They found their man in Jacobus Lambertus Lentz. He was not a Nazi. Those who have studied him have not proven his innate anti-Semitism. Instead, Lentz was a population expert, cocooned in his own stacked and tabulated world of ratios, registration programs, and rattling Hollerith machines. Perfection in human cataloging was for Lentz more than a matter of pride, it was a crusade.45
In 1936, as Inspector of Population Registries, Lentz standardized local population registers and their data collection methodology throughout the Netherlands—an administrative feat that earned him a royal decoration. That same year, he outlined his personal vision in Allgemeines Statistisches Archiv, the journal of the German Statistical Society: “Theoretically,” predicted Lentz, “the collection of data for each person can be so abundant and complete, that we can finally speak of a paper human representing the natural human.”46
One can only imagine the deep inner satisfaction Lentz derived from indexing one segment of the population after another with infallible precision. He bragged about his data, defensively stood by his summaries and always anticipated the next German request for Jewish names—if for no other reason than to self-validate his own “censual” foresight. When light streamed through the punch card, Lentz surely saw something no one else could. German occupiers were resented nearly everywhere in Holland. But for Lentz, his new Nazi masters had in fact liberated him from the dissatisfying ennui of peacetime social tracking. Now, under Nazism, he could unleash all his ideas of registration and powers of ratiocination restlessly waiting to be tested. He would declare war on population ambiguity. Lentz would be the man to deliver the Jews of Holland. His motto was “to record is to serve.”47
Step one, on July 3, 1941, was the identification of Jewish refugees living in Amsterdam, a number the Germans erroneously believed was between 120,000 and 150,000. Using police stations normally charged with registering aliens, Lentz organized a systematic count. His numbers ultimately showed far fewer refugees than expected, about 20,000.48
Then, on August 17, Lentz devised a unique tamper-proof personal identification card that could not be forged. Translucent inks were employed to print key words that disappeared under a quartz lamp. The stamp franking was acetone-soluble. Photos of the individual were affixed front and back through a window transparently sealed and adhered with permanent glue. A fingerprint of the person’s right index finger was then impressed upon the back of one of the photos so it always displayed through the small window. The individual’s signature on watermarked paper completed the document, which included numerous personal details. Lentz’ card was a masterpiece of human documentation.49
Lentz first conceived his complex card in 1939 when war in Europe broke out and the government considered foolproof food rationing cards. However, as recently as March 1940, a Dutch government commission thought that such a card would treat average people like criminals, and was inconsistent with the nation’s democratic tradition. But with no one to hold him back, Lentz perfected his original card idea by adding the photograph and fingerprint features.50
When Lentz offered his specimen to the Criminal Technology Institute of the Reich Criminal Police Office, it was eagerly approved. His innovation outshone anything the German police had ever developed, and clearly could defeat the many local attempts to forge papers. Within weeks, German civil administrators began requiring all Dutch citizens over the age of fourteen to sign up. It took about a year before everyone was registered. But Lentz’ personal card was more than just an advanced domestic identification. A second portion detached at issuance created a card-like receipt. Those card receipts were retained and organized into massive files cataloging the personal details of all who lived in the Netherlands.51
Every Dutch adult was required to carry Lentz’ personal identification card. But a feature was added that only affected Jews. Eventually the letter J was stamped on every identification card carried by those defined as Jewish. The manual card file receipts became the first stepping-stone toward comprehensive automated Dutch Jewish registration.52
On October 22, all Jewish enterprises were compelled to register. Jews were defined, as in the Nuremberg Laws, according to their grandparents, not their current religious affiliation. Businesses were deemed Jewish if any member of the ownership or management was Jewish or had Jewish ancestors, again mimicking the decrees espoused earlier in the Reich. A Bureau of Economic Investigation was formed to decide whether suspect companies were actually Jewish under rigid ancestral definitions. As soon as German civil authorities in Holland announced the Jewish commercial registration, the nation erupted in protest. Virtually all Protestant churches, that next Sunday, condemned from the pulpit a Jewish registration they called “un-Christian.”53
By early 1941, the Germans felt they were ready to begin the last phase before deportation. On January 10, 1941, Nazi State Secretary Friedrich Wimmer issued the all-important decree VO6/41 requiring all Jews—Dutch and foreign—to register at their local Census Office. Wimmer’s deadline was four weeks for those residing outside of Amsterdam and ten weeks for Amsterdam residents. Since the 1930 census, Dutch Census Offices were completely automated with Hollerith systems. By comparing the Jewish registrations to the existing total population card index created by the Lentz card, the authorities could pinpoint any Jew who failed to sign up.54
Although nearly all of Holland angrily condemned the Nazi registration, the Jews did as instructed. With few exceptions, every Dutch Jewish family dutifully picked up its questionnaires, filled them out completely, and filed with the nearest registration office. The uncanny compliance was based on traditional Dutch respect for laws and regulations, as well as the stated penalty for not registering—five years in prison and the confiscation of property. Jews also understood that resistance was futile because their names had already long been innocently registered as “Jewish” in numerous statistical and registration bureaus throughout the Netherlands, and especially in the new card indices created by Lentz’ personal identification program. Even though some Jews rioted in early February 1941, the entire community nonetheless filled out the forms as required. More than 157,000 questionnaires were ultimately returned in the first months—more than the entire Jewish community because many sympathetic Dutchmen actually volunteered to register alongside their Jewish countrymen. Lentz’ punching cadres began converting the Jews to Hollerith records as quickly as possible.55
But none of it was fast enough for the Nazis. There were many delays. Although decree VO6/41 was espoused on January 10, 1941, German administrators did not release it to the media until January 14, when the news was published around the world, including in the New York Times. Because the registration ruling did not become effective until January 24, the official Dutch government gazette did not publish the details for census administrators until its February 3 issue. Hence local Census Offices across the country lost time in setting up registration facilities. Nonetheless, the offices remained open all day and night to speed the process. Each day, thousands of Dutch Jews marched into the local Census Office, paid a token guilder, and filled out the elaborate questionnaires providing the Germans with everything they needed to know about their possessions, families, and parentage.56