‘Working for the Germans? What does it matter? All I know is that he never had ideals. Always taking the path of least resistance. I offered to send him to university, but all he wanted was to hang around in a tobacco shop doing nothing, when everyone knows that nicotine is a dangerous poison. All my life I have fought against alcohol, tobacco and the excessive consumption of meat. Total disarmament was my ideal, but as a boy he was too lazy even to address the envelopes for my temperance meetings.’
‘Did you suspect him of anything?’
‘I brought him up as my own son. Why would I harbour suspicions against him? The mere thought of him acting dishonourably was intolerable to me. What I do know, though, is that when his mother was arrested he made no effort whatsoever, none at all, to secure her release. I said to him: why don’t you go to the Krauts, why don’t you say: here I am, take me instead of my mother? But he wouldn’t hear of it.’
Osewoudt got up from his chair, as if he were not close enough to Uncle Bart already. He put his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair and, leaning so far forward he seemed minded to kiss the old man on the forehead, he cried: ‘Uncle Bart, I’m sorry about everything, but I am innocent of the crimes they suspect me of. Do you remember me telling you about Dorbeck?’
Uncle Bart’s head fell again, but he made a final effort to lift his eyes to Osewoudt.
‘I am tired. I would rather go now!’
His eyes filled with tears and he began to sob audibly, while his nurse took a folded napkin from her bag, shook it out, and wiped the dribble from his lips and his coat.
‘Uncle Bart, this is extremely important to me. Do you remember the name Dorbeck?’
A kind of whimpering rose from Uncle Bart’s throat, as from a dying dog after being hit by a car. He was too choked up to speak any more. His head jolted sideways and reared up again. Then it lolled to the side once more.
Osewoudt stood up straight. He held his hand out to Selderhorst.
‘He’s shaking his head no,’ he said imploringly. ‘Shaking his head, saying no, he can’t remember. But what does that prove? He’s an old man. The Germans have maltreated him. He can’t help it that his memory’s gone. What does this prove against me?’
Each morning the prisoners had to do half an hour of gymnastics in the factory yard. Running, leapfrogs, belly-crawls, rolls, vaults. It was Osewoudt’s first time. He ran harder than the others, leaped further, crawled faster, rolled like a marble and vaulted higher. As a punishment the others had to keep it up for an extra quarter of an hour. Osewoudt was allowed to sit and watch.
Spuybroek wandered on to the yard, caught sight of Osewoudt and squatted down beside him.
‘I’ve got a secret,’ he said. ‘Important news! Listen to this! That picture of you we published has been getting some response. Your uncle isn’t the only person to have come forward. We’ve had word from a British army commander in Germany. They’ve excavated a mass grave somewhere near Oldenburg. It seems they’ve found a body that fits the description.’
‘Hardly surprising, is it? And I suppose you want me to provide proof that it’s Dorbeck? Me furnish proof? I’m the one nobody believes, remember? How can I prove anything about a corpse that’s been buried for at least six months?’
‘Shut up for a minute, I haven’t finished. Do you remember mentioning the name Jagtman to me? Jagtman … the name passed on to you by Dorbeck, along with an address. You were to send photos there. Legmeerplein in Amsterdam, it was. But when you went to follow it up you found that the building had been destroyed by a plane crash the night before, and the whole Jagtman family had been killed. Wasn’t that what you told me?’
‘Yes, more or less.’
‘Well, then. Do you know who’s come forward? The family dentist. He knows exactly what the teeth of the various Jagtmans looked like. Now if the teeth of that body in Oldenburg can be matched with a member of the Jagtman family, we’ll be getting somewhere. It would go some way to explaining why no one’s heard of Dorbeck. Then it would be reasonable to assume that Dorbeck was an alias and that his real name was Jagtman. Let me tell you something: ever since you actually turned up the remains of that uniform, back in Voorschoten, my opinion of you has changed.’
