The Darkroom of Damocles

by Willem Frederik Hermans

  Hendrik Maarten OSEWOUDT, born 23-4-20, retailer, last known domicile: VOORSCHOTEN, wanted by the Criminal Investigation Office for robbery with assault. If you know anything about this man, contact your nearest police station immediately.

  The audience was given ample opportunity to take it all in.

  Where was that picture from? Probably from his original identity card, the duplicate of which would be at the civil registration office. Only, was his hair on that photo as dark as on this one? Or was it a photo of Dorbeck they were showing?

  The picture faded. Melancholy Slavic music struck up and the feature film began.

  ‘Filip! How very odd! That man looked just like you!’

  ‘Listen carefully,’ he whispered. ‘Do exactly as I say.’

  He felt in his pockets.

  ‘I’m going to clear off, back to Leiden. But you must stay here until the end of the film, or near the end. I can’t wait that long. If I leave at the same time as everybody else who’s seen that picture someone will surely recognise me, some amateur sleuth eager to make 500 guilders. So I’d better go now. Take this.’

  He gave her the pistol. ‘Put it away now.’

  ‘Hadn’t you better keep it yourself, Filip?’

  ‘No. I’ve used it far too often already. I should have got myself another one long ago. If the police catch me with it and they have some bullet they can trace back to it, then I’m done for.’

  He gave her the pliers, and also the pieces of his broken glasses.

  ‘Here, take these too. They’re no use to me any more.’

  He checked his pockets for anything else he was better off without, but found nothing.

  ‘What’s this? Pliers?’ she asked.

  ‘Bye now, dear Marianne. Don’t worry. I’ll see you later. It’ll probably be okay, but you never know.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ she said. ‘If only I hadn’t dyed your hair black!’

  He drew her towards him, then stood up, put on his hat and buttoned his raincoat.

  At the far end of the auditorium an usherette was perched on a chair. She slipped out before he reached the exit.

  Osewoudt came into the large foyer with the fitted Persian carpets.

  ‘Sir!’ called the doorman.

  Osewoudt stopped. The doorman stopped too, further away from him than you’d expect for someone with something to say.

  Osewoudt said: ‘All right, what is it?’

  The doorman said nothing. Osewoudt heard a clicking sound coming from the nearby ticket office. He couldn’t see inside the window, but recognised the sound: a telephone number was being dialled. He walked out of the cinema. At his back the doorman shouted: ‘Stop! Thief!’

  A ridiculously theatrical yell in the unlit street. Osewoudt stood still, saw other people standing still too. When he saw the doorman rushing towards him he proceeded on his way, but did not run. He walked quite normally. The doorman clapped his hand on his shoulder. Osewoudt seized the hand, yanked it forward until the arm was stretched, twisted the arm round and bent down fast and low. Howling, the doorman smashed on to the cobbles with a force that could have broken his back. Osewoudt let him go, but in the meantime he was being hemmed in by passers-by.

  Osewoudt took a step towards them.

  ‘Why not let me through? That doorman’s bothering me for no reason at all.’

  ‘Identification, please.’

  A Dutch policeman was barring his way with his bicycle.

  Osewoudt handed over the identity card, the policeman switched on a pocket torch and inspected it.

  ‘Well, well, in the Force yourself are you? Where’s your other card?’

  Osewoudt gave him the fake German police card. The policeman pocketed both cards, saying: ‘You’d better come along with me.’

  ‘Look here, I’m on an assignment, I don’t have time to keep you company for no reason.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I’m doing my duty.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn,’ said the policeman. ‘You’re coming with me whether you like it or not. If you start running I’ll shoot, mind.’

  Osewoudt glanced over his shoulder. The crowd was growing. Running away was out of the question.

  ‘All right then, I’ll go with you. Since you insist.’

  The policeman let go of his bicycle and fumbled in his trouser pocket. Click. Before Osewoudt could react, a handcuff was snapped on his wrist.

  An about-turn was made. Without another word he was conducted to the police office on the corner of Halvemaanssteeg. The crowd straggled after them.

