The Greatest Traitor Read online

  To sit down at the dinner table in the Behar home in the early 1930s would have been an entertaining yet puzzling experience. Albert was fluent in English and French, usually opting to speak the former as he continued to uphold the image he had created of himself as a British entrepreneur. He did not speak Dutch, however, and stubbornly refused to learn the mother tongue of his wife and children. Catherine knew a little English and could communicate well enough with her husband, but George and his sisters – although just starting to learn both French and English at school – did not share a common language with their father. Albert would effectively remain a stranger in a foreign land, an attitude no doubt partially responsible for the failure of his successive businesses.

  To his children he seemed a remote, otherworldly figure. When he was working, he would set off early in the morning and not arrive home in the evenings until after 8 p.m. when they had gone to bed. On Sunday, his only day off, he would usually choose to stay at home and read while George and his sisters would be taken for a walk by their mother and aunt. He left most of the care of his children, material and spiritual, to Catherine, and retreated into the background. When he did turn his attention to them, he invariably spoiled them with spontaneous gifts and presents.

  Nonetheless, the young Blake inherited his father’s intellectual curiosity and sense of adventure. When growing up in Rotterdam, he was inspired by the famous statue of one of the city’s notable sons, Erasmus, which he could see from his window. The philosopher is depicted holding a book, and George was assured he would turn a page each time the clock on the nearby church struck the hour. The little boy believed the story and spent much time pleasantly anticipating the event.

  As well as reading – he particularly enjoyed stories from the Bible, and books on Dutch history – George’s imagination was stirred by thoughts of life in foreign lands. He would spend many hours on his own wandering the quayside at the port of Rotterdam, watching the ships come in from all over the world and observing the diverse cargo being unloaded – timber from Russia, spices from India, coffee from Brazil.

  Dina Regoort, a long-serving maid to the Behar family, remembered him as a quiet, polite, somewhat solitary boy. ‘I always felt he was apart and rather sad,’ she said. ‘He had no friends of his own age, and he did not play with his schoolmates or other boys.’

  Instead he preferred to act out games of fantasy in his own home, often persuading his reluctant sisters Adele and Elizabeth to join him. One family snapshot of the time shows him in Arab dress, another in the guise of an admiral. In one game, dressed in an old black gown belonging to his grandmother, he would be a minister of the church addressing his congregation (his sisters). In another, he would place an old black hat on his head and pretend to be the judge presiding over a courtroom. Dina would often be called upon to play the prisoner in the dock – more often than not accused of serious crimes.

  In 1935, Albert Behar’s failing health took a turn for the worse. Lung cancer was diagnosed and, after a period of many months confined to his bed at home, he was transferred to a hospital in The Hague. George, who was in his first year at the municipal Gymnasium, went to see his father every day after school. One particular visit left an abiding and disquieting memory.

  He was lying in a cubicle with curtains around it, which were usually open. One day, as I was sitting at his bedside, he asked me to close the curtain. Somehow I just could not make out exactly what it was he wanted, however much I tried. The more I tried, the less I understood. He got angry with me and I felt desperate and was almost in tears . . . Fortunately, the man in the next cubicle who, being ill himself probably understood him better, told me what he wanted and all was well. But I shall never forget this experience, especially as he died shortly afterwards.

  Albert Behar died on 6 April 1936, aged 46, leaving his family in dire financial straits. His faltering business went bankrupt almost immediately, and after all the outstanding debts had been paid off, there was little money for his wife and her three children to live on. Catherine took on lodgers in the villa, and cooked meals for office girls in Scheveningen. The family just about kept their heads above water until help arrived from an unexpected quarter, accompanied by the truth about Albert’s origins, which he had successfully concealed for so many years.

  Albert had had little, if any, contact with his well-off relations in Egypt after he had defied their wishes in 1922. However, before he died, he told his wife that if she found herself unable to cope, and was worried about the welfare and education of the children, she should contact his sister Zephira in Cairo. Catherine duly did so, receiving a reply that astonished her, and placed her in something of a dilemma. Albert, it transpired, was Jewish.