‘Oh really?’ Osewoudt said. ‘So tell me, if that body in Oldenburg is in fact the body of a Jagtman, how am I to explain what it’s doing in Germany when the entire Jagtman family was wiped out in Amsterdam by the plane that came down on their house? Every time there’s a chance, however slim, of proving that Dorbeck really existed, fresh complications arise. What use to me is a dead Dorbeck in Germany? The living Dorbeck is what I need, to come here and prove my innocence! And I’m certain he’s still alive! Colonel Smears, who interrogated me in England, never denied his existence either.’
Spuybroek began to whistle, straightened up, and walked away. Osewoudt stared at the prisoners running round in circles. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing from the flavouring extracts factory, and it smelled of vanilla. If the dentist was able to identify the body in Germany, what would the consequences be?
After a shout from the sergeant in charge, one of the prisoners left the group and came to sit beside Osewoudt.
He was young, seventeen at most. He had a high forehead and the green, shallow-socketed wolf’s eyes of the wildest Germanic tribes.
‘You’re Osewoudt, aren’t you? Interesting to talk to you. Everyone’s heard about your case. If you ask me, the hunt for Dorbeck’s like walking through quicksand: every step you take you sink deeper. What’s your view?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘If you ask me, Osewoudt, you’re a real bastard. I’m not saying that to have a go at you, it’s the truth. You know the trouble with most Dutchmen? They never learned to think. Take me. I joined the SS a year ago. I’m a theorist, an amoral theorist. A theorist, because I can’t stand the sight of blood, and besides, by the time I joined, Germany was already losing the war and there were SS men running for cover with the Resistance. It wasn’t that I believed in the SS, the 1,000 year Reich, or any of the other tripe the papers say every SS man believed in. But what I do believe is that moral values are nothing but a temporary frame of reference, and that once you’re dead morality is irrelevant. I don’t suppose you’ve done much reading, have you? I have. I’m an intellectual. Not many of them in the SS, either. A pack of idiots, like everybody else. Some of them thought the world of Himmler! Himmler, I ask you! A sea cow in pince-nez! They thought Hitler was a genius! Hitler! The epileptic schnauzer! They believed in a better future, for God’s sake! If it were up to me, I’d have them all put against a wall, now, here, this minute!’
He pointed to the exercising men.
‘See how they run! Ridiculous. You know what it is? You know what it all boils down to? It all boils down to the fact that man is mortal and doesn’t want to admit it. But to anyone who accepts the reality of death there is no morality in the absolute sense, to anyone like that goodness and charity are nothing but fear in disguise. Why should I behave morally if I will get the death sentence in any case? Everyone is sentenced to die in the end, and everyone knows it.
‘The crackpot philosophers who shaped our Western civilisation thought there was a difference between guilt and innocence. But I say: in a world where everyone gets the death sentence there can be no distinction between innocence and guilt. And all that rot about compassion! Of course you’ve never read a decent book in your life, like all the other imbeciles in this country. But if you get a chance, you should take a look at Shakespeare’s Richard III! Shakespeare, now there was someone who understood. What happens when Richard’s kingdom is on the verge of collapse and he must prepare for the decisive battle?
‘He sleeps, and in his dream appear all the friends and relations he murdered so that he could take the throne. Do you know what they say? Well, what do you think? Do you think they say: Richard, it was awful of you to kill us off, but what’s done is done, there’s no way we can co
me back to life, we forgive you for what you did to us and hope that you’ll be spared our miserable fate, because even if you are punished for your crimes, it won’t do us any good … Do you think that’s what they say, Osewoudt? No, my friend, that’s not what they say. Despair and die! is what they say. Despair and die! Women, children, old folk. Despair and die they all say! Shakespeare knew what he was talking about!
‘Take Dostoevsky. In Dostoevsky you’ll find people who are gentle, kind, high-minded, generous, saintly – but they’re all insane, every one of them. That’s what it boils down to! Man is only good out of calculation, insanity, or cowardice.
