The Darkroom of Damocles

by Willem Frederik Hermans

  ‘Ria got herself arrested just for show. That way she was able to get rid of your mother, too. Later on the Germans let Ria go, supposedly because there was no evidence against her.’

  Osewoudt seated himself on the table beside Dorbeck, and covered his face with his hands to think. Then he said: ‘I want to go to England with Marianne and never come back.’

  ‘Of course I’ll help you to get to England. As soon as I can,’ said Dorbeck. ‘But in the meantime we’ll have to think of something else. Look, you’ve got to put on that nurse’s uniform. It’ll fit, I’ve seen to that.’

  ‘All right, if you say so. I’ll put the stuff on when I go out in the street.’

  ‘If I say so?’

  Dorbeck got off the table and turned to face him, pressing his clenched fists to Osewoudt’s chest.

  ‘If I say so? You’re not a coward, are you? You want to hide away in a corner for good, just because the Germans had you banged up for a bit? You seem to think there’ll be others to pull your chestnuts out of the fire from now on. What’s got into you? Put those clothes on, I tell you! I want to make sure they fit properly! What did you think I went to all that trouble for? Things might get tricky for me yet. I might need your help. And then what? Will you go out disguised as a nurse? Yes or no?’ Dorbeck’s clenched fists began to shake. Otherwise he kept quite still, fixing Osewoudt with his dark green eyes.

  ‘I’m not a bloody woman!’ shouted Osewoudt.

  ‘Of course not. But you don’t need to shave, and your voice is pretty high-pitched, too. Can you think of a better disguise for someone like you?’

  ‘Oh, well, all right. Whatever.’

  Osewoudt slid off the table, took off his jacket and pullover, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt.

  He shut his eyes as he put on the nurse’s underwear, which smelled of lavender. Then he put on the dress and pinafore.

  ‘Why are you putting my clothes in the suitcase?’

  Unperturbed, Dorbeck stowed everything Osewoudt had taken off in the empty suitcase.

  ‘I’m taking your stuff with me. Tonight or tomorrow I’ll come and fetch you. You can change into your own clothes once we’re across the rivers.’

  ‘I want to take Marianne with me.’

  ‘I said that was all right, didn’t I? Give me her address. I’ll pick her up.’

  Osewoudt told him the address of the hairdresser in Leiden.

  Dorbeck said: ‘I’ll get her to come with me. I’ll be back tonight. Give me your socks and shoes too.’

  Osewoudt took off his shoes and socks. Dorbeck slammed the lid on the suitcase.

  ‘Oh, before I forget. Here’s a ration book, and an ID card. All it needs is your fingerprint and it’ll be impossible to tell it’s a fake. Look at the photo – isn’t it wonderful?’

  Osewoudt studied the photo: his own face, framed by the white nurse’s cap. He read the name he would henceforth go by: Clara Boeken. Occupation: district nurse.

  ‘Go on, put the cap on, just for a laugh,’ said Dorbeck. ‘Then you can see how good the photo is!’

  He held the identity card up beside the mirror.

  Osewoudt put the cap on, grimaced, and took it off again.

  ‘How come this outfit is exactly my size?’

  ‘Dead simple! I tried it on myself!’

  ‘That must have been quite a sight! With that beard!’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha. Well, I must be off. See you tonight.’

  Dorbeck took the suitcase and left the room without shaking Osewoudt’s hand.

  ‘I say, Dorbeck!’

  Dorbeck didn’t seem to hear, he was already on the stairs. Osewoudt wanted to go after him, but he had not fastened the underskirt of the nurse’s uniform properly, and it slid down. He almost tripped over it. By the time he had hitched it up, Dorbeck had shut the front door behind him. Gathering up the skirts, unable to find the fastening, Osewoudt staggered back to the room and looked down into the street through the side of the bay. He rubbed one cold, bare foot over the other. Ebernuss’ car was still there. Osewoudt rapped loudly on the glass. But the car started up, gathered speed, and turned the corner.

  ‘You might at least have left me a gun!’ he cried. His voice sounded flat in the confined space.

