Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

‘That piece of evidence is only the start,’ said Osewoudt. ‘I set about proving that Dorbeck is or was real — with some reluctance, actually, because by doing so I was in a sense giving weight to the notion that he never existed. But what does all that matter? If Dorbeck is still alive and news reaches him of the situation I’m in, he’ll come forward to set everything straight. And if he’s not still alive, which is quite possible, what with thousands of people vanishing without trace during the war, it may be because he was blown up by a bomb, or travelling under an alias on a plane that crashed into the sea, or burned to death in a tank, or he may even be in prison some-where, like me. Who can say?

‘You, however, know nothing about it! You’ve never seen him, that’s why you think he doesn’t exist. What makes it all so complicated is the secrecy that I was bound to. I didn’t talk about Dorbeck for security reasons. That went without saying. And the only person I ever told anything about Dorbeck is now in Palestine, and she’s not replying to my letters. But do you think I care whether you believe in him or not? I can’t help it that my mother was mad. Think what you’re doing, Doctor. Ask yourself whether you have the right to deny Dorbeck’s existence only because you happen to know that my mother suffered from delusions.’

Dr Lichtenau leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes.

‘The death sentence. Do you realise what you are looking at, Henri? The firing squad. There is not a ray of hope for your case as it stands. If only you would admit that you were afraid, that you gave in under the Germans’ appalling torture. But no! All the time that was available to explain your behaviour has been wasted on a hunt for a non-existent Dorbeck.’

Osewoudt leaned over to pat the doctor on the knee.

‘It was very kind of you to come and see me, Doctor. I know you mean well. But you’ve got it all wrong, like everybody else. Let me tell you something: I took a photo of Dorbeck and me together, side by side in front of a mirror. I took it myself, in the house at Bernard Kochstraat in Amsterdam. There’s still a chance of it being found. Even now they keep confusing photos of me with those of Dorbeck; they think they’re of the same person. But once that photo is found, everything will be clear. The ultimate proof that Dorbeck and Osewoudt are two different people will then have been delivered. The camera I took the photo with got lost when I fled. The film was still in it. But let’s imagine, just for a moment, that it’s found. Imagine they develop the film and find the picture of the two of us together, when I’d gone and let you declare me of unsound mind! If I did that, then I’d really be of unsound mind! I’d rather die!’

A young Catholic priest in a threadbare cassock had been bustling about the ward all morning. On his left arm he carried a large basket containing holly and candles. He pinned a sprig of holly to the wall over each prisoner’s bed, and on each night-stand he left a stub of candle tied with a red bow.

‘Such a shame, such a shame,’ he muttered at each bedside. ‘The forecast isn’t for a white Christmas this year. Such a shame! But it would have been too good to be true — a white Christmas in the year of our liberation!’

‘Yes, Father,’ the former SS men intoned meekly. ‘Such a shame!’

‘Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose’ said the priest. ‘Father Christmas must have been too busy to make snowflakes. There’s not much we can do about it. We’ll just have to take it in our stride.’

‘Yes Father! We’ll take it in our stride!’

‘We’ll practise “Silent Night” again later, shall we, lads?’

They promptly started singing.

‘No, not now! Later, I said! Hush now!’

He came to Osewoudt’s bed.

‘I’m Father Beer,’ he said. ‘Such a shame we won’t be having a white Christmas this year.’

‘Yes, a shame,’ said Osewoudt, pointing up at the ceiling of toughened glass. ‘We’d get snowed in.’

‘Come now,’ said the priest, ‘if it got too dark we could light the Christmas candles.’

He set one down on Osewoudt’s night-stand.

‘Oh, take it away, please,’ said Osewoudt. ‘I wasn’t brought up with that nonsense.’

‘It’s never too late to learn. A sprig of holly and a candle can’t hurt.’

‘That’s as maybe, but I don’t want them anyway.’

‘What did you say? How can that be possible! Most of the lads here are well on the way to being converted. And you, talking like that? I must get to the bottom of this!’

He put down his basket, pulled up a chair and seated himself at Osewoudt’s bedside.

Father Beer was not much older than Osewoudt. He had a round face and cheery, round eyes of a pale brown shade.

‘How did you end up in this camp?’

‘I’m innocent,’ said Osewoudt. ‘Not scum like that lot over there.’

‘Who are you, then?’

‘My name is Osewoudt.’

‘Well, well. Osewoudt. So you are Osewoudt. I’ve heard about your case.’

‘So has everyone else.’

‘It’s been in the papers.’

‘I know, but I gave up reading them long ago.’

‘Let’s have a serious talk. Perhaps there’s something I can do for you.’

‘You don’t need to do anything for me. Once Dorbeck turns up, I won’t need anyone any more. My innocence will have been proved, clear as daylight.’

‘Any help I might be able to offer would have no bearing on the legal proceedings.’

‘I quite understand. All these sods who used to be in the SS are now singing “Silent Night”. They go along with being converted to save their skins.’

‘You have a point there. But what difference does it make? Even the worst sinner has the right to try and save his skin.’

‘Even through hypocrisy?’

‘Even through hypocrisy. Only, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, a priest cannot accept a hypocritical conversion. He must redouble his efforts until such time as hypocrisy makes way for true faith.’

‘And get a stay of execution while he’s at it, I suppose, in case the true faith doesn’t reveal itself.’

‘It is always better not to have put a fellow human being to death than to have done so, however depraved that human being may be.’

‘Well now,’ said Osewoudt. ‘Allow me to give you some advice: get the Pope to endorse the abolition of capital punishment the world over and the release of all prisoners too while he’s at it, including those who haven’t converted. So much better than you having to run around wangling one false conversion after another.’

‘Of course that would be better, but there is only so much one can do. I am only human, I can’t do any more than lies in my power. And I have no say in the policies pursued by His Holiness.’

‘If I were to convert, what would that prove?’ asked Osewoudt. ‘I’m innocent. How could I become any more innocent by being converted?’

‘Not more innocent, but if you did convert, the people holding you here — and the judges who will sentence you because they don’t believe in your innocence — might think: there’s some goodness in him after all. They might even allow redemption to prevail over justice.’

‘I can do without redemption. If I’ve sacrificed everything for the good cause and all I get is redemption, what have I lived for? And why should I have to go on living?’

‘Because life is a gift, and it is not to be cast aside. For we must go on living, even if we don’t know why.’

The sheet was rumpled up under Osewoudt’s nose. He pulled his arms out from under the covers and straightened them. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘don’t you hate having to go around in skirts like that? I fled from occupied territory disguised as a female nurse. It was horrible. Like having your legs tied together.’