CHAPTER 87: FUNDRAISER
Rotterdam's peaceful streets in 1938
Rotterdam, November the 17th, 1938
Catching a reflection of himself in the glass protecting one of his guest’s valuable paintings, Captain Marc de Jong took a few steps to see himself more in detail. With his tall stature, his square shoulders and his powerful build, had all the markings of a handsome man, and he knew it. Not that far ago, he had been the object of many a young lady’s attention, and every time he had strolled down the busy streets of Rotterdam, he had caught appreciative looks from women of every age and condition, an attention he had done his utmost to encourage. When he was a hopeful naval cadet, when he was a dashing Ensign, and above all when he had been given his first serious command, Marc de Jong had been a ladies’ man, quick to pounce on dreamy girls and wistful wives. His comrades at naval academy and his fellow junior officers on board used to rile him a little about his good fortune – not to mention they envied his many dalliances. But Captain De Jong knew these days had gone. His eyes knew so. His soul knew so. His flesh and bones cried so, in mournful tones. Even here, in this dimly-lit living room, the glass panel showed enough. That sorry excuse for a mirror could not hide the awful truth. It could neither tone down the bony-white complexion of the scar tissue, or the way his burnt face seemed to mesh with the painting. With a heavy sigh, De Jong focused on the painting behind the glass panel.
It was a rather recent painting, 19th-century at most, representing a merchant ship fighting a storm. The name of the artist was illegible, but as a professional De Jong had to admit the man – or was it a woman ? These days one could not be sure of anything – had managed to capture the mood of such moments in great detail. Just by watching the painting De Jong could feel memories well up, memories of his years at the naval academy, of his training aboard an old sloop that had been laid down when post-Napoleonic armies roamed Europe in their gilded uniforms, and that now strove to maintain the venerable traditions of the Dutch navy through darker times, and rougher seas. That painting brought painful memories indeed, memories of how cold the North Sea winds could feel to the young and inexperienced ensign, how sea salt could form a crust that burnt chapped lips during those nights of watch duty, how a ship – yes, even a steel one – could creak under the assault of a storm. Perversely, it also brought painful memories of balls and social occasions, back in the days. That was how he thought of the recent years : back in the days. It was the dike he had had to build over the past few years so the memories could not wreck him. And while there had been terrible days, and even worse nights, that was how retired Captain Marc de Jong had saved his life. He knew all too well that these days, if a woman’s eyes ever wandered past his well-muscled silhouette and into his face, they hurriedly retreated, her glance started to convey pity, an emotion De Jong now thoroughly despised. Pity was a thing of the weak, for the weak, and De Jong spat on weakness. Regardless of how he may now look, the Dutch officer thought of himself as a strong man, sent by Fate at a merciless time so he could help usher the Netherlands into a new era.
An era of pride, he promised his badly scarred reflection. An era of cold strength. An era of renewed glory.
A discreet cough interrupted his thoughts. With one last, silent promise De Jong turned away to face his host. As expected, she was not alone. Half a dozen men stood behind her, looking at the young Captain with a mixture of curiosity and awe. However mundane and, above all, legal it was, tonight’s meeting had that inebriating atmosphere of clandestinity that got to these men, all respectable pillars of their community. Some of them had come with their wives, and instinctively De Jong turned so as to offer them his good profile. The other one was not something to behold, at least not for long.
“If you are ready, Captain, my friends would be delighted to meet you” said Marjan van Welde. She had walked softly to him, and de Jong felt her perfume wrap around him.
