth immediately began to water at the smell of fried eggs, yet he saw no one eat. There were electric lights, and all the men were smoking cigarettes. He was made to sit down on a chair near the tall pot-bellied stove, where the heat embraced him. The German spoke with a Dutch Inspector of Police, occasionally motioning with his chin in Anton’s direction. For the first time Anton saw the man clearly. But what he saw then, in 1945, was different from what he would see now. The German was about forty years old and actually had that lean, hardened face with the horizontal scar beneath the left cheekbone—a type no longer used except by directors of comedies or grade B movies. Today only babyish Himmler faces are still artistically acceptable; but then it was not an artistic matter, then he really did look like a fanatical Nazi, and it wasn’t funny. A little later he left without glancing back at Anton.
    A police sergeant carrying a gray horse blanket over his arm came over and told Anton to follow him. In the hall a second policeman joined them. He carried a bunch of keys in his hand.
    “What do we have now?” he said when he saw Anton. “Are we locking up children too? Or is he a little Jew?”
    “Don’t ask so many questions,” said the sergeant. At theend of the hall they followed each other down the cellar stairs. Anton turned back to the sergeant and asked:
    “Are my father and mother coming too?” The sergeant did not look at him.
    “I know nothing. We had nothing to do with this incident.”
    Downstairs it was cold again. A short hall led, below all sorts of pipes and wires, to some iron doors painted with yellowish paint full of rust spots. A weak, bare light bulb burned on the ceiling.
    “Where do we have room?” asked the sergeant.
    “Nowhere. He’ll have to sleep on the floor.”
    The sergeant’s eyes swept around the hall, as if he could see what was behind each door.
    “How about there?” he said, and pointed to the farthest door on the left.
    “But that one should be solitary. The SD man said so.”
    “Do what I say.”
    The policeman unbolted the door, and the sergeant threw the horse blanket onto a cot standing against the wall.
    “It’s just for tonight,” he said to Anton. “Try to get some sleep.” Then, in the direction of the corner Anton could not see, “You’ll have company, but keep the boy out of it, will you? He’s had enough misery, thanks to you.”
    Anton felt a hand pushing him in the back and crossed over the doorstep into the dark cell. The door closed behind him, and