  The Behars could trace their Jewish ancestry back to the Iberian Peninsula in the fifteenth century. Their ancestors were among an estimated 200,000 who were forced to find new lives in North Africa and Europe when the Spanish monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella issued the Alhambra Decree – expelling all Jews who would not convert from Christianity – in 1492. Many of these Sephardic Jews (Sefarad is the Hebrew name for Spain) found a safe haven in the Ottoman Empire. In an atmosphere of tolerance for religious minorities for which the Sultans were renowned, the Behars and others quickly flourished, fashioning livelihoods as artisans, doctors and intellectuals.

  The status of Jews in the Netherlands in the 1920s was very different, however. Though overt anti-Semitism was less prevalent than in other parts of Europe, there were few Jews (only around 1.4 per cent of the population) and little widespread interaction between Jewish people and others. Albert was not religious and kept his ethnicity secret, eschewing all contact with Jewish organisations and Jewish cultural life, rather than belong to a minority.

  All this was surprising enough for Catherine, but Zephira’s letter also offered assistance, with conditions. She and her husband, a wealthy banker blind since birth, would help, but not by offering money. Instead, they proposed to take George off his mother’s hands for a few years and give him a home with them, along with a good education in Cairo.

  Catherine was in a quandary. She did not want to lose her son but the financial pressures bearing down on her were great. She also recognised this as a unique opportunity for George to expand his horizons beyond provincial Holland. He was a gifted boy and Cairo, famed as a great classical city of learning, could be the making of him.

  ‘I was torn. I was very much attached to my home, my Dutch relatives . . . and the thought of leaving them for the home of an unknown aunt and uncle, whose language I did not speak, frightened me,’ Blake recalled. ‘On the other hand, I was strongly attracted by the prospect of travelling to a far and exotic country and the entirely new life and adventures which awaited me there. It was this thirst for adventure and the unknown that proved the stronger and, after a few days of thought, I told my mother I would like to go.’

  Two months later, on a bright September morning in 1936, 13-year-old George boarded a Norwegian cargo ship bound for Alexandria. There is a picture of him taken on that day on the quayside, smartly-dressed in his plus fours suit, flanked by his mother, grandmother and two sisters. Adele and Elizabeth are wreathed in smiles, while Catherine – a little nervous-looking – has an affectionate arm round her son’s shoulder.

  George himself looks confident enough, as if emboldened by his first trip abroad, a journey to one of the countries of his imagination. Indeed, in the fortnight’s voyage that followed, he relished the company and the guidance of his shipmates and, by the time the boat docked in Egypt, he was more than ready to confront any challenges the world abroad might present.

  For the next two years, George lived in conditions of great comfort at No. 42 Gabalaya Street – otherwise known in Cairo as ‘Villa Curiel’, after the family name of his aunt’s husband, Daniel Curiel. This lavish mansion stood in the most fashionable suburb of the Egyptian capital, far removed from the earthy, dirty city streets. It was situated at the northern tip of the Island of
Zamalek, between two branches of the River Nile and right alongside the famous Gezira Sporting Club, sanctuary of the British occupation. Effectively, a small palace with seventeen rooms, it was surrounded by a large park planted with palms and bushes. Exquisite tapestries and rare paintings hung on the walls, and the floors were covered with oriental carpets and rugs. The view over the Nile from the second floor was among the very best in the city.

  George’s first year in Cairo was a miserable one. His uncle and aunt decided to send him to a French school so he could might become fluent in the language of choice for the Middle East’s educated classes. At the Lycée he was alienated from his peers, surrounded by rich Egyptian boys, most of them older, who spoke Arabic outside the classroom.

  Only when he was moved to the English School in 1937 did he begin to settle down in his new surroundings. This establishment resembled a traditional English public school, with prefects, morning prayers and corporal punishment, although most of the pupils were ‘day boys’ rather than boarders. George’s first school report clearly demonstrated that he had now found his feet. ‘His work has given satisfaction in all subjects,’ wrote his form master, ‘and promises well for the future’. His aptitude for languages and application in his lessons were praised fulsomely. With the benefit of hindsight, however, the school motto now seems singularly inappropriate for this particular alumnus from the Class of ’37: Ducit amor patriae – Patriotism is our guide.