She was, he felt, everything a woman could want – and everything a man could dream of. A striking, slender figure, a sharp mind and even sharper wit, and, of course, a most enviable position in Rotterdam’s upper society. Born Marjan Lutjens in a wealthy family from the Amsterdamer gentry, she had been in her younger years the shining star of every ball, every social rally, every soirée. On such occasions she was courted by dashing officers, ambitious bankers and vain noblemen, flocking to the tall blonde beauty and her almond-shaped brown eyes. De Jong himself had seen her during parties, when the academy rewarded its best and brightest cadets by issuing them gold-plated invitations to attend. Naturally, he had never approached her, for around her camped a small army of beaus which kept a vigilant eye on possible competitors. Only once, by pure happenstance, had he been able to chat with her for a while, as the two of them had walked to a waiter to refill their flutes of Champagne. De Jong had been struck with the charisma of the young woman, but he had also acknowledged she was out of his league. In the end, the beautiful Miss Lutjens had married neither a banker nor an officer, but a little of both. She had won the heart of Commander Peter van Welde, former commanding officer of Her Majesty’s cruiser Java, and heir to one of Holland’s biggest shipping empires. It was soon after the Great War, and as trade resumed between the great nations, demand for moving goods soared across the board. For ten years, the ravishing Mrs Van Welde had thus graced with her smile every Dutch shipyard, as well as some British and German ones, crashing expensive Champagne bottles on a variety of steel hulls. Every few months, her husband launched a new, bigger ship to replace the old tramps and freighters that had been the workhorses of the previous decade. For ten years, it seemed as if the only limitations to Peter van Welde’s ambitions would be the speed at which shipbuilders could work. The energy of the retired Commander and the laissez-faire approach of the Dutch government whenever it came to trade and business laws made the shipping company a winning combination. And then, out of nowhere, had come the Great Depression.
One of the Van Welde Lines freighters.
“Ladies and gentlemen” De Jong began, trying to push the image of Marjan van Welde out of his mind. “It is an honor to meet you. As you may know, I am Captain Marc de Jong, retired officer of our Royal Navy. I have been asked by Mr Van Welde to present you a… proposition of sorts. Or a plan of action, shall we say, to move Holland out of this impasse it has been led to for the past seven years. I am honored that you, as members of the élite of this nation, have been willing to hear my plea”
“Don’t worry, Captain,” said Marjan van Welde with a warm smile, “you are amongst friends here, I assure you”
“Thank you, Madam. It is indeed a moment of hope when, in the darkest of times, one can meet people willing to do what is right for their country”
“Speak to us freely Captain.” said a tall, thin man De Jong knew as Paul de Klerk. “Whatever you have to say, I am sure we already know in the depth of our conscience”
The officer nodded. He already knew he could count on De Klerk’s support. The man was one of the Netherlands’ biggest importers of ores and gemstones, to be used in either industrial applications or by Amsterdam’s many jewelers. His contacts in South Africa, particularly with the De Beers mining company where the Dutch-speaking Afrikaners dominated, had put him in contact with many politicians befuddled by Europe’s policies and priorities. De Klerk had wholeheartedly agreed – particularly in what regarded the priorities of the government seating in Den Haag. He did not understand their indolence, when the economy was going down the drain and when the social fabric was torn to pieces. His business was particularly hard-hit by the ongoing crisis, and if nothing changed, De Klerk might indeed face bankruptcy in the next eighteen months or so. If there was in the room one man ready for desperate measures, then already desperate Paul de Klerk was that man.
“Ladies and gentlemen, when I joined the naval academy I pledged allegiance to the Queen, with my hand extended over our flag, swearing I’d protect this country from its enemies, whoever they might be, wherever they might hide. This was an oath I took seriously then, and one I used as a moral compass throughout my career, making sure nothing in my life and conduct as an officer and as a patriot could be regarded as a betrayal of that sacred moment.”