  He paused for a moment with his head bowed, then crossed to the mirror. He shivered with cold and began to adjust the nurse’s clothing as best he could. The top was especially troublesome, because of the buttons being on the left and the buttonholes on the right. He even pinned the brooch with the yellow cross to his chest, and finally put on the black woollen stockings and flat shoes. Alarmed at the sight of his hair, which was too short for a nurse, he covered it with the white cap. Yes, now his face in the mirror exactly resembled the photo on the identity card.

  He stood like that for quarter of an hour, gazing at his reflection. He didn’t look too bad, he thought. He laughed, smiled, twisted round to get a view of his back, lifted each leg in turn to inspect his calves. Then he went back to the table and put on the black woollen cardigan. Only now did he see there was also a black shoulder bag in the suitcase. He opened the bag. It contained a clean white handkerchief, a stack of food coupons, a wad of banknotes, two packets of English cigarettes, matches, a comb and a knife of a type he had never seen before. It had a large handle made of black rubber. The blade was no longer than his thumb, but incredibly sharp and as wide as a cut-throat razor. It would not be difficult to inflict a fatal wound with it. The blade was fixed in the rubber hilt by a spring. It could be made to shoot out by pressing the thumb on the hilt. The purpose of this curious instrument was clear: it could be used to stab someone without anybody noticing, simply by setting the hilt against the person’s body and then releasing the blade.

  I’d rather have had a gun, he thought, but this is better than nothing. It seemed a handy sort of weapon.

  He looked at his watch and saw that it was half past seven. This watch was the only masculine object he still possessed. It could give me away, he thought. He quickly removed it and, in case he forgot it later, put it in the shoulder bag. Then he decided to take a look around the flat.

  In the kitchen he found bread, cold porridge and a knob of margarine on a saucer. Not much, but enough to survive for a day. At least he wouldn’t have to face leaving the house in this get-up just yet. He struck a match and turned on the gas ring. No gas. Had even the gas run out in Amsterdam?

  He went back to the parlour and peered into the cold stove. It was filled with dry wood and paper. A hod of coke stood further back. He lit the stove and heated the porridge.

  By seven that evening Dorbeck had still not come to fetch him. Osewoudt went to the bedroom and lay down on the bed in his clothes with a blanket pulled over him. Now and then he dozed off. Each time he woke he struck a match to check his watch. Eleven o’clock. Then it was two. No Dorbeck.

  The next morning he got up at half past nine, went into the kitchen and held his head under the tap. Then, with Marianne on his mind, he began wandering about the flat: kitchen, bedroom, parlour, and back.

  When he had crossed the small landing for the tenth time he looked down over the banister. He saw something white lying on the mat by the front door. He crept down the stairs, telling himself: the neighbours think there’s no one living here.

  It was a small envelope. There was a slip of paper with a typewritten message in it: Marianne Sondaar is in labour at the Emma Clinic, Oranje Nassaulaan 48. Dorbeck.

  The breeze played with his veil. Now and again Osewoudt had to brush it away from his face. It was finely textured and smelled new. It had been carefully ironed, the folds in which it had lain were still clearly visible, making sharp right angles.

  There had been a brief shower a quarter of an hour before; the sun was now shining again, not all that brightly, but pleasantly enough. The wet, shimmering pavement made him blink.

  All was quiet in the street, except for a distant dog and a pigeon. There were few people about. Each time h
e passed someone, he cast a furtive sideways look to see if they had noticed anything. But no one paid him any attention. They took him for an ordinary district nurse, on her way to visit a patient.

  He did not feel cold, and although he had eaten hardly anything he did not feel hungry either. First time walking about on my own and free, he thought, it feels no stranger than if I had been ill in bed for a long while. I’ve pulled through! The Americans are in Hanover! The war will be over the day after tomorrow, or next week – soon, anyway. Everything will start completely afresh!

  What would his own fresh start be like? Dorbeck had given him a new life. Start afresh with Marianne and the child! Soon, once the Germans were out of the way, it would be as if he’d been reborn as a grown man, a man who hadn’t merely survived the war but who had come out on the side of the winners. A man who had risen to every challenge! What harm could possibly befall such a man in peacetime? Anything that stood in his way would shrivel under his gaze.

