Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

Not until they entered the police office did Osewoudt break his silence: ‘Look here, officer. You may be a good patriot, I don’t know. I’m not really in the German police. Those papers are fake. But I didn’t commit any robbery with assault. It isn’t me in the picture of the wanted man. I look a lot like him, but I’m not him. Different name, too.’

‘True,’ said the policeman. ‘The man they’re hunting is called Osewoudt, and your card says van Druten. But it’s the same man in both pictures. Besides, your papers are fake, you said so yourself.’

‘I didn’t commit any kind of robbery. You must release me. It’s a matter of life or death. You’ll be sorry if you don’t let me go. Give me back my papers.’

‘Anyone could come out with your spiel.’

‘Let me go. I’m wanted for political reasons. You’ll be sorry for the rest of your life if you hand me over to the enemy.’

‘If you ask me, sir, there’s nothing wrong with your papers. You work for the Germans under an alias and now you’ve got into their bad books. Am I right?’

‘No, the papers are forged, I tell you. You’ll regret this.’

‘And don’t you think we’ll regret it, here in the police office, if we let you go? I have a wife and children, sir.’

They sat him in the waiting room. They fastened the handcuffs behind his back. He was surrounded by four policemen and a sergeant. They nodded to everything he said. They offered him a cigarette, but he refused. His voice dropped almost to a whisper, but he kept talking.

Half an hour later two Germans came to fetch him in a small lightly armoured car.

Hands still tied behind his back, sitting bolt upright on the wooden seat of a badly sprung vehicle, his entire body quaked all the way to The Hague.

Osewoudt sat on a hard-backed chair. There were two desks in the rather smoky room, and two Germans bustling about with files; a third sat idle on a similar hard chair in the corner, one leg crossed over the other. A pistol was within his reach, but he didn’t look at Osewoudt.

Osewoudt said nothing, asked nothing. His nerves still jangled from the shaking of the car. It was strange to see these uniformed Germans going about their business as if they were ordinary office clerks. It was even stranger to see them without their caps on while in uniform. It was as if he had never seen a bareheaded German before.

The German in the corner stood up, holstered his pistol and left the room. No sooner had he gone than a stocky little man entered, posted himself in front of Osewoudt, mimed a kind of comical amazement, and said: ‘Herr Osewoudt! Have they given you a cup of coffee yet?’

The little man had left the door open and called out into the corridor: ‘Coffee!’

Then he crossed to one of the desks, repositioned the office chair so that it was directly opposite Osewoudt, and sat down.

‘Well now, Herr Osewoudt! I am Kriminalrat Wülfing. How nice to meet you at last!’

‘Where is my mother?’

‘I was just coming to that. Your mother is very well indeed! There are a variety of options, Herr Osewoudt. You could go and visit her, no objection whatsoever, we might even have no objection to letting her go — none at all! But first you must appreciate our position!’

He glanced at the door and called: ‘ Jawohl! ’

The door opened and a uniformed corporal entered with two cups of coffee on a tray.

Osewoudt took a sip of his coffee and half rose from his chair to set the cup on the desk. Kriminalrat Wülfing blew and slurped by turns, then puffed out his cheeks and blew hard.

‘We are the subject of much slander, Herr Osewoudt, but, as I am sure you understand, it is not in our interests to behave like executioners or barbarians! What use would that be to anyone? We respect you as one respects an enemy on the battlefield! However, it is time you realised that, as far as you are concerned, the battle is over. It is time for you and me to have a talk! Man to man! Is there anything more pleasing in this life than conversation? Indeed, I wonder if there is any greater divide between man and beast than the ability to converse. And we are men, after all! Among men it is not the inescapable fate of the loser to be devoured! Cigarette, Herr Osewoudt?’

The German proffered a packet of English cigarettes. Osewoudt was almost certain they were his own.

‘But among men,’ Wülfing went on, ‘among men of true humanity, battle is followed by conversation!’

He raised both hands in a gesture of modelling the conversation in the air. Then he drew on his cigarette, blew out the smoke and suddenly lunged forward.

‘Kleine Houtstraat 32, Haarlem! We know everything! It’s all come out! All parties involved have confessed! Where did you first meet Elkan?’

Osewoudt shrugged.

Elkan? The name meant nothing to him.

‘There were three of you! We know everything! Who were the others?’

‘I’ve never even heard of that address.’

‘My dear Herr Osewoudt, don’t talk nonsense. You were there from the beginning to the end! 23 July, 1940! Elkan, Osewoudt and Zéwüster empty their pistols into a number of individuals they had arranged to meet in a boarding house in Haarlem — at Kleine Houtstraat 32! We know everything! Who gave the orders for the shooting?’

‘I don’t know anything about it.’

‘Why do you think we brought you here? Why do you think we found accommodation for your mother? Are you mad? Or do you think we are?’

Osewoudt thought to himself: he said there were three of us. Does he think Dorbeck’s name is Elkan? Either he doesn’t know everything, or he’s setting a trap.

‘Maybe you’re the one who’s mad,’ said Osewoudt.

The German leaned forward, leaving his right arm extended behind him. By the time his right fist swung through the air Osewoudt had ducked. But an instant later he received a blow on the nose from the left fist. He had to fight down the urge to grab hold of the fist and wrench the arm out of its socket, but thought: then they’ll know about my judo, and I might get a chance to use it to better effect later on. He sat up straight and resigned himself to snorting up the blood trickling from his nose.

Wülfing leaned back, knees wide, ankles crossed.

‘Herr Osewoudt! Is it really necessary for us to lose our tempers as we sit here speaking man to man? Where is Elkan?’

‘I don’t know anyone called Elkan.’

‘You spoke to him only three days ago.’

‘I don’t know him!’

‘You met him at the entrance to Vondel Park in Amsterdam! Just off Leidseplein!’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘You spoke with him at 3.30 p.m., at Vondel Park. Not only with him, either. There was a third man! Who?’

‘Don’t know!’

‘But I do. He’s here in this very building, in custody. He’s called Roorda!’

‘I’ve never heard that name either.’

‘Perhaps so. His name is Roorda. Aliases: Steggerda, Heemstra, van Norden, Vervoord. You still don’t know who we mean?’

‘No.’

Wülfing reached over to the desk and pressed a button. Osewoudt felt in his pockets, but even his handkerchief had gone. The German understood what he was looking for, opened a drawer in his desk and gave him a small crepe-paper napkin. Osewoudt wiped the blood off his face.

Roorda stood in the room, with the policeman who brought him in holding him by one handcuff. Roorda showed signs of mistreatment. His suit was rumpled, all the buttons were missing, he had to hold up his trousers with one hand, the tieless shirt was soiled and torn.

‘Who’s that man, Roorda?’

‘That’s Henk Osewoudt.’

Henk? Who had ever called him Henk?

‘Are you sure you recognise him, Roorda?’