Over the years, De Jong had practically forgotten the beautiful young woman he had traded a few words with. His own career had picked up speed, no small thanks to an incident that happened one dark, winter night of 1928. The destroyer Evertsen, aboard which he was serving as a young ensign, had rushed to the assistance of a freighter in distress. It was the Freya, a Norwegian tramp, heading to Rotterdam with a cargo of explosives and machine parts. The ship had suffered a beating in a storm that had battered the British coast, and was taking water heavily from the port side, where the waves punched a hole between two steel plates, smashing half of the lifeboats in the process. As the Evertsen had pulled to the freighter’s side, it had rapidly appeared the ship wouldn’t make it. Captain Mölders had ordered the destroyer’s lifeboats to be lowered to evacuate the crew of the disabled ship. The rescue party was placed under the command of the Evertsen’s doctor, and as a very junior officer, De Jong had been ordered to go as well. In spite of the rough seas, everything had gone well until the three lifeboats had covered half of the distance. Whether it happened because the water had reached the electrical board, or because a fire had started in the panic aboard the Freya, De Jong never knew. What he remembered was being bent double with nausea, fumbling for an electric torch in the lifeboat’s toolbox because the doctor wanted to signal their approach. He had just dropped the torch on his vomit-soaked lap when everything happened at once. There was a bright light that tore up the darkness, and a deafening explosion that punched all air from his lungs - and emptied his bladder. As De Jong fell overboard, the lifeboat rocked wildly, hit by dozens of debris. When, after a few seconds of panic during which he thought he had forgotten how to swim, De Jong managed to climb on top of the overturned lifeboat, he felt an odd feeling of extreme awareness. The Norwegian tramp had vanished – only a grayish column of smoke, somewhat lighter than the night sky, attested there had been a ship, with men struggling to save their lives. Of the three Dutch lifeboats, De Jong could only see one. Like the Freya, the head lifeboat and its occupants had disappeared. His own lifeboat had been impaled by a piece of wood the size of a dining table. Carried by the cold wind, over sound of the Evertsen’s engines, De Jong could hear feeble cries. Cries of pain. Cries for help. Cries of despair. What followed, he said later to the officers investigating the accident, he barely remembered. But some of the sailors that night did remember clearly. With an energy he didn’t know he was capable of, he had somehow managed to turn the lifeboat around and had climbed in it. Rowing like a madman, stopping only to scoop water from the leaking skiff, he had picked up one man after the other, going into the water twice to bring those whose wounds didn’t allow them to climb alone. When two more lifeboats had appeared on the scene, Ensign De Jong had saved nine Dutch sailors and one Norwegian who had no idea how he had survived the explosion. Others, like the Evertsen’s doctor, didn’t have that chance. When the Evertsen had pulled into port a two hours later, Captain Mölders conducted a quick investigation, which he concluded by a report to the Admiralty signaling to his superiors that “in very adverse conditions, Ensign De Jong reacted very quickly and professionally, showing great personal courage as well as remarkable decision in the perilous rescue of nine wounded sailors of her Majesty’s navy.” It also won De Jong a short letter by Peter van Welde, whose company had leased the Freya, inviting him for a week-end at the family country estate. To his amazement, the shipping mogul proved to be a friendly man who treated him as a brother officer. To De Jong’s even greater delight, Marjan van Welde did remember the young naval cadet, and encouraged him to write and keep them informed of his career.
The Evertsen returns to port after the Freya tragedy
“Even when tragic circumstances forced me out of the navy five years ago, I felt I had to remain true to my oath. But I also felt I had to think it through, because so far it had been easy to live by it. I was an officer, I received and gave orders from other officers, who in turned received their orders from the politicians. There was little room and little time for leeway or introspection – not that I was prone to either one. I was a wheel in what seemed a working system. The system trusted me, and I trusted the system. Alas, it turned out that I was wrong.”