  He tried the door of a florist’s. The door was locked. He peered in the window and saw several empty vases and potted plants without blooms. He rang the bell, on the off chance. No one appeared.

  On Willemsparkweg he found another florist. This one, too, was closed, and had nothing in the window. But when he rang the bell a little old man came shuffling to the door with a clay pipe in his mouth. The pipe was unlit.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sister.’

  ‘Oh sir, I hardly dare hope you’ll be able to help me, as I’ve been to so many florists already without success. I realise that flowers are hard to come by these days, but I’d dearly love to find some. They’re for a small child in hospital, you see. I’d hate to go there empty-handed.’

  The old man took the pipe from his mouth.

  ‘Yes, Sister, I understand. There’s no trade in flowers any more. It’s not that they aren’t available, but you have to go to the Aalsmeer nurseries to get them. I’m bent double with sciatica, I’ve no tyres on my bicycle and just look how much weight I’ve lost!’

  He plucked at the front of his waistcoat to show how thin he had grown.

  ‘Maybe I can help you, though, seeing as you’re a nurse. Step inside, will you. There isn’t much I can offer, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?’

  Osewoudt stepped inside and the little old man fastened the door on the latch behind him. They went through the shop, which smelled earthy instead of flowery, to the living room at the back. An old woman dozed in an armchair; her head swayed slowly from side to side.

  The old man took no notice of her; his wife began to mutter, without opening her eyes.

  ‘Look,’ he said, pointing to some crimson and blue hyacinths growing in a shallow basin filled with marble chips. ‘I could let you have a couple of those. It’s not much, but it’s the thought that counts.’

  He put his hand on Osewoudt’s arm familiarly.

  ‘I know how hard you nurses are made to work these days. One does what one can for nurses and doctors.’

  He reached in his trouser pocket and brought out a large clasp-knife of the curved type used by florists, and asked: ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

  ‘The colour doesn’t matter, either will do.’

  The old man cut off two red and two blue hyacinths and snapped the knife shut against his thigh. Holding the flowers aloft, he rummaged around the dresser with his free hand, grumbling: ‘Not even any wrapping paper to be had these days.’

  Osewoudt reached for his shoulder bag and opened it.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Let’s see. It’s not much, of course. Twenty-five guilders will do.’

  With the hyacinths wrapped in a white paper napkin – very neatly, considering – Osewoudt made his way to Oranje Nassaulaan.

  Is it a boy or a girl? he wondered. Maybe the child had already been born, or maybe it was being born even now. He hoped it would be a boy. He would tell Marianne that it would be good to call it Filip, as she had already said in her letter. But maybe it was a girl. What would Marianne prefer, a girl or a boy?

  Then he caught sight of the enormous barbed-wire barricades closing off part of Oranje Nassaulaan, where the villas had been requisitioned by the Germans.

  His feet hurt because the shoes were a poor fit. They pinched his muscular judo-insteps, and he couldn’t loosen them as they had buckles instead of laces. He could hardly expect Dorbeck to provide the custom-made shoes he was used to. Besides, in these tight shoes he took shorter steps than normal, and that, he thought, would make his gait more womanly. He almost laughed out loud, thinking how he, Osewoudt of the 500-guilder reward, was right under the Germans’ noses, taking flowers to his child born of a Jewish mother. I’ve really pulled a fast one, he thought. Assuming that the child had already been born, he would shortly be peering into the cradle. Only your mother knew it was me, my boy, he’d tell his son later, everyone thought I was a nurse. The child’s father disguised as a nurse!

  He buried his nose in the hyacinths and inhaled the fragrance. Bastards, he thought, looking again at the barricades thrown up by the Germans, your final hour has come. Here I am, disguised as a sister of mercy with a bouquet in my hand, the same hand I shot Lagendaal with, the same hand I shook the poison into that drink for Ebernuss with, the sodding pansy. No, you’d never guess by the look of me, but I’ve been a sight more daring than all those manly men who’ve been talking down to me, pretending to have my interests at heart. More daring than Uncle Bart with his philosophical books, daring to call me a coward for not giving myself up when you lot arrested my mother. Bastards – I showed you, didn’t I? I’ve dared more than those crybabies over in London, safely ensconced behind their microphones and too witless to give their agents decent identification or proper money instead of antiquated silver guilders, more too than all those people whining about German brutality, Fascist murderers and so on and so forth. Here I am, you bastards, come out from behind your barbed wire and get me!

