Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

‘How am I to do that? I don’t have any equipment.’

‘But we have. We’ve fixed up a very nice darkroom for you. Come along.’

Sister Kruisheer held out the dressing gown.

Osewoudt kicked off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. It took a moment for him to get his arms in the sleeves of the dressing gown because he couldn’t bear to let go of the Leica.

At last he stood up unsteadily beside the bed, his feet in the slippers. A woollen scarf was tied round his neck. Sister Kruisheer took his arm to hold him up. He pressed the Leica to his chest with both hands.

‘I always knew it would be found! How did it happen? It’s a miracle! Did they say where they found it?’

His eyes were riveted on the camera as he shuffled out of the ward, flanked by Sister Kruisheer and Selderhorst.

‘It’s damaged, they must have thrown it about. There’s a crack in the lens. If the worst comes to the worst it can be mended, I’m sure,’ Osewoudt muttered to himself.

On the stairs, he said: ‘When I’m released I’ll take a farewell photograph of you all.’

His teeth chattered as he went down the chilly ground-floor corridor.

They led him through the basement to the cell he had occupied before. Awaiting him there were Spuybroek, another guard, a man in an overcoat and a man in a white lab coat.

‘This gentleman is an army photographer,’ said Selderhorst. ‘He’s made everything ready for you. The glass tiles by the ceiling have been covered over. You’ll find everything you need over there, on the table. It’s all up to you now.’

On the table stood a small tank and bottles containing fluids.

Osewoudt read the labels on the bottles and said: ‘The light has to be switched off.’

They gave him a chair and switched off the light.

He unscrewed the camera in the dark and felt with the tips of his fingers that the film was still in it. He took out the film, wound it on to the spool of the tank, and put the cover on the tank.

‘We can have the light on again now,’ he said.

They switched the light on.

‘It’s the same film,’ he said. ‘I can tell by the cassette.’

He held out the empty cassette. They nodded, but did not take it from him.

‘Has anybody got a watch?’

He was slumped forward on the table, giving the tank a shake from time to time. His ears throbbed with fever.

The gentleman in the overcoat said: ‘How fascinating this photography business is! I take photographs myself in my free time, but this is the first chance I’ve had to see a film being developed!’

Osewoudt looked at the watch, poured the contents of the tank into the first bottle and filled the tank with the second bottle.

Ten minutes later he said: ‘It should be ready now.’

They all crowded round as he unscrewed the lid.

He stood up, took the spool from the tank and began to unwind the film from the spool.

The first length of film to emerge was blank.

‘It was a film that had hardly been used,’ Osewoudt said.

He had now drawn a metre of film from the spool, and still it was blank. Finally, on the last bit to unwind from the spool, there was a small dark oblong.

Selderhorst snatched the film from Osewoudt and held it up to the light.

‘I’ll be dammed! What have we got here? It’s you! It’s you, isn’t it? And the bloke sitting next to you — who’s he? Oh, but that’s Obersturmführer Ebernuss! Ebernuss, for Christ’s sake!’

Osewoudt grabbed hold of the wet film with both hands and pulled, but Selderhorst would not let go.

Osewoudt began to scream: ‘That’s a different photo! That’s a photo taken in Moorlag’s attic, when I was there with Ebernuss. But the next picture must be the one of me with Dorbeck! It must be further along the film!’

Selderhorst, Spuybroek, the gentleman and the photographer put their heads together and stared at the single dark oblong on the long strip of clear celluloid. They were all at least a head taller than Osewoudt.

Osewoudt tugged again at the film, although he had already seen that there was just the one exposure on it.

‘All right, see for yourself!’

Selderhorst let go, Osewoudt scrutinised the film. Then he said: ‘It’s not possible! Where’s Dorbeck?’

Selderhorst said: ‘I think Dorbeck’s with your friend Marianne in her kibbutz! If he’s as much like you as you say, she won’t have noticed the difference.’

‘How is this possible? The whole world is against me, even the light has let me down.’

He backed away, although no one said anything, no one moved.

‘What are you staring at like a bunch of idiots? Go and find Dorbeck, I tell you, Dorbeck knows everything. Everything, I tell you. Without Dorbeck I am nothing, I don’t mind admitting it. Dorbeck is everything.’

Osewoudt turned round.

Trailing the film on the floor behind him, he took a few steps towards the door.

‘Damn you, Dorbeck, where are you? Why won’t you show your face? Perhaps he’s right here in this building. Perhaps he’s being held in another section. I’ll track him down all right. He planned it so the Germans would go looking for me instead of him, and now I’m in prison for doing as he said. It can’t be possible!’

He opened the door and went into the passage.

Laughter broke out at his back, but no one stopped him.

He walked the length of the basement and found the exit.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ shouted the sentry, without going after him. ‘Hey, runt! Come back!’

A thin drizzle was falling on the factory yard.

Gesticulating wildly, waving the film in the air, Osewoudt pressed on.

‘Dorbeck! Come here! Yes, Dorbeck, it’s me, Osewoudt. No, I won’t listen. You must listen to me. Before we go on, I want an explanation!’

He lost a slipper, but limped ahead over the muddy concrete.

A motor barge with a cargo of peat was approaching along the canal.

‘Where’s Dorbeck?’ screamed Osewoudt. ‘He must be found! He must! He must!’

He lost the other slipper, then broke into a run.

The heavily laden barge slowly drew near. The diesel engine chugged deeply, puffing blue circles of smoke straight up into the misty air.

Only now were shots fired, a brief salvo from a Sten gun. When the second salvo rang out Osewoudt toppled forward, grabbing the barbed wire along the canal as he fell.

The building rocked. Windows were being shattered. Hundreds of voices clamoured simultaneously for help. Glass came tinkling down on to the yard.

They had laid Osewoudt out on the floor of the corridor, not far from the open door. Two guards sat on chairs close by, their rifles between their knees.

A pool of blood was spreading around Osewoudt.

‘It’s a foul business, all the same,’ said one of the guards.

A sergeant came hurrying towards them.

‘Sergeant,’ called the same guard, without getting to his feet, ‘Sergeant, is there a doctor coming?’

‘The doctor of the Sixth Exloërmond is on holiday, and the doctor of the Fifth Exloërmond is out. His wife says there’s always a rush after Christmas because of all the boozing.’

‘Damn. Are they sending reinforcements?’

‘Never you mind. Just do your duty!’

The sergeant drew his pistol and ran into the corridor.

The tumult continued unabated. The walls shook.

‘Murderers! Murderers!’ yelled the SS insurgents.

Bunks and chairs were being smashed. The whole building seemed on the point of collapse.

One guard stood up and bent over Osewoudt. Then he sat down again, and said to the other guard: ‘He’s still groaning.’

The other guard rested his rifle against his knee and brought out a packet of cigarettes.