The admirals who read Mölders’ report were sufficiently impressed by its wording that they decided to groom de Jong for a command of his own. They felt the need, in the uncertain world of the 1920s, to replace some of the older commanders with a generation of “Young Turks” which would be better armed to face the challenges to come, whether in Europe or in Holland’s extensive Pacific possessions where Dutch rule was threatened at the same time by nascent nationalism among the Indonesians and by Japanese ambitions of total dominance in the area. De Jong’s stint at the helm of the second-rank torpedo boat T-12 in 1930, and his return aboard the Evertsen as the destroyer's second in command two years later soon confirmed Mölders’ assessment of De Jong. The young man possessed real commanding abilities, even when leading more experienced men. What he lacked in technical expertise he more than made up for in eagerness to learn, be that from superior officers or from the sailors he commanded themselves. In November 1932, de Jong received his new billet. He was to go to Rotterdam, to become the second-in-command of Hr. Ms. De Zeven Provincien. The colonial pantserschip’s cruise to the Netherlands East Indies, where it was to reaffirm Dutch sovereignty at a time of tensions with Japan, was supposed to be the last for its aging captain. Clearly, as soon as the armoured cruiser reached Rotterdam in the autumn of 1933, de Jong would become the captain of the ship – his first major command. The cruiser left Rotterdam on November the 25th, 1932, heading for the Suez Canal. After a stop at Berbera for replenishment, and a short detour to Tricomalee to evacuate a sick sailor, it had entered Sumatra’s water on December the 17th, 1932, immediately engaging in what the Admiralty called “sovereignty patrols”. That meant patrolling the sealanes between the different islands, hunting down illegal fishing, and, more importantly, Chinese smugglers trying to evade Dutch importation taxes. These had been trying times for the mixed Dutch and Indonesian crew, days of stifling heat and numbing boredom when the only distraction had been reading weeks-old newspapers from the homeland, brought by passing freighters. In late January, after one such patrol, the cruiser had finally entered Batavia’s sheltered port after a very frustrating patrol. Unusually, Captain Anders had asked all officers and petty officers on the bridge for an announcement. It was, he told the assembled men, a sad piece of news, but one dictated by the circumstances and one, he was sure, they would accept as men and sailors of the Dutch Navy. Given the ongoing economic crisis, and the current budget difficulties, the government had decided to enforce pay cuts among all of its armed forces, starting January the first. He reminded the officers that back home, there were tens of thousands of people without work living off government food stamps, and that the pay cut did affect all sailors regardless of rank, but he was addressing an exhausted and frustrated crew, who had looked forward some partying time on land, and who now had instead to worry about whether they would be able to support their families. To make matters worse, the cuts would affect more the Indonesian sailors, whose pay was already lower than those of their white comrades. That evening, a good third of the men stayed on board, instead of hitting the bars and red light districts of Batavia. De Jong was on duty when the mutiny started. He had been working on the patrol report when he had heard some scuffle in the corridor, along with some muffled cries. He had barely got up when the door to his cabin had burst open, revealing a sailor armed with a rifle who demanded his service pistol. The man looked wretched, and desperate – De Jong knew he had a family of five to look after – and he flatly said that the crew had seized the ship, and would only put down their weapons in exchange of full pay and immunity for the mutineers. Thus began De Jong’s longest night. Little did he know that the morning would be worse.
“I was wrong, because the system does not work. For seven years now, our country has faced a economic crisis of unprecedented magnitude, a crisis that has forced people to live off food stamps and mendacity. You know what I am talking about. One cannot go anywhere in our cities without seeing the queues forming at every charity soup. You cannot go anywhere without seeing people wearing those infamous red clothes that signal to the rest of the world that they have lost their job and are now a burden to our society. Have you seen those men and women ? I have, and it’s a heartbreaking sight. They try to hide and conceal the little red badges the government forces them to wear – supposedly as a proof they are destitute enough to deserve our compassion. They hide that mark of infamy, because they’re proud people, our people. They do not want their children, their neighbors, their friends to think they are freeloaders, or that they are unable to find a job. And some of them are so ashamed that they have to be put on display to get a few food stamps, a little bread, a little money, that they prefer to resort to petty crime. Yes, my friends, I have seen mothers who two years before would have balked at the idea of not returning an invitation turn to sordid prostitution. And why is that ? Because prostitution can be done in the dark, while getting support from the government’s poverty fund has to be done in broad daylight, in front of your children. The sad truth is, the current government has made prostitution a lighter stain on one’s character than joblessness.”
As De Jong expected, there were cries of anguish among the women present. The men, naturally, were less concerned about that, but he also had something in store for them.