‘And this brings me to the point I’m trying to make: this insight is gradually gaining acceptance. The old prophets and philosophers who claimed otherwise are losing ground. The truth can’t be kept at bay by autosuggestion. Man will have to learn to live in a world without liberty, goodness and truth. It’ll soon be taught at primary school! This war is just a foretaste of what’s in store! The world is getting far too densely populated for there to be room for madmen, do-gooders or saints. Just as we no longer believe in witches, just as sexual taboos are disappearing, so our great-grandchildren will have no qualms about allowing things to happen that would horrify your taxpaying, vote-casting populace of today.
‘The carnage of this war, the millions of defenceless people who have been gassed, beaten to death, starved, doused with burning phosphor from aeroplanes, that’s just a start. Our grandchildren won’t understand the hue and cry in the papers over such things. The persecution of Jews? You mark my words! In twenty years’ time the British, the Americans and the Russians will have the Jews exterminated by the Arabs, if it happens to suit them. May I wish you the very best of luck with your case, Osewoudt?’
The prisoners were marshalled into line. The young SS man jumped up to join them. But after two paces he paused, looked back at Osewoudt and said: ‘Or they’ll have the Arabs exterminated by the Jews, if that makes you feel any better!’
Not until the car pulled up at the entrance of the British army base in Oldenburg did Osewoudt get a chance to exchange a few words with the dentist, whom they had collected on the way.
‘I gather you were a close acquaintance of the Jagtman family,’ said Osewoudt.
‘Yes, they were all patients of mine.’
‘And did any of them look like me?’
‘I should say so. That was why I phoned the police when I saw that picture of Dorbeck in the paper. But you must realise that it’s five years since I last saw him. I don’t keep a photo album of my patients.’
‘What exactly was his name?’
‘Egbert.’
‘Egbert. Did you see him at all after May 1940?’
‘That’s a bit of a problem. The last time he came to see me was in August 1939. He was called up after that.’
‘Was he in the artillery?’
‘I wouldn’t know for sure.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘What if he’d had a lot of work done on his teeth by another dentist, while he was in the army?’
‘Oh, the distinctive features of a person’s dentition aren’t affected, under normal circumstances. The chance of that happening is incredibly small.’
The dentist opened a small case he had been holding on his lap throughout the journey. Just then Selderhorst got in the car again, after having a word with the British commander. He started the engine. The British sentry waved them on. They drove very slowly down a track that was completely ploughed up by tanks, towards a low shed.
There were more British soldiers standing about, unarmed, with their flat helmets pushed back at a jaunty angle. They directed the car to a parking space among their own vehicles.
Selderhorst, the dentist, Spuybroek, and Osewoudt got out.
The dentist put down his case on the grass and opened it. He took out a large, buff-coloured card. It was a diagram of a full set of human teeth, several of them annotated, in two facing horseshoe shapes. On the left were listed the patient’s particulars: surname, first name, date of birth, dental appointments, and so on. The dentist happened to be holding the card in his left hand, thus obscuring most of the list, but Osewoudt was able to catch a glimpse of the words Jagtman and Egbert, and a date: 3 December, 1916. There were three addresses, two of which were scored out.
The dentist pointed to the chart.
‘A diagram like this,’ he said, ‘gives a complete record of everything that has been done to a person’s teeth. It represents a unique combination. Rather like the combination which opens a safe. For example, here we have an inlay in the third molar in the bottom left, a filling on the inside of the second molar, an extracted eye tooth (necessitated in this case by a childhood accident – he was hit by a flying stone), three fillings in the third molar on the right, et cetera … No, no, the chances of this combination occurring in anyone else are negligible.’
A British lieutenant came up to them with a soldier in tow, who set down four pairs of rubber boots on the grass. The lieutenant was already wearing rubber boots, as was the soldier.
‘Well now, gentleman,’ said the lieutenant, ‘would you be so kind as to follow me? That’s very kind, because I can’t say this is going to be a pleasant undertaking. The storage of the exhumed bodies leaves much to be desired, not least due to their poor state of preservation. The mass grave was discovered purely by chance ten days ago. It’s not far from our base, which has simplified transportation.’
He produced a key, put it in a padlock on the shed door, and said: ‘As far as we can tell, the majority are Belgian and Dutch servicemen.’