  Not until they entered the police office did Osewoudt break his silence: ‘Look here, officer. You may be a good patriot, I don’t know. I’m not really in the German police. Those papers are fake. But I didn’t commit any robbery with assault. It isn’t me in the picture of the wanted man. I look a lot like him, but I’m not him. Different name, too.’

  ‘True,’ said the policeman. ‘The man they’re hunting is called Osewoudt, and your card says van Druten. But it’s the same man in both pictures. Besides, your papers are fake, you said so yourself.’

  ‘I didn’t commit any kind of robbery. You must release me. It’s a matter of life or death. You’ll be sorry if you don’t let me go. Give me back my papers.’

  ‘Anyone could come out with your spiel.’

  ‘Let me go. I’m wanted for political reasons. You’ll be sorry for the rest of your life if you hand me over to the enemy.’

  ‘If you ask me, sir, there’s nothing wrong with your papers. You work for the Germans under an alias and now you’ve got into their bad books. Am I right?’

  ‘No, the papers are forged, I tell you. You’ll regret this.’

  ‘And don’t you think we’ll regret it, here in the police office, if we let you go? I have a wife and children, sir.’

  They sat him in the waiting room. They fastened the handcuffs behind his back. He was surrounded by four policemen and a sergeant. They nodded to everything he said. They offered him a cigarette, but he refused. His voice dropped almost to a whisper, but he kept talking.

  Half an hour later two Germans came to fetch him in a small lightly armoured car.

  Hands still tied behind his back, sitting bolt upright on the wooden seat of a badly sprung vehicle, his entire body quaked all the way to The Hague.

  Osewoudt sat on a hard-backed chair. There were two desks in the rather smoky room, and two Germans bustling about with files; a third sat idle on a similar hard chair in the corner, one leg crossed over the other. A pistol was within his reach, but he didn’t look at Osewoudt.

  Osewoudt said nothing, asked nothing. His nerves still jangled from the shaking of the car. It was strange to see these uniformed Germans going about their business as if they were ordinary office clerks. It was even stranger to see them without their caps on while in uniform. It was as if he had never seen a bareheaded German before.

  The German in the corner stood up, holstered his pistol and left the room. No sooner had he gone than a stocky little man entered, posted himself in front of Osewoudt, mimed a kind of comical amazement, and said: ‘Herr Osewoudt! Have they given you a cup of coffee yet?’

  The little man had left the door open and called out into the corridor: ‘Coffee!’

  Then he crossed to one of the desks, repositioned the office chair so that it was directly opposite Osewoudt, and sat down.

  ‘Well now, Herr Osewoudt! I am Kriminalrat Wülfing. How nice to meet you at last!’

  ‘Where is my mother?’

  ‘I was just coming to that. Your mother is very well indeed! There are a variety of options, Herr Osewoudt. You could go and visit her, no objection whatsoever, we might even have no objection to letting her go – none at all! But first you must appreciate our position!’

  He glanced at the door and called: ‘Jawohl!’

  The door opened and a uniformed corporal entered with two cups of coffee on a tray.

  Osewo
udt took a sip of his coffee and half rose from his chair to set the cup on the desk. Kriminalrat Wülfing blew and slurped by turns, then puffed out his cheeks and blew hard.

  ‘We are the subject of much slander, Herr Osewoudt, but, as I am sure you understand, it is not in our interests to behave like executioners or barbarians! What use would that be to anyone? We respect you as one respects an enemy on the battlefield! However, it is time you realised that, as far as you are concerned, the battle is over. It is time for you and me to have a talk! Man to man! Is there anything more pleasing in this life than conversation? Indeed, I wonder if there is any greater divide between man and beast than the ability to converse. And we are men, after all! Among men it is not the inescapable fate of the loser to be devoured! Cigarette, Herr Osewoudt?’

  The German proffered a packet of English cigarettes. Osewoudt was almost certain they were his own.

  ‘But among men,’ Wülfing went on, ‘among men of true humanity, battle is followed by conversation!’

  He raised both hands in a gesture of modelling the conversation in the air. Then he drew on his cigarette, blew out the smoke and suddenly lunged forward.