“The government’s choice for the past seven years has been to do nothing. We have been told by the Prime Ministers that everything would fix itself, magically, provided we did nothing. Their answer to the jobless: wait. Their answer to the impoverished children: wait. Their answer to our suffering industry: wait, recovery is just around the corner. To tell you the truth, ladies and gentlemen, what man-made thing doesn’t need repair when broken ? Were your firms and companies formed magically in your sleep, or did you have to fight for them every day, against competition, social unrest or technical challenges ? In my opinion, what the government does – what little it does – is not only immoral, it’s criminal. It brings the ruin of the nation, and the ruin of our people. You kindly encouraged me to speak freely, and this much I will tell you: a few years ago, I would have spoken very differently. Ever since I got old enough to vote, I strongly supported Meneer Colijn’s Anti-Revolutionary Party. I too was taken by his vision, his statesmanship. I too believed he was our nation’s helmsman. I do think that there was such a time when Hendrikus Colijn was that strong man at the helm, but alas these times have passed, and the ARP has failed us as well.”
“But don’t you think there’s some degree of truth when he says the most important thing is to keep the budget balanced so we have the necessary reserves to weather the crisis down?” asked one of the men.
“Most certainly, a balanced budget is a thing to desire. But at what cost? And to what purpose? More hands-off for the have-nots, when most of them would rather die in poverty than live in shame? Today the situation in our country is becoming more volatile by the hour, as the only ones that benefit from the rampant joblessness are the Communists – the very same ones Colijn pledged to defeat, a few years ago, before he discovered the virtues of doing nothing. What good will a balanced budget do if the Communists recruit by the thousands among the jobless ? What purpose will it serve when the riots begin - for they will begin, have no doubt about it. We had a foretaste of that in Jordaan a few years ago, and Dutch blood was spilled. My only hope is that we can end this impasse once and for good, and that And that, I am proud to tell you, is also the sole purpose of the Nationaal-Socialistische Beweging party, on behalf of which I am speaking tonight. ”
Hr. Ms. Pantserschip De Zeven Provincien off the shores of Sumatra, the day before the mutiny.
Upon dawn break, the news of the mutiny had reached the office of the Governor-General, who ordered troops to cordon off the cruiser. To the man’s credit, he first attempted to talk the mutineers into surrendering by sending them Captain Anders, who had spent the night at the gubernatorial residence. Unfortunately, the old captain had been unable to convince the rebellious crew, notably the Indonesian non-coms who, it turned out later, had been circulating nationalist propaganda and felt they could not trust white officers to negotiate in good faith. Similar pleas for putting down their weapons made by members of the Indonesian élite fared little better, particularly when it became clear that the Governor-General neither intended nor had the legal powers to grant the mutineers any kind of immunity. Determined to prevent the captured of the docked ship, the crew had quietly unmoored the ship the following night, letting it go with the tide. They had dropped anchor to the middle of the bay. After four more days of sterile negotiations, the Governor-General had received his instructions from the government. Weary of the possibility of a Communist cell amongst vital branch of the armed forces, and fearful that news of a prolonged mutiny would bring down more economic turmoil as it had in England two years before, Prime Minister Hendrikus Colijn chose to follow his War Minister’s advice and to force the surrender of the crew. The next morning, a Fokker bomber took off with a load of bombs, after a final warning to the mutineers. The pilot and bombardier had been told the bare minimum : Communist agitators had taken the cruiser, and they had to bomb it. The Dutch pilots made one pass, dropping two 50-kgs bombs on the bridge where the mutineers had gathered, unconscious of the peril. In the twin explosions, eighteen died instantly, with four more succumbing a few hours later. Among the victims, dead and wounded, were sailors and officers who like De Jong had not taken any part in the mutiny, and for the most part had tried to do from the inside what the authorities had not managed to do in their negotiation attempts. Horrified at the results, the Governor-General declared “suspected rebels” all the men present aboard the cruiser, and let to a special naval commission the care to determine who would face mutiny charges. Grievously wounded, De Jong was one of the last officers to stand before that commission. While cleared of all suspicion of wrongdoing, he had been disgusted enough by what he had seen of the proceedings to write a letter of resignation. In the aftermath of the mutiny, the government didn’t even try to make him reconsider. The sooner the Zeven Provincien file would be closed, they decided, the better it was for the country.