  Once settled in the English School and getting to grips with the English language, George started going to the American Reformed Church, whose services were similar to those of the Dutch Church. Later he would visit the Anglican cathedral, much moved by the beauty of the liturgy. Back in the villa, he discovered a French Bible in his uncle’s library and read a chapter of it, morning and night.

  Surprisingly, perhaps, his Jewish relations never seriously attempted to convert him to their religion. At this stage, anyway, George had taken his newfound identity in his stride. ‘The fact that I had Jewish blood did not worry me,’ he later maintained. ‘On the contrary I was rather proud of it. It seemed to me that I was now twice elect; once by birth through the promise made to Abraham and once by grace through redemption by the blood of Christ.’

  Instead, any efforts to shape young George’s views on life took political form. It was at Villa Curiel, a monument to wealth and privilege, that he received his first primer in the virtues of Communism. It came from his cousins, Daniel’s two sons, Raoul, aged 24, and Henri, 23. Raoul had introduced his brother to the works of Marx and Lenin, and Henri had fast become a Communist in all but name. Tall, thin, with a serious, thoughtful look and an occasional dazzling smile, he took young George under his wing. They would have many long political and philosophical discussions in which Henri would try to persuade the teenage boy of the benefits of a Marxist society.

  Blake has recognised the impact of those long conversations: ‘Henri was a young man, very charming, very attractive and he held strong Communist views. They were a great influence on me, but I resisted them at that time because I was a very religious boy. But, with hindsight, many of Henri’s views acted as a time-bomb.’

  In the summer of 1939 George’s academic progress was confirmed when he passed his end-of-term exams with flying colours, winning prizes for Latin and History. He was all set to sit for the London University matriculation examination the following spring and went home to Scheveningen for a holiday.

  Then, just a week before he was due to return to Cairo, something happened which derailed not only George’s future but that of the whole world: Hitler’s troops marched into Poland.

  George did return to Cairo, but the Beijderwellen family conferred in his absence. His uncle Anthony who lived in Gelderland, and with whom George had spent some time during recent vacations, advised his mother that, in these uncertain times, the boy should return home and be with them. George was brought back from Egypt in time for the autumn term. He enrolled as a pupil at the Dutch High School in Rotterdam, staying with his grandmother and aunt in a spacious, three-storey house, while his mother and sisters continued to live at the villa in Scheveningen.

  He was greatly relieved to be back in the Netherlands, and his academic progress continued apace. His schoolmates admired him in particular for his skill at languages, appreciating the help he was prepared to give them with their homework. He seemed to keep himself a little apart from the rest of the crowd, though, appearing introspective if not unsociable. ‘To us lads brought up in the strict tradition of Dutch middle-class respectability, he was a somewhat exotic figure. He had travelled widely and mixed with important people,’ recalled a fellow pupil, Henrik Dentro. ‘He told us sometimes about his visits to the Pyramids and the Sphinx, the marvels of Luxor, sailing on the Nile, but he never boasted about it or bragged about his rich uncle in Cairo, or anything like that . . . He never had a close friend. I sat next to him for a long time, but we never became very close. It wasn’t in George’s nature to open up.’

  At 16, George was a confident, self-contained boy. He was of medium height, dark and handsome, but looked much younger than his years. Spurning team games, he was nonetheless very fit, a good swimmer and a capable all-round athlete, especially proficient in gymnastics. His experiences abroad had matured him and he was far more at ease with adults than any of his contemporaries.

  Beneath the surface, however, George’s peripatetic childhood had left him in a confused state of mind, as he acknowledged much later in life: ‘Looking back now, I am sure that I lived through an identity crisis in those years. Where did I belong? A Jewish cosmopolitan home, an English school, which reflected the glory of British imperial power of which I also felt a part, and in my heart, all the time, a longing for Holland and all things Dutch.’

