The Darkroom of Damocles (15 page)

‘A very long way. You'd get too tired if I took you there
now. We're going to visit a very kind old gentleman first, we'll have a rest there. His whole house is full of birds' feathers, red ones, green ones, blue and yellow ones. He's got feathers from all sorts of different birds. You won't believe your eyes!'

They went over the bridge and started down Oudezijds Achterburgwal.

They were a few houses away from Uncle Bart's when he heard someone tapping on a window, more loudly than the way whores usually tap on their windows. Osewoudt stopped to look. From a basement window a whore signalled urgently to him. She had stood up from her stool.

Osewoudt took a few steps towards the open basement door. The woman came out, drawing her coat tightly around her with one hand.

‘You're Mr Nauta's nephew, aren't you? Are you on your way to your uncle's?'

‘Yes. Why d'you ask?'

‘Listen! You want to get away from here as quick as you can! The Germans were here earlier and they took your uncle away. They ransacked the place, took everything away in a big lorry. I thought I'd let you know!'

Without waiting for a reply, the woman scurried back to her basement.

‘What did she want?' Walter asked.

‘Never you mind. Come along now. We're nearly there.'

Nearly where? He didn't know, hadn't a clue. He had meant to leave the child with Uncle Bart – on reflection a ridiculous idea anyway. He had to get rid of him somehow, the sooner the better! If only he could chuck him in the canal with a heavy stone round his neck.

He set off at such a brisk pace that the boy could hardly keep up. Osewoudt did not look up at the windows when he passed Uncle Bart's house. He kept his eyes on the pavement
as he strode on. Here and there he saw a stray red feather lying by the side of the canal.

‘What did that lady say?' Walter asked.

‘Things that don't concern you.'

‘Why not?'

‘Oh, come on, Walter, pipe down, will you?'

‘Why?'

‘If you're a good boy I'll take you for a ride in a cart. Look, like that one over there. We'll go for a ride in one of those little carts!'

They had reached the turning into Damstraat, and were waiting to cross when a light metal cart came past, drawn by an emaciated horse.

‘What a nice cart!'

‘Yes, very nice. Handy, too, now there's no petrol for cars! When those carts were first invented they weren't pulled by a horse but by a man on a bicycle. Isn't that funny? But that's not allowed any more. Goes against human dignity, you see. Don't you see? Not to worry! We'll go for a ride in one of those carts, it'll be fun.'

He went down Damstraat towards Dam Square, pulling the child with him.

By the small archway leading from Dam Square to Rokin he stood still and said, giving