‘Were they in uniform, then?’ Osewoudt asked.
‘Some were. The others had nothing on – another kind of uniform, so to speak.’
In a nearby field stood a diesel generator, blowing blue vapour into the misty air. There were cables running from the generator to various sheds, including this one.
The dentist put away Jagtman’s dental chart and put on a pair of rubber gloves. From his case he took a long stainless steel spatula, almost as long as a crowbar, and a curious kind of clamp. The clamp consisted of two flat hooks, as big as spoons and with the convex sides turned outwards. The two hooks could be made to move apart by adjusting a screw. After casting an eye over each of these instruments, he put them all back in the case, which also contained a small mirror on a long handle and a pocket torch.
The door swung open and a sickly stench of decaying flesh mixed with formaldehyde wafted out. The officer turned a switch. Two inspection lamps suspended from the eaves flipped on. The dentist picked up his case.
There were so many bodies in the shed that there was hardly room to walk. Many of them were piled up on each other, so that only the faces of the top ones were visible.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the lieutenant, ‘we’ve marked the one we think fits the description.’
Looking left and right, he led the way for the others. Their rubber boots squelched in the black slime underfoot.
All the way at the back lay the marked body. There was a cross of red lead paint on the pale blue, distended belly. The eyelids were parted, but the sockets were empty. There was thin black stubble on the cheeks. The hair on the head was black, too.
‘Is this Dorbeck?’ Selderhorst asked.
Osewoudt hesitated.
The dentist sank to his haunches, inserted his spatula between the closed jaws and prised them apart. In his other hand he held his torch.
‘I’ve seen enough!’ he said, straightening up. ‘Not a tooth left in his mouth!’
It was mid-November, and many weeks since Osewoudt had last been called for questioning. One morning when Spuybroek came to inspect his cell, he raised the subject.
‘Couldn’t you ask Selderhorst to give me another hearing?’
‘What for? What would be in it for you? Don’t you think they’ve got enough files on you already?’
‘But there are
still so many details that haven’t been discussed!’
‘You’re mad. It’s sheer madness on your part to think that more discussions will help. Incriminating evidence is, oddly enough, rather like cork. Sink a ship with a cargo of cork and the cork will come up again, whatever you do.’
‘Still, I’d really like to speak to Selderhorst. Ask him when I can see him.’
At half past eleven that evening he was taken from his cell and conducted to Selderhorst’s office.
Selderhorst’s desk was stacked so high with files that he could barely see over the top, which was probably why he leaped to his feet when Osewoudt came in through the door.
‘You again! What do you want? I didn’t send for you.’
‘That’s exactly why I’m here!’
‘I have no intention of losing any sleep over you. Did you think I still don’t know enough about you to have you sentenced to death three times over?’
‘No, in actual fact you know nothing about me! You never brought up any of the facts that speak in my favour. The country’s been liberated, and yet here I am, behind bars with a bunch of traitors, spies and black marketeers. Don’t I have a right to be free? Did I not do my bit for the liberation? Did I not liquidate the monster Lagendaal?’
Selderhorst stamped his feet with rage.
‘Damn you! How dare you talk to me like that?’
He waved at the files.
‘There isn’t a minute of your existence during the German occupation that is not documented in these files. For every time you scratched your arse I can produce ten sworn statements! What’s the matter with you? Why did you come here? To tell me yet again that it was you who liquidated Lagendaal? Take a look in the mirror, you creep. Look in the mirror and then tell me you’re the kind of man who would have had the guts to liquidate Lagendaal.’
He picked up the phone and shouted: ‘Bring me a mirror! Now! This minute!’
He slammed down the phone, took his chair from behind the desk and set it down back to front before Osewoudt. He sat astride the chair, resting his arms on the back. He was still wearing the same shabby grey suit, his eyes were red from lack of sleep, his cheeks were covered with grey and black stubble, but on his feet he wore a new pair of army boots, brown and lavishly studded with nails.
The Darkroom of Damocles Page 30