  ‘Kleine Houtstraat 32, Haarlem! We know everything! It’s all come out! All parties involved have confessed! Where did you first meet Elkan?’

  Osewoudt shrugged.

  Elkan? The name meant nothing to him.

  ‘There were three of you! We know everything! Who were the others?’

  ‘I’ve never even heard of that address.’

  ‘My dear Herr Osewoudt, don’t talk nonsense. You were there from the beginning to the end! 23 July, 1940! Elkan, Osewoudt and Zéwüster empty their pistols into a number of individuals they had arranged to meet in a boarding house in Haarlem – at Kleine Houtstraat 32! We know everything! Who gave the orders for the shooting?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Why do you think we brought you here? Why do you think we found accommodation for your mother? Are you mad? Or do you think we are?’

  Osewoudt thought to himself: he said there were three of us. Does he think Dorbeck’s name is Elkan? Either he doesn’t know everything, or he’s setting a trap.

  ‘Maybe you’re the one who’s mad,’ said Osewoudt.

  The German leaned forward, leaving his right arm extended behind him. By the time his right fist swung through the air Osewoudt had ducked. But an instant later he received a blow on the nose from the left fist. He had to fight down the urge to grab hold of the fist and wrench the arm out of its socket, but thought: then they’ll know about my judo, and I might get a chance to use it to better effect later on. He sat up straight and resigned himself to snorting up the blood trickling from his nose.

  Wülfing leaned back, knees wide, ankles crossed.

  ‘Herr Osewoudt! Is it really necessary for us to lose our tempers as we sit here speaking man to man? Where is Elkan?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Elkan.’

  ‘You spoke to him only three days ago.’

  ‘I don’t know him!’

  ‘You met him at the entrance to Vondel Park in Amsterdam! Just off Leidseplein!’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘You spoke with him at 3.30 p.m., at Vondel Park. Not only with him, either. There was a third man! Who?’

  ‘Don’t know!’

  ‘But I do. He’s here in this very building, in custody. He’s called Roorda!’

  ‘I’ve never heard that name either.’

  ‘Perhaps so. His name is Roorda. Aliases: Steggerda, Heemstra, van Norden, Vervoord. You still don’t know who we mean?’

  ‘No.’

  Wülfing reached over to the desk and pressed a button. Osewoudt felt in his pockets, but even his handkerchief had gone. The German understood what he was looking for, opened a drawer in his desk and gave him a small crepe-paper napkin. Osewoudt wiped the blood off his face.

  Roorda stood in the room, with the policeman who brought him in holding him by one handcuff. Roorda showed signs of mistreatment. His suit was rumpled, all the buttons were missing, he had to hold up his trousers with one hand, the tieless shirt was soiled and torn.

  ‘Who’s that man, Roorda?’

  ‘That’s Henk Osewoudt.’

  Henk? Who had ever called him Henk?

  ‘Are you sure you recognise him, Roorda?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him last Sunday afternoon at the main gate to Vondel Park in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Well, Osewoudt, what have you to say to that?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

  ‘Who else was present on that occasion, Roorda?’

  ‘Elkan.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘The arms drop that was going to take place. Osewoudt said he hoped there would be detonators with the stuff, because he was short of them.’

  ‘That will do! Take him away!’

  Roorda was dragged out of the room by the handcuff, like a dog.

  ‘So you see, Osewoudt, we know everything. Why go on pussyfooting around? Let’s get down to business. Then I shan’t trouble you any more. It won’t take long, half an hour and we’ll be done. After that you can have a nice long sleep.’

  ‘I don’t know that man.’

  ‘Not a thought of your mother, then?’

  ‘I have never been to that address in Haarlem, I didn’t do anything! I’ll tell you something else, though. This evening I saw—’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Yes you did. You were in the cinema! We know exactly what you saw! You saw yourself on screen, larger than life, that’s what you saw! 500 guilders reward, it said! Your name too. And what did you do? You ran off! You left the cinema although the film had barely begun! Is that normal behaviour for someone with a clear conscience?’

  ‘It was so smoky in there, I didn’t feel well, I needed some fresh air!’