“I hear you, Captain,” said a woman in her forties “but you’ll have to admit the National-Socialist rhetoric casts doubts about that party’s commitment to democracy, and the German party it’s modeled after isn’t exactly a shining example of free expression either.”
“Madam, let me first emphasize that the NSB isn’t the Dutch branch of a foreign party. It is a wholly national party, embracing ideas that have succeeded abroad, yes, but focused on how to make that work for Holland. Democracy was born in Greece – does that make our democratic parties any less national, or agents of Hellenic influence? I like to think Dutch politics are a field where the idea itself is more important than its point of origin.”
“Beware, my friend !” exclaimed Marjan van der Welde. “I thought I had invited an officer, but it turns out we have a philosopher dining with us !”
A NSB parade in the streets of Amsterdam in the wake of the attack upon Hr Ms. Tromp
“I want to assure you,” continued De Jong after the laughter had died down, “that however critical I am of the Dutch government, I am not proposing you any subversion of democratic due process. Far from it. I believe in true democracy, a democracy that expresses the will of the nation as a whole, and not simply the ambitions of a few small-minded politicians. Hendrikus Colijn isn’t small-minded, no, but he has grown weary with the years, and others have taken advantage of his age to secure undue influence for their own parties. The coalition governments we have had over the past few years have tried every combination of parties, and every political recipe. In fact, they have only been constant in two things : they have repeatedly failed at getting the economy afloat, and they have consistently refused to allow the NSB to exert any kind of national responsibility."
He paused for effect.
"To be blunt, to some of our politicians keeping my party out of government has become an obsession, something more important that saving the country from impeding ruin. Even as our candidates have won over fifteen seats in the two Chambers, the so-called “government parties” have rejected the very idea of forming a coalition open to the NSB. So I ask you, Madam. When the government invalidates the vote of the citizens by fencing out those who have been elected by these citizens, who is guilty of not believing in democracy? The NSB, which keeps winning the elections, or the government, which keeps ignoring their results?”
“Brilliant demonstration, Captain.” said a man seated to Marjan’s right. “I raise my glass to your debating skills. But now that we all know that you are not proposing to overthrow the government, nor to subvert democracy, may you expand a little on what you are actually proposing?”
“Henri, always the practical man” joked Marjan. At the same time, her eyes flashed a warning to De Jong. This is important.
The warning was superfluous, for De Jong knew that man well enough. That man had amassed an immense fortune, and exerted such influence that nations could go to war on his behalf, while others went bankrupt if he did not lift a finger in their favor. That man was Henri Deterding, the chief executive officer of Royal Dutch Shell, one of the world’s first oil providers. At the NSB, he was seen as a prospective ally for funding and influence purposed, but those who had approached him had quickly realized Deterding was a man whose personal sympathies ran a distant second to his search for profit. For all the admiration he professed for the Third Reich, he concluded his deals on a strictly financial basis, supplying France or Great Britain instead if the price they offered was better. To National-Socialists of every nationality, he patiently explained that his shareholders stubbornly preferred dividends over ideology, and that it was precisely what had made Royal Dutch Shell so courted by their respective parties. If said parties could not provide him with real business opportunities, then he, Deterding, suggested they tried to find some mutually profitable arrangements he could submit to the company board. De Jong knew that if he failed to convince that man, the others would back off from any plea of support, financial or otherwise.
“Sir, to answer your question as briefly as possible, I’ll just say that the NSB hopes you will use not so much your money than your influence over Conservative parties to convince the ARP allies to resign, forcing the ARP to present the resignation of the current government to the royal palace, and to form – under Meneer Colijn premiership – a new coalition giving its fair share of responsibilities to the NSB.”
