Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

‘It looks like tar, or creosote!’

She reached out to grasp his raincoat and bent to sniff it.

‘Don’t!’ he cried, pushing her away. ‘You almost tripped me up. Where do you want to go?’

‘Guess what! I went and bought two cinema tickets. Don’t worry, not a German film. It’s Czech, and it’s called Praeludium .’

‘Which cinema?’

‘The Tivoli.’ They crossed to the other side of the street.

‘You can’t imagine what it feels like,’ she said as they walked down Reguliersbreestraat, ‘going to the cinema like this. I have very strange thoughts. All those Aryans who won’t set foot in the cinema by way of protest, and here I am, a Jewess going to see a film. Sort of perverse, don’t you think?’

‘No one can see that you’re Jewish.’

‘That’s beside the point — I know what I am! My entire family have been rounded up, I haven’t heard from them since. They may be dead for all I know, and here I am going to the cinema!’

‘You don’t want to dwell on that kind of thing,’ said Osewoudt. ‘Anyway, the rumours may be exaggerated, perhaps they’re still alive.’

‘But even so, they’ll be in prison. They won’t be strolling down Reguliersbreestraat like us, will they?’

‘No.’

‘The thing is, I can’t believe how I can just carry on as if I didn’t care.’

They joined the queue. Above the ticket window hung a notice saying FÜR JUDEN VERBOTEN! They shuffled forward over Persian carpets.

‘You do care,’ said Osewoudt. ‘If you didn’t you wouldn’t have mentioned it.’

The lights dimmed and the newsreel began.

‘Why don’t the lights go out altogether?’

‘It’s been like this for a long time. If Hitler or some crony of his appears on the screen and someone whistles or jeers, they’ll know who it was.’

Suddenly he thought of Hey You. What had they done to her? What could have been wrong with her identity card? Did they know anything about her? Would they ask her why she had gone to Lunteren? Would they find out that she had two train tickets, one for herself and one for Walter? Would she keep her mouth shut? It seemed unlikely she had told them anything on the train, or the Germans would surely have come back for Walter. Then it struck him that Hey You was supposed to have shown him a photo to prove her identity and that he hadn’t even asked her for it, that he hadn’t seen it at all. That she must still have had it on her when she was arrested! What would it have been of? Who knows, it might have been the third photo. The third photo of the set he had posted to Dorbeck, one of which Elly had, supposedly, given to her in England. What was the third one of? I can’t remember, but that makes no difference. I’d recognise it if I saw it. Will it mean anything to the Germans? He was so preoccupied that he didn’t look at the screen again until the voice and the music faded and the newsreel came to an abrupt halt.

The lights now went out completely, and something odd happened. A face appeared on screen, motionless but for a slight quiver because it was a film of a photograph. It was his own face. People coughed, the projector whirred, otherwise there was not a sound.

A typewritten summons accompanied the photograph:

500 guilders reward

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.