  ‘Quatsch! It was not smoky in the cinema. Smoking is forbidden in cinemas for the duration of the German occupation! See? Pussyfooting around again.’

  ‘I’m saying as little as I can!’

  The German stood up.

  ‘You forget that we have every means of making you talk.’

  Not wanting to draw attention to his judo, Osewoudt did not duck this time. The blow landed on his cheek.

  ‘Ach!’ exclaimed Wülfing. ‘What’s this I feel? Such soft cheeks! Wie ein Mädchen!’

  With the back of his hand, he felt the cheek he had punched, from chin to ear.

  ‘Well I never! A nice bit of crumpet for Obersturmführer Ebernuss! Ha, ha! Like a girl!’

  Osewoudt heard a rattling noise, then felt cold metal on his wrists as his hands were clamped together behind the back of the chair. The German sat facing him again.

  ‘Let me give you some advice. When Obersturmführer Ebernuss arrives, stick a champagne cork up your arse, or you’ll live to regret it! But what I was going to say is: we’ve been chatting for the past hour without getting anywhere. Who ordered you to go to Kleine Houtstraat 32 in Haarlem? We know everything; if you refuse to talk the consequences will be unpleasant only for you, not for us. We have plenty of time.’

  ‘I have never been there.’

  ‘Be sensible, boy. Obersturmführer Ebernuss will be here in an hour, because then I’ll be taking a nap. And if you won’t say anything to Obersturmführer Ebernuss, Obersturmführer Galovsky will take over eight hours from now. He will stay for another eight hours. And if you still haven’t said anything by then it’ll be me again. And so it will go on, day in day out, for as long as it takes. We have plenty of time, we’ll be getting all the sleep we need, but you won’t. No food for you either, for he that does not toil shall not eat, in other words, he that does not cooperate goes hungry. We could use the stomach pump for starters, but we’re too kind. Nothing to drink either, no need for that, for he that keeps his mouth shut is not thirsty. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Where was I? Ah yes, tell me where E
lkan is.’

  ‘I don’t know anybody called Elkan.’

  ‘Don’t you now?’

  When Obersturmführer Ebernuss came in, Osewoudt was lying on the floor. The handcuffs had been removed, but he had no idea when. He held his stomach with both hands, there was blood pouring into his eyes from a gash in his left eyebrow, and he kept spitting out the blood trickling from his nose on to his lips and chin. He could no longer open his eyes fully, nor could he shut them because of the pain. Ebernuss was a ghostly presence pacing the floor. Osewoudt thought: at least I haven’t said anything.

  Ebernuss switched off the desk lamp. Beyond the windows the sky was no longer pitch-dark. Dawn was beginning to break.

  Then Ebernuss squatted down by Osewoudt’s head and said: ‘Look here, dear boy, I dare say you honestly don’t know where Elkan is. How unkind of them to slap you about like this. Can you stand up?’

  He smelled of violets.

  Osewoudt shook his head, without stirring his limbs, without demonstrating his inability to stand up. I can, he thought, but I’m damned if I will.

  ‘He can’t even stand up!’ cried Ebernuss, rising. ‘Shocking, that is.’ He switched the desk lamp on again, lifted a telephone and waited, holding the receiver to his ear.

  At last Osewoudt was able to get a good look at Ebernuss: a pale face like his own, but much plumper, and no doubt he had a beard, a black one, since his hair was black, but he was remarkably clean-shaven. He’s the biggest villain of them all, Osewoudt thought. Someone came on the line and Ebernuss began to speak into the phone in an affected voice, albeit with a menacing undertone. Then he replaced the receiver and picked out two cards from the papers on the desk. He put them on top of each other, held them side by side. One was the identity card made out to Filip van Druten, the other was the German police card bearing the same name and photo. Ebernuss unfolded the identity card and held it up to the lamp, then did the same with the police card.

  Two policemen came in with a stretcher, which they put down beside Osewoudt. Then they grabbed him by the shoulders and feet and laid him on the stretcher. As they carried him away, Osewoudt saw Ebernuss place the two cards on the desk with an air of bemusement.