“So, you are asking for power, Captain de Jong? It’s not unexpected. But tell me, power to do what, exactly?”
“First and foremost, to start a whole new economic policy. It’s time to level the playing field for our products and let go of the gold standard, that golden calf of the government. If we want Dutch goods to leave the warehouses where they currently collect dust, and be sold to customers abroad, we have to shake off the burden of that antiquated standard.”
“So the NSB would support a devaluation of the Gulden?”
“We would be the ones to propose it, even. I know the government has shied away from using that tool because it fears the impact on Dutch savings, but there are too many of our countrymen who simply do not have savings anymore.”
“That would also impact our own financial reserves!” exclaimed another man.
“Very marginally, I’d suspect, for various reasons.” said de Jong. “Part of your reserves, I’m sure, are in foreign currencies, which won’t be affected. And there’s always the possibility of using your Gulden before the devaluation to buy more of these currencies. I am also authorized – and on this I’ll recommend the utmost confidentiality for obvious reasons – to tell you that the German government, who is gravely concerned by the progress of Communist-inspired unrest in a neighboring country, stands ready to make the Dutch government four friendly offers, provided it deals with a national government where the NSB is fully represented. One, it will arrange a series of no-bid contracts for a variety of industrial goods, all of a civilian nature and destined to the implantation of new German settlements in the Sudetenland. Two, it will request the lease of Dutch merchant ships at one point five times the usual rate for the moving of German imports and exports – again, all the products will be of a civilian nature. Three, trade barriers will be lowered for Dutch goods, provided the Dutch government accepts to do the same for German goods in a reasonable delay. And lastly, the German Reichsbank will continue to accept, for a negotiable period of six months, that Reichsmarks and German goods bought after the Dutch devaluation will continue to be paid at the pre-devaluation rates.”
The silence that followed was deafening. De Jong could almost hear the men count their beans in their head.
“That is the official position of the NSB?” insisted Deterding. “That is what Mussert is ready to promise us solemnly?”
“That is what he himself has instructed me to present you, after his return from Berlin where he met with the Präsident of the Reichsbank and Herr von Ribbentrop, yes.”
Deterding bridged his hands, his eyes fixed on his flute of Champagne. There was merit on what that Captain had said. Communist ideas were indeed gaining ground in the Netherlands, with a widening gap opening between the jobless and the rest of the society. He sat at the board of the Nationaal Crisis Comité set up by the crown Princess to help the poor, and the men running the local branches said it was not uncommon for Communist leaflets to circulate at the refectory, when it was not public speakers coming to vaunt the merits of a classless society. The way the government had handled that crisis was, regrettably, pathetic. The very idea of making jobless people wear a special sign, when it was not specially-dyed clothes was a disaster in the making. Worse, the ongoing economic turmoil at home meant Dutch rule over its overseas possessions was weakening – and that, to Deterding, was the crux of the matter. His fortune, his entire company relied on continued control of the vast oilfields of the Netherlands East Indies, and their exploitation in turn depended on the control of the Indonesian population. Should the Dutch government's grip on these oilfields grow feeble, either the NEI would erupt in some Communist-Independentist rebellion, or the Japanese would move to fill the vacuum, expelling Royal Dutch Shell. The only question was to know if the NSB would be part of the solution, or part of the problem. While this well-groomed Captain was smart enough to avoid any outlandish rhetoric, some of the party tenors did not have the same reservations about crazy rants on how Greater Flanders should be formed. On the other hand, wasn’t that a reassuring sign that domestic issues would prevail over dancing to Berlin’s tune – particularly with Hendrikus Colijn ? And there was the impact on ongoing contracts to take into account. Would the board support his decision ? With a heavy sigh, he straightened up. He looked at his neighbors at the table, and wasn’t surprised to see they seemed to expect a sign from him.
You want a signal? Well, my friends, here is one.