  After Hitler’s march into Poland, a general mobilisation was ordered but still no one wanted to believe that the Führer had designs on the Netherlands, despite the fact that, six months earlier, intelligence that their country was in peril had reached the Dutch Government. Some German officers were uncomfortable with Hitler’s plan to invade the Low Countries and decided to leak details of it. One of them, Colonel Hans Oster, an Abwehr intelligence officer, even gave the Dutch military attaché in Berlin, Major Gijsbertus J. Sas, a precise date for Fall Gelb (the codename for the future attack on Holland). Oster’s information, given in March 1939, turned out to be completely accurate, but was ignored.

  Throughout the winter of 1939 and into the early months of 1940, when ‘The Phoney War’ was underway, the Dutch nation retained its misplaced sense of security. The country had not experienced war on its territory since the days of Napoleon more than a century ago, and the people’s view of the Nazis was far more positive than elsewhere in Europe.

  As in the First World War, the Netherlands had declared itself neutral, even though in September 1939 the New Holland Water (Defence) Line was ready and could be flooded at any moment for the protection of the western part of the country It was arguably the only worthwhile defence, however, because the Netherlands boasted an army with no tanks and only eighteen armoured vehicles, while the artillery was still being pulled by horses. Most of the rifles were of 1890s vintage, and there were precious few hand grenades.

  Operation Weserübung – the invasion of Denmark and Norway – on 9 April 1940 should have put the Dutch on alert, but nothing changed. Even their allies were by no means certain that the Nazis would invade. In his diary for 10 May 1940, Winston Churchill’s Private Secretary, Jock Colville, recorded: ‘Rab Butler tells me that the Secret Service told him yesterday that there was no chance of an invasion of the Netherlands: it was a feint.’ But, even as he wrote that entry, at the end of a momentous day – one in which Churchill succeeded Neville Chamberlain as Britain’s Prime Minister – the invasion was well underway. ‘So much for our renowned foreign agents.’

  The Luftwaffe destroyed much of the Dutch Air Force: airfields at De Kooy, Amsterdam-Schiphol and The Hague were hit hard, and
just seventy Dutch aircraft remained. The Germans also dropped paratroopers over Rotterdam to occupy the bridges across the River Maas, which linked the Southern with the Northern Netherlands. Dutch marines were holding out on several fronts but it already appeared to be a hopeless task.

  At 8 a.m., four hours after the invasion had begun, George and his family, like everyone else in the country, gathered round their wireless set to hear the distinctive voice of the principal radio newsreader read out a proclamation from Queen Wilhelmina. It was a moving address, expressing anger that the German attack had not been preceded by a proper Declaration of War, and fury that Hitler had betrayed his ‘solemn undertakings’ over Holland’s neutrality. For the young Blake, listening avidly to the Monarch’s words, these were daunting yet exciting moments. As he looked out of the window he saw aircraft exchanging machine-gun fire, and could hear the sounds of explosions from the port. Everything in his life was about to change: he was ready to do his duty, whatever that might be.

  2

  Resistance

  By the morning of Tuesday, 14 May 1940, Adolf Hitler was growing frustrated by the stubborn defiance of the forces defending the Netherlands. Five days after the initial German invasion, he had failed to sweep aside the Dutch opposition in order to better concentrate efforts on the more important theatres of war in Belgium and France. So he issued an order to his generals, making it abundantly clear that he expected them to use all means at their disposal to crush the unexpectedly resilient opponent.

  When the fifty-seven Heinkel planes from the Luftwaffe’s Kampfgeschwader 54 squadron joined the assault at 1.20 p.m. that day, by raining down their 60-tonne payload of 110lb and 550lb bombs on the centre of Rotterdam, the terrified population had two unpalatable alternatives. They could either sit out the attack in their homes or underground shelters, and risk being trapped by the avalanche of falling wreckage, drowned when the water mains burst, or burned alive by the fires set off by the bombs. Or they could venture out into a veritable Dante’s Inferno – the firestorm whipped up by a fierce easterly wind that was raging through every street in the heart of the medieval city – and try to dodge the falling debris and the leaping flames and make it to the beach, or nearby villages.