Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

What would his own fresh start be like? Dorbeck had given him a new life. Start afresh with Marianne and the child! Soon, once the Germans were out of the way, it would be as if he’d been reborn as a grown man, a man who hadn’t merely survived the war but who had come out on the side of the winners. A man who had risen to every challenge! What harm could possibly befall such a man in peacetime? Anything that stood in his way would shrivel under his gaze.

He tried the door of a florist’s. The door was locked. He peered in the window and saw several empty vases and potted plants without blooms. He rang the bell, on the off chance. No one appeared.

On Willemsparkweg he found another florist. This one, too, was closed, and had nothing in the window. But when he rang the bell a little old man came shuffling to the door with a clay pipe in his mouth. The pipe was unlit.

‘Good afternoon, Sister.’

‘Oh sir, I hardly dare hope you’ll be able to help me, as I’ve been to so many florists already without success. I realise that flowers are hard to come by these days, but I’d dearly love to find some. They’re for a small child in hospital, you see. I’d hate to go there empty-handed.’

The old man took the pipe from his mouth.

‘Yes, Sister, I understand. There’s no trade in flowers any more. It’s not that they aren’t available, but you have to go to the Aalsmeer nurseries to get them. I’m bent double with sciatica, I’ve no tyres on my bicycle and just look how much weight I’ve lost!’

He plucked at the front of his waistcoat to show how thin he had grown.

‘Maybe I can help you, though, seeing as you’re a nurse. Step inside, will you. There isn’t much I can offer, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?’

Osewoudt stepped inside and the little old man fastened the door on the latch behind him. They went through the shop, which smelled earthy instead of flowery, to the living room at the back. An old woman dozed in an armchair; her head swayed slowly from side to side.

The old man took no notice of her; his wife began to mutter, without opening her eyes.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing to some crimson and blue hyacinths growing in a shallow basin filled with marble chips. ‘I could let you have a couple of those. It’s not much, but it’s the thought that counts.’

He put his hand on Osewoudt’s arm familiarly.

‘I know how hard you nurses are made to work these days. One does what one can for nurses and doctors.’

He reached in his trouser pocket and brought out a large clasp-knife of the curved type used by florists, and asked: ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

‘The colour doesn’t matter, either will do.’

The old man cut off two red and two blue hyacinths and snapped the knife shut against his thigh. Holding the flowers aloft, he rummaged around the dresser with his free hand, grumbling: ‘Not even any wrapping paper to be had these days.’

Osewoudt reached for his shoulder bag and opened it.

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Let’s see. It’s not much, of course. Twenty-five guilders will do.’

With the hyacinths wrapped in a white paper napkin — very neatly, considering — Osewoudt made his way to Oranje Nassaulaan.

Is it a boy or a girl? he wondered. Maybe the child had already been born, or maybe it was being born even now. He hoped it would be a boy. He would tell Marianne that it would be good to call it Filip, as she had already said in her letter. But maybe it was a girl. What would Marianne prefer, a girl or a boy?

Then he caught sight of the enormous barbed-wire barricades closing off part of Oranje Nassaulaan, where the villas had been requisitioned by the Germans.

His feet hurt because the shoes were a poor fit. They pinched his muscular judo-insteps, and he couldn’t loosen them as they had buckles instead of laces. He could hardly expect Dorbeck to provide the custom-made shoes he was used to. Besides, in these tight shoes he took shorter steps than normal, and that, he thought, would make his gait more womanly. He almost laughed out loud, thinking how he, Osewoudt of the 500-guilder reward, was right under the Germans’ noses, taking flowers to his child born of a Jewish mother. I’ve really pulled a fast one, he thought. Assuming that the child had already been born, he would shortly be peering into the cradle. Only your mother knew it was me, my boy, he’d tell his son later, everyone thought I was a nurse. The child’s father disguised as a nurse !

He buried his nose in the hyacinths and inhaled the fragrance. Bastards, he thought, looking again at the barricades thrown up by the Germans, your final hour has come. Here I am, disguised as a sister of mercy with a bouquet in my hand, the same hand I shot Lagendaal with, the same hand I shook the poison into that drink for Ebernuss with, the sodding pansy. No, you’d never guess by the look of me, but I’ve been a sight more daring than all those manly men who’ve been talking down to me, pretending to have my interests at heart. More daring than Uncle Bart with his philosophical books, daring to call me a coward for not giving myself up when you lot arrested my mother. Bastards — I showed you, didn’t I? I’ve dared more than those crybabies over in London, safely ensconced behind their microphones and too witless to give their agents decent identification or proper money instead of antiquated silver guilders, more too than all those people whining about German brutality, Fascist murderers and so on and so forth. Here I am, you bastards, come out from behind your barbed wire and get me!

He went up the stone steps to the entrance of the Emma Clinic.

The imposing building was a converted villa, not a purpose-built clinic, and he spent a moment in the vestibule casting around in vain for a porter’s lodge. Then a young student nurse appeared in the corridor. He went up to her and asked: ‘Could you tell me where I can find Mrs Sondaar?’

‘Mrs Sondaar? Would you wait there for a moment?’

She pointed to the vestibule, where an oak bench stood against the wall.

Osewoudt did as he was told and sat down on the bench. He crossed his legs, rested his right hand with the flowers on his knee, and slid his left hand along his left thigh in search of cigarettes. Damn, he muttered, and bit his left thumb. On the wall facing him was a printed sign, reading: NOTIFICATIONS OF BIRTH TO BE MADE AT THE CIVIL REGISTRY OFFICE BY THE FATHER WITHIN 3 × 24 HOURS.

When a middle-aged nurse in a grey uniform came towards him he jumped to his feet, but had no chance to say anything. This woman was undoubtedly the matron, and not in the habit of exchanging pleasantries.

‘You wish to visit Mrs Sondaar? That will not be possible for now, as she has finally got to sleep. Her condition is far from good. Sad … such a young girl.’

‘Yes, very sad. But—’

‘Would you like to see the child? You will have to wait a moment.’

The matron turned round and vanished down the long corridor. She thinks it’s sad the child has no father, thought Osewoudt. This is insane. But why won’t they let me see Marianne? He was confused by his own reaction, just standing there like an idiot offering the bouquet to the matron’s receding back, not calling out to her, not asking what was going on, not even asking her to take charge of the flowers.

He sat down again on the oak bench, thinking: perhaps it’s not a good idea to talk too much to a real nurse, under the circumstances … Suddenly he realised his teeth were chattering, thought of turning tail, leaving the flowers for the student nurse to deal with, coming back the following day. But he stayed where he was.

After ten minutes or so a morose manservant in a pink and white striped jacket came up to him and said: ‘You wanted to see the Sondaar baby? Come with me.’