With great flourish, Deterding fished his checkbook out of his pocket and put it on the table. As he unscrewed his gold-plated Duofold, he looked again at the other guests and tilted his head to encourage them. One by one, they tfollowed suit. Marjan brought a small notepad so De Jong could write receipts he and the donator signed.
“So? Is the Captain pleased?” she asked after the other guests had left. De Jong had returned to the painting of the merchant ship.
“Over a hundred thousand gulden ! I never thought it would be that much ! And they pledged more would come later. Mrs van der Welde, I…I never could have done it without you.”
She lightly put her hand on his lips to silence him. Her fingers ran along his pale scars.
“Shush, Captain.” she said, placing her lips so close to him that every syllable felt a light kiss. “You are among friends here. Didn’t you know that already?”
*********
Game effects / background :
None yet, but the fact is the Netherlands are in turmoil. The Conservative government has failed to address the effects of the Great Depression, taking a long-term view to the issue while people grow tired of its perceived inaction. As a result, both Communist and Fascist ideas gain ground in the masses of the jobless. The NSB in particular has prospered in the after the Zeven Provincien mutiny and the torpedoing of the Tromp off the Chilean waters. Japan’s more aggressive stance also fuels a tendency to look beyond the range of traditional parties, and the NSB has capitalized on that, winning a respectable number of seats at the Parliament.
Naturally Berlin is delighted with this evolution, and plans to use some of the money it got after Munich to ensure further NSB success. Belgium, which had hoped to form a Little Entente of sorts with its neighbor, is on the other hand finding the NSB rhetoric about Greater Netherlands quite unpleasant. France and Britain have had more pressing concerns of late, but will most probably have a fit if the NSB ever enters the ruling coalition.
Historical notes :
The Great Depression hit the Netherlands particularly hard, since at that time a full third of the Dutch GNP depended upon exports. The Dutch government’s response to the crisis was indeed an example of laissez-faire non-interventionnism, which put the Netherlands in a difficult position as their trade partners devaluated their currencies and set up protectionist barriers that, along with the Dutch decision to stick to the Gold Standard, put Dutch products at a great disadvantage.
Sadly enough, the story about unemployed people having to wear visible signs of tax exemption or even specially-dyed subsidized clothes is apparently true. The initial idea was to identify the people eligible for government aid and tax breaks, but you can imagine the kind of social discrimination it encouraged, and how it soon became a mark of infamy among those who had to wear it.
The cruiser De Zeven Provincien did suffer a mutiny in 1933, while on a mission off Sumatra. The mutiny went differently (the mutineers rebelled at sea and kept the ship in operation), but ended as described here, with a plane bombing the cruiser and killing 22 crewmembers.
The previous British mutiny mentioned is a reference to the Invergordon Mutiny, which in 1932, saw British sailors mutiny after 25% paycuts were ordered by the British government. The mutiny was put down without a shot, and seems to have been a very non-violent event from the beginning, but the news that the crews of several battleships (including the Repulse) had mutinied precipitated a crisis at the Stock Exchange, which in turn precipitated a devaluation of the Pound.
Henri Deterding, in OTL, did not exert any responsibility anymore at Royal Dutch Shell, having been ousted by the board two years before because of his Nazi sympathies. Here I have chosen to keep him firmly in power, because where’s the fun in writing a Dutch update if I can’t have an ambiguous oil mogul to play power broker ?
And, ah, finally, the NSB. In OTL it won nowhere near 15 seats at the Dutch Parliament, its peak year seeing the NSB with only 4 seats. But it is true that after the Zeven Provincien mutiny its membership soared (going from 4,000 to over 20,000), and I therefore chose to bolster it up in the wake of the torpedoing of the Tromp and the post-Munich dynamic favouring Germany. To keep things interesting, every nation should have its political challenger, be that Germany’s timid plotters, Britain’s Churchill-Eden team or France’s Social-Radical opposition. With the Netherlands, the NSB will be the challenger.
Next stop : the Emerald Island, where old grudges and old debts demand to be settled. And yes, I'll be late in posting it, as usual.
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