Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

He went out into the corridor, through the hall, and left the house. He ran off on tiptoe, darted into the first side street and then another. Only then did he slow down.

The train was still some distance from the station when Osewoudt posted himself at the carriage door. He swung it open before the train came to a halt.

He hurried down the platform, his fingers folding the lower half of his Leiden-Amersfoort return ticket. He ran up the steps of the railway bridge, down the other side, passed through the barrier and walked to a ticket window.

‘Third-class return to Wageningen.’

He paid and straightened himself up, licking his lips which were parched from all the panting. He followed a party of cattle dealers into the waiting room.

There she was! The National Youth Storm leader! What luck! Beddable, smashing legs too! On her ash-blonde curls she wore a kind of Cossack cap of astrakhan with an orange crown. Symbol of the new Germanic Netherlands! Vestige of loyalty to the House of Orange, so recently forsaken! Her eyes were naturally slightly narrowed and her lower lip protruded somewhat, so that it seemed everything she laid eyes on was beneath contempt.

She stood by one of the doors to the platform, her hands in the pockets of her navy blue coat. She’s on the lookout for me, thought Osewoudt.

He went up to her and tipped his hat.

‘Pardon me, but haven’t I met you before? Aren’t you Comrade Nispeldoorn’s fiancée?’

She merely turned her head slightly, keeping her body quite still.

‘No, I don’t know you, and I don’t know Comrade Nispeldoorn either.’

She looked outside again, and this time changed her pose. Osewoudt raised his arm to her back in the Nazi salute, muttering: Houzee . Then he crossed to the farthest corner of the waiting room as quickly as possible. He checked his watch. Another twenty minutes before the train left for Wageningen. There was no other Youth Storm leader to be seen.

Again he studied the lovely creature at the door. Again she shifted her pose, slowly turning round as if the man who had spoken to her merited a second glance after all. Osewoudt stepped to one side so as to be obscured by a fat cattle dealer standing roughly in the middle of the waiting room. You sweet thing, he thought, spending a night of bliss with you and then doing you in would be right up my street, and a patriotic deed into the bargain.

The cattle dealer bent over to talk to the other dealers, who were seated at a table. Osewoudt could now see her profile, her nose, her stern chin, her disdainful lower lip, the mist of fair hair on her forehead. Even beneath her coat, her breasts were alluring. Then he thought: maybe she’s sorry I left so quickly, but it’s also possible that she suspects something. His throat tightened. The waiting room was stuffy and warm with a fug of steam, stale breath and unfermented tobacco. He wished he could go outside. If only I dared, if only I weren’t scared of having to face that Youth Storm leader again. He had a vision of dozens of Youth Storm leaders swarming into the waiting room and him having to go up to each one in turn and ask: haven’t we met before? Aren’t you Comrade Nispeldoorn’s fiancée?

The cattle dealers now rose from their table and moved to the exit en masse. The moment they were gone he caught sight of another National Youth Storm leader. She was alone.

She seemed hesitant, glancing about warily while keeping her head as still as possible. Clearly she was looking for someone. That must be her. She had bandy legs, no figure to speak of, and her navy coat was ill-fitting. She too had fair hair, but it was thin and lifeless. She had a coarse face, almost like a man’s. The sort of woman who has an invisible, but when it comes down to it, unmistakable moustache. She had sharp creases either side of her mouth, and yet she could not have been very old. Below the left corner of her mouth was a brown wart, starkly defined against her pale skin, which reminded him of the colour of boiled veal. He did not go up to her. Her gaze slid over him without apparent question. He looked again at the other youth leader, who at that moment stooped to pick up her travelling bag and left the waiting room. The ugly youth leader was standing by the stove, about three metres away from Osewoudt. He looked around: no one was paying any attention to either of them. Then he took a few steps towards her.

She noticed him coming and looked him in the eye. He knew there was no need for him to reel off his little piece, but did so all the same.

‘Haven’t I met you before? Aren’t you Comrade Nispeldoorn’s fiancée?’

She had no eyebrows, but raised the areas of her forehead where they should have been. She began to laugh quietly, and he noticed her face was filmed with curiously minute beads of perspiration.

‘I am not engaged to Comrade Nispeldoorn, but I can show you a photo that will interest you.’

Osewoudt lifted his left wrist and pushed up his sleeve to uncover his watch.

‘I think we’d better get on that train now.’

‘Fair enough.’

They left the waiting room; the girl had no luggage.

As they drew near to the train she asked: ‘Do you know what this is all about?’

‘No, I don’t. All they said was to buy a return ticket to Wageningen.’

‘Oh. It’s quite a serious business, actually. Let’s get on the train first.’

He stepped towards an open carriage door.

‘Are there two seats? Yes, you go on up then,’ she said.

She stepped to one side and stood there, peering into the train with the same expression as when she had entered the waiting room. She seemed to be checking for someone else in the carriage she had to watch out for.

Finally, she too boarded the train, murmuring: ‘I’m not really sure what’s best.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, nothing. You stay there by the window, all right?’

He banged the carriage door shut. It was an old train, with wooden benches painted pale yellow and paired compartments.

The bench opposite them was unoccupied. Beside them sat an old lady with a spasmodic twitch in her throat, so that her head was never quite still.

‘Now you can tell me what they’ve got lined up for us.’

The girl sat close to him, the suspected moustache now clearly visible.

She leaned towards him as if they had known each other for at least an hour.

‘I’ll explain. We aren’t going all the way to Wageningen; we’re getting off before then, at Lunteren. Lunteren is where someone called Lagendaal lives. He needs dealing with, he’s a very dangerous individual, works for the Gestapo, has grassed on dozens of people. He lives outside the village, on open heathland. Used to run a bicycle repair shop before the war, but now he’s got himself a nice bungalow. I know how to get there; I’ve done a recce, so you needn’t worry about that. The thing is, he’s had some sort of warning. In other words, he’s on the alert, but isn’t sure what for.’

‘So what does he suspect?’

On the platform a whistle sounded, the train lurched into motion, a thick cloud of smoke floated past the window.

‘He knows that something might happen at any moment. It’s quite remote where he lives, or rather where his wife and small son live. He’s not there most of the time. But he is today. The parents have decided to send the boy to stay elsewhere. A National Youth Storm leader is supposed to come and collect him.’

She smiled, baring large, even teeth, but they were closer to grey than white.

‘So I go there first, to collect the boy. I take him to the station. Then it’s your turn. Did you bring some pliers? You’re to cut the telephone wires, to be on the safe side. When you’ve done that you go in and deal with the man.’