Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

‘What on earth?’

Breathing noisily, Uncle Bart leaned forwards, open-mouthed, stubble down to his Adam’s apple.

‘I said,’ Osewoudt went on, ‘that it’s no use sending a lawyer because the Germans won’t take any notice. Believe me, Hitler isn’t the same as Hegel, even if they both begin with an H! If we could fork out 20,000 guilders, or 50,000, it would be different, then they might listen!’

Osewoudt didn’t look at Uncle Bart. He twisted the hat round in his fingers as he spoke, or rather shouted: ‘I also said that it’s ridiculous to think they could have arrested Mother over that . The Germans have plenty of other people to arrest! Besides, public health issues aren’t a priority. They must have had some other reason, I’m telling you, otherwise why would they have taken Ria as well?’

He saw stars before his eyes, which were fixed on Uncle Bart’s shoes.

Then he felt a tug at his hair and looked up. Uncle Bart was shaking his head from side to side, foaming at the mouth.

‘But you, what have you done to yourself? Have you dyed your hair? How come it’s black?’

‘Lay off, will you! What? Black hair? Yes, it’s been dyed! And do you know why? Because it’s me the Germans are looking for! It’s me they’re after, just me! Get it? They only took Mother and Ria because I wasn’t at home!’

‘Then you’re a coward! How can you abandon your own wife and mother for your own safety? To think that you didn’t go straight to the police and say: here, take me, just let my mother and my wife go, because they haven’t done a thing!’

‘I’m not a coward. But I can’t possibly give myself up!’

‘Not a coward! A degenerate, that’s what you are!’

‘Degenerate? Not that again! Degenerate — because I don’t shave I suppose! Damn, damn, damn! Ha! Ha!’

It was not laughter, just the exclamation ‘Ha! Ha!’, as if he were reading a story out loud.

‘I repeat,’ Uncle Bart said, ‘degenerate! What have you been up to? Why are the Krauts after you? Because you’ve been selling those filthy cigarettes on the black market? Did you think I didn’t know? The fool goes and gets his hair dyed because he’s scared! If it were anyone else I’d be splitting my sides. But my own flesh and blood! Who shared my home for years! I did everything to make a reasonable man of him! But he’s in the black market! Selling cigarettes, the cancer of modern society! He’s dyed his hair like some old woman! It’s unspeakable. You make me sick.’

Osewoudt stood up. He put one foot forward, holding his hat over his groin. He withdrew the foot and put the other one forward. In a soft voice, more consoling than combative, he said: ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I can’t help being in this situation, it’s just the way it is. I had no choice. I’m not in a position to go into detail now, but you really are mistaken. Don’t go to a lawyer, Uncle Bart, because you might regret it, if not in the short term then certainly when the war’s over.’

Tears welled in his eyes and in his nose; he had to clear his throat before continuing.

‘Mother and Ria are innocent, they haven’t done anything. The Germans will release them after a few weeks, I’m sure. But I beg you, stay out of this. Our enemies are making things bad enough for us as it is.’

But Uncle Bart grabbed his chair, lifted it up and set it down again violently, with the back to Osewoudt and the seat facing his desk. Then he sat down on it, bent over the desk and riffled the pages of his book as if looking up a particular passage, or no, as if trying in vain to locate a passage that might apply to the situation. He smacked the desktop with the flat of his hand.

‘Oh for God’s sake, boy, get out of my sight!’

Osewoudt stood up and said: ‘I never knew you had such a low opinion of me. The fact that you don’t understand proves that you have always despised me. It’s because you’ve always despised me that you won’t believe me!’

Uncle Bart refused to look at him. His hand kept striking the desktop, not particularly hard, but impatiently.

‘I suppose you can’t help it, boy, but I happen to know where you come from. I knew your father.’

‘True, you knew him, I didn’t. But you’re talking complete rubbish. You should listen to what I’m saying instead of thinking about my father. You’re as bad as the Germans: you can’t think straight. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m long past caring whether you believe me or not. But I beg you Uncle Bart: don’t get mixed up in this, because it’s asking for trouble, not only for you, but for me as well.’

Yet when he was out on the street again, he was plunged into such despair that he felt capable of going up to the first German he saw, saying: here I am! But there wasn’t a German uniform in sight, which was hardly surprising in a part of town that was verboten to the Wehrmacht . He heard tapping on a window and turned to look. Beckoning him was a pale, fat whore. She sat behind the glass on a raised chair, her knees drawn up, her slip rucked up over her thighs.

‘Too early!’ called Osewoudt, blowing her a kiss. He laughed. It was not until he was going down Damstraat that he noticed he was still carrying the hat. He put it on and glanced around to see if he was being followed.

It was quarter past midday. What to do until five o’clock? Get something to eat for a start. He went into Restaurant De Gerstekorrel, removing his hat once inside. He picked a table at the back, hung his coat and hat on a peg in the wall, and sat down facing the leaded window. German music came from a radio. There were Germans occupying various tables: field-grey Luftwaffe officers, green SS ones, fat Germans in civilian clothes. And there were also fat Dutchmen with slim briefcases, doing business.

The waiter came promptly to take Osewoudt’s order.

‘Can I order something with my ration card, or is that too inconvenient?’

‘The only difference is the tip, which people don’t always …’

‘You can count on me.’

Osewoudt handed him two meat coupons and two butter coupons, and ordered steak, fried potatoes, peas and pancakes.

‘Oh yes, waiter, and a large beer!’

The beer came first. He immediately gulped down half of it. In the meantime he tried to eavesdrop on his neighbours, but there was so much noise he couldn’t catch what was being said.

Mother in prison, and me sitting here! Nice smell of food, though.

What sort of life would you have had if your mother hadn’t lost her mind and you hadn’t been obliged to look after her? Would you have married Ria? Would you, aged eighteen, have taken to running a tobacconist’s like some retired navy officer or an invalid speed cyclist?

But if I hadn’t done that I’d have been completely dependent on Uncle Bart. I certainly wouldn’t have met Dorbeck! Dorbeck! Where would I be if it weren’t for Dorbeck? My hair’s black now, just like his. I’ve become his twin brother!

He checked his watch: 1 p.m. Must make that telephone call at five. Maybe I’ll get to talk to him. Maybe I’ll meet him again soon. What would he say if he saw me now? I know what I’d say: are you sure you’re not looking in the mirror? What a laugh.

He looked up. An old woman stood at the table just beyond him. She had a flat basket on her arm and was talking to two Germans sitting side by side with their backs to him. She wore black, with a faded green scarf tied round her head. Short and shapeless, she stood out against the coloured panels of the leaded window, looking like a greatly magnified potato. She turned back the cloth covering her basket, and the Germans inspected the contents. The German nearest her even pushed his chair back the better to lean over and poke his nose in.