  He went up the stone steps to the entrance of the Emma Clinic.

  The imposing building was a converted villa, not a purpose-built clinic, and he spent a moment in the vestibule casting around in vain for a porter’s lodge. Then a young student nurse appeared in the corridor. He went up to her and asked: ‘Could you tell me where I can find Mrs Sondaar?’

  ‘Mrs Sondaar? Would you wait there for a moment?’

  She pointed to the vestibule, where an oak bench stood against the wall.

  Osewoudt did as he was told and sat down on the bench. He crossed his legs, rested his right hand with the flowers on his knee, and slid his left hand along his left thigh in search of cigarettes. Damn, he muttered, and bit his left thumb. On the wall facing him was a printed sign, reading: NOTIFICATIONS OF BIRTH TO BE MADE AT THE CIVIL REGISTRY OFFICE BY THE FATHER WITHIN 3 × 24 HOURS.

  When a middle-aged nurse in a grey uniform came towards him he jumped to his feet, but had no chance to say anything. This woman was undoubtedly the matron, and not in the habit of exchanging pleasantries.

  ‘You wish to visit Mrs Sondaar? That will not be possible for now, as she has finally got to sleep. Her condition is far from good. Sad … such a young girl.’

  ‘Yes, very sad. But—’

  ‘Would you like to see the child? You will have to wait a moment.’

  The matron turned round and vanished down the long corridor. She thinks it’s sad the child has no father, thought Osewoudt. This is insane. But why won’t they let me see Marianne? He was confused by his own reaction, just standing there like an idiot offering the bouquet to the matron’s receding back, not calling out to her, not asking what was going on, not even asking her to take charge of the flowers.

  He sat down again on the oak bench, thinking: perhaps it’s not a good idea to talk too much to a real nurse, under the circumstances … Suddenly he realised his teeth were chattering, thought of turning tail, leaving the flowers for the student nurse to deal with, coming back the following day. But he stayed where he was.
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  After ten minutes or so a morose manservant in a pink and white striped jacket came up to him and said: ‘You wanted to see the Sondaar baby? Come with me.’

  The manservant was carrying two buckets filled to the brim with ashes.

  Osewoudt stood up and followed the man down the corridor. At the end of the corridor they went down a flight of stone steps; the occasional clank of the buckets against the steps echoed in the cellar.

  Reaching the bottom, the manservant set the buckets on the floor. They were standing in a small hallway, dimly lit through a square of thick glass in the ceiling.

  The man took a key from his trouser pocket and said: ‘Very sad.’

  He shot Osewoudt a quick look, then opened a door. On the other side it was dark. The man put his hand round the door frame and a weak light came on: a naked bulb suspended on a length of flex.

  Together they went inside. It was a narrow space with pale, grey-painted walls. Along one side were dark blue stone slabs, upon which stood three coffins in a row. One large, the other two small.

  The manservant stepped forward. On the lids of the coffins lay calling cards with names on them written in ink. He picked up the card lying on one of the two small coffins. Osewoudt craned his neck to read what was on it. It said: Baby Sondaar, 4 April, 1945. Then the man removed the coffin lid. The infant lay under a thin blanket. It was dressed in a shirt with elbow-length sleeves. The hands were folded on its breast. The tiny fingernails were dark brown, like fingernails that have been caught in a door.

  The baby’s face reminded him of a newly hatched bird: the upper lip protruded over the lower, making the mouth resemble a juvenile beak. There was some dried blood at the corners. The head had been propped up at a steep angle, presumably to keep the mouth closed, which gave the infant the appearance of looking down its nose. It wore an expression of infinite sadness, as if it had lived just long enough to mourn the fact that it would not survive.