Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

‘If I say so?’

Dorbeck got off the table and turned to face him, pressing his clenched fists to Osewoudt’s chest.

‘If I say so? You’re not a coward, are you? You want to hide away in a corner for good, just because the Germans had you banged up for a bit? You seem to think there’ll be others to pull your chestnuts out of the fire from now on. What’s got into you? Put those clothes on, I tell you! I want to make sure they fit properly! What did you think I went to all that trouble for? Things might get tricky for me yet. I might need your help. And then what? Will you go out disguised as a nurse? Yes or no?’ Dorbeck’s clenched fists began to shake. Otherwise he kept quite still, fixing Osewoudt with his dark green eyes.

‘I’m not a bloody woman!’ shouted Osewoudt.

‘Of course not. But you don’t need to shave, and your voice is pretty high-pitched, too. Can you think of a better disguise for someone like you?’

‘Oh, well, all right. Whatever.’

Osewoudt slid off the table, took off his jacket and pullover, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt.

He shut his eyes as he put on the nurse’s underwear, which smelled of lavender. Then he put on the dress and pinafore.

‘Why are you putting my clothes in the suitcase?’

Unperturbed, Dorbeck stowed everything Osewoudt had taken off in the empty suitcase.

‘I’m taking your stuff with me. Tonight or tomorrow I’ll come and fetch you. You can change into your own clothes once we’re across the rivers.’

‘I want to take Marianne with me.’

‘I said that was all right, didn’t I? Give me her address. I’ll pick her up.’

Osewoudt told him the address of the hairdresser in Leiden.

Dorbeck said: ‘I’ll get her to come with me. I’ll be back tonight. Give me your socks and shoes too.’

Osewoudt took off his shoes and socks. Dorbeck slammed the lid on the suitcase.

‘Oh, before I forget. Here’s a ration book, and an ID card. All it needs is your fingerprint and it’ll be impossible to tell it’s a fake. Look at the photo — isn’t it wonderful?’

Osewoudt studied the photo: his own face, framed by the white nurse’s cap. He read the name he would henceforth go by: Clara Boeken. Occupation: district nurse.

‘Go on, put the cap on, just for a laugh,’ said Dorbeck. ‘Then you can see how good the photo is!’

He held the identity card up beside the mirror.

Osewoudt put the cap on, grimaced, and took it off again.

‘How come this outfit is exactly my size?’

‘Dead simple! I tried it on myself!’

‘That must have been quite a sight! With that beard!’

‘Ha, ha, ha. Well, I must be off. See you tonight.’

Dorbeck took the suitcase and left the room without shaking Osewoudt’s hand.

‘I say, Dorbeck!’

Dorbeck didn’t seem to hear, he was already on the stairs. Osewoudt wanted to go after him, but he had not fastened the underskirt of the nurse’s uniform properly, and it slid down. He almost tripped over it. By the time he had hitched it up, Dorbeck had shut the front door behind him. Gathering up the skirts, unable to find the fastening, Osewoudt staggered back to the room and looked down into the street through the side of the bay. He rubbed one cold, bare foot over the other. Ebernuss’ car was still there. Osewoudt rapped loudly on the glass. But the car started up, gathered speed, and turned the corner.

‘You might at least have left me a gun!’ he cried. His voice sounded flat in the confined space.

He paused for a moment with his head bowed, then crossed to the mirror. He shivered with cold and began to adjust the nurse’s clothing as best he could. The top was especially troublesome, because of the buttons being on the left and the buttonholes on the right. He even pinned the brooch with the yellow cross to his chest, and finally put on the black woollen stockings and flat shoes. Alarmed at the sight of his hair, which was too short for a nurse, he covered it with the white cap. Yes, now his face in the mirror exactly resembled the photo on the identity card.

He stood like that for quarter of an hour, gazing at his reflection. He didn’t look too bad, he thought. He laughed, smiled, twisted round to get a view of his back, lifted each leg in turn to inspect his calves. Then he went back to the table and put on the black woollen cardigan. Only now did he see there was also a black shoulder bag in the suitcase. He opened the bag. It contained a clean white handkerchief, a stack of food coupons, a wad of banknotes, two packets of English cigarettes, matches, a comb and a knife of a type he had never seen before. It had a large handle made of black rubber. The blade was no longer than his thumb, but incredibly sharp and as wide as a cut-throat razor. It would not be difficult to inflict a fatal wound with it. The blade was fixed in the rubber hilt by a spring. It could be made to shoot out by pressing the thumb on the hilt. The purpose of this curious instrument was clear: it could be used to stab someone without anybody noticing, simply by setting the hilt against the person’s body and then releasing the blade.

I’d rather have had a gun, he thought, but this is better than nothing. It seemed a handy sort of weapon.

He looked at his watch and saw that it was half past seven. This watch was the only masculine object he still possessed. It could give me away, he thought. He quickly removed it and, in case he forgot it later, put it in the shoulder bag. Then he decided to take a look around the flat.

In the kitchen he found bread, cold porridge and a knob of margarine on a saucer. Not much, but enough to survive for a day. At least he wouldn’t have to face leaving the house in this get-up just yet. He struck a match and turned on the gas ring. No gas. Had even the gas run out in Amsterdam?

He went back to the parlour and peered into the cold stove. It was filled with dry wood and paper. A hod of coke stood further back. He lit the stove and heated the porridge.

By seven that evening Dorbeck had still not come to fetch him. Osewoudt went to the bedroom and lay down on the bed in his clothes with a blanket pulled over him. Now and then he dozed off. Each time he woke he struck a match to check his watch. Eleven o’clock. Then it was two. No Dorbeck.

The next morning he got up at half past nine, went into the kitchen and held his head under the tap. Then, with Marianne on his mind, he began wandering about the flat: kitchen, bedroom, parlour, and back.

When he had crossed the small landing for the tenth time he looked down over the banister. He saw something white lying on the mat by the front door. He crept down the stairs, telling himself: the neighbours think there’s no one living here.

It was a small envelope. There was a slip of paper with a typewritten message in it: Marianne Sondaar is in labour at the Emma Clinic, Oranje Nassaulaan 48. Dorbeck .

The breeze played with his veil. Now and again Osewoudt had to brush it away from his face. It was finely textured and smelled new. It had been carefully ironed, the folds in which it had lain were still clearly visible, making sharp right angles.

There had been a brief shower a quarter of an hour before; the sun was now shining again, not all that brightly, but pleasantly enough. The wet, shimmering pavement made him blink.

All was quiet in the street, except for a distant dog and a pigeon. There were few people about. Each time he passed someone, he cast a furtive sideways look to see if they had noticed anything. But no one paid him any attention. They took him for an ordinary district nurse, on her way to visit a patient.

He did not feel cold, and although he had eaten hardly anything he did not feel hungry either. First time walking about on my own and free, he thought, it feels no stranger than if I had been ill in bed for a long while. I’ve pulled through! The Americans are in Hanover! The war will be over the day after tomorrow, or next week — soon, anyway. Everything will start completely afresh!