Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

‘It didn’t occur to me. I met her for the first time that evening.’

‘Well, well, straight off to bed was it? There weren’t enough beds so you had to share, was that it?’

Osewoudt shrugged. Wülfing opened a desk drawer.

‘Whose tie is this? No takers? And whose is this shirt? Nobody’s? Going, going … And whose are these nice shoes? Not Osewoudt’s by any chance? All found in Mirjam Zettenbaum’s virginal bed!’

His voice dropped.

‘Perhaps you should try them for size, Osewoudt. And whose is this Leica? Not yours either? Don’t worry, the film that was in it has been developed. My word, you do take some charming pictures with your little box!’

He placed the Leica carefully on the desk and said: ‘And I have another charming plaything just here.’

He bent low to the drawer and took out an automatic pistol, lifting it up with slow deliberation.

‘This pistol, Osewoudt, was found in the handbag belonging to Mirjam Zettenbaum, also known as Marianne Sondaar. With whom you have never slept. And yet you lent the lady the toy pistol. Or are we to take it that it was she who pulled the trigger on 23 July, 1940 at Kleine Houtstraat 32 in Haarlem? Because you must understand, Osewoudt, establishing criminal responsibility is an exact science, not a game! The bullets found in Knijtijzen’s body have been traced to this firearm. And that is not all. Once we’ve examined all the bullets we collect from dead bodies, who knows what else we’ll discover?’

Osewoudt was taken back to his cell, where he was given half a litre of soup and a hunk of brown bread. The brown bread was surprisingly good: rough and moist, with plenty of coarsely ground wheat in it. At last he was able to eat his fill.

That evening, at seven, the cell door opened and Ebernuss came in. Ebernuss had a stone bottle of Bols genever under his arm, and in his hand a piece of sausage in greaseproof paper.

He looked as if he had shaved specially for the occasion, and had put on a freshly pressed uniform. His scent of violets overpowered the prison stench of rising damp, corrosion and dried urine.

He seated himself on the stool, reached into his pocket and produced two glasses, which he filled with genever.

‘ Prosit ,’ he said.

Wordlessly, Osewoudt took a sip.

‘Let me explain. The reason I let Wülfing take you to task this afternoon was because Gustaf was present. I felt obliged to make my little contribution to the cause, especially with Gustaf there. But you mustn’t think I have it in for you. Indeed, I rather like you. I took to you from the start. Anyway, the Americans will be here any day now. But even if they never get here, the war is lost. I am well aware of that. Go on, drink up. Let’s have another.’

‘I don’t like genever.’

‘Teetotal?’

‘Not really. I just don’t like it.’

‘You’re not ill are you, Osewoudt?’

‘Nothing wrong with my health.’

‘What kind of treat could I give you, then? A woman, perhaps?’

Osewoudt said nothing. He did not like Ebernuss’ friendly tone, nor did he trust his air of familiarity. But there was something about the man’s manner that gave Osewoudt a glimmer of hope, so he thought he’d better not antagonise him straightaway. It was not that he had any idea what he might yet achieve with this man, but what would Dorbeck think if didn’t even leave the possibility open?

‘Your girlfriend was a Jewess all right,’ said Ebernuss. ‘All that has been investigated in minute detail. Mirjam Zettenbaum. Personally, I have nothing against Jews. What do you say to that?’

‘I think it makes sense, at least if you’re convinced Germany’s going to lose the war.’

Osewoudt lay back on the bunk, drew up his knees and rolled over, turning his back to Ebernuss.

‘Slumbering Ganymede! What a pretty picture!’ Ebernuss exclaimed. Osewoudt could not recall having heard the name Ganymede before, and thought: his mind’s rambling.

‘The whole treatment of the Jewish question,’ said Ebernuss, ‘amounts to nothing but a bid on the part of some high-ranking SS men to parasite the rest of Europe! It wasn’t only the Jews they were out to rob, but us as well! Just think what all that shunting about of absolutely harmless, and moreover, useless people has cost us in terms of transport potential. The old, the sick, children, women, intellectuals — thousands of wagonloads, while the fighting troops were short of supplies! The worst the Jews ever inflicted on Germany was taking up all that space in our goods trains and cattle trucks.’

Ebernuss laughed. Osewoudt said nothing.

Ebernuss said: ‘I may laugh, but I didn’t mean what I said. Is it really impossible to envisage a world in which people do not go out of their way to kill each other? Surely mankind ought to be able to reach that minimum standard? Don’t you agree, Osewoudt? Wasn’t that why you joined the Resistance?’

‘Yes it was! That was the only reason!’

‘I never doubted it for a moment! The thing is knowing who your enemies are, and where to look for friends. Friends turn up in the strangest, most unexpected places. Remember that, Osewoudt.’

Osewoudt thought: he’ll throw his arms around me next, but I’ll kick him senseless, to hell with the consequences.

The spyhole opened, making a very soft clicking sound, almost inaudible. Osewoudt’s head started. Each click of the spyhole made him jump. He did not look round at the door. He did not hear footsteps moving off, but was certain, after a time, that the spyhole had been covered again.

This meant, likely as not, that he would be left alone for the next half-hour. He got off the bunk and looked up at the corner of the cell next to the frosted glass window. He peered at the air vent and saw a string dangling from the grating. His heart raced as he clambered on to the bunk and stood up. He flexed his knees, jumped, and succeeded in getting hold of the grating with one hand and grabbing the string with the other, before dropping back on the bunk. At the end of the string was a pencil stub.

He sat down on the bunk and took a sheet of toilet paper from his trouser pocket.

He wrote:

Dearest Marianne,

I have been in prison for three months already. Nothing is happening, weeks go by without my being interrogated or seeing anyone. Once in a while they come to my cell to question me about things I know nothing of. How will all this end? Are the Americans coming? Or not? Sometimes I think I’ll be murdered one of these days, like so many others, without trial, without any reasons being given.

I have found out you are in Westerbork transit camp. Do your best to stay there, avoid deportation to Germany at all costs. The war can’t last much longer. Then we’ll be together again. I think of you day and night, which is no exaggeration as I seldom get any sleep. Try thinking of me too, maybe that will help. I am suspected only of things I didn’t do. They can’t keep me here for ever. Goodbye my darling, I kiss you a thousand, thousand times.

A thousand times a thousand, he reflected, folding up the note as small as possible. He lay back on his bunk. Was that a lot — a thousand times a thousand — where kisses were concerned? How long would it take to kiss someone a thousand, thousand times?

He heard the click of the spyhole again. He got up, went to the door and stuffed the note into the round hole.

Nothing much happened for a whole month. Only, someone had been put in the cell next door, with whom he was able to communicate by tapping signals. This man claimed he had been caught red-handed stealing rubber stamps from a German police office. Osewoudt replied that he himself was entirely innocent of the crimes he stood accused of. Would the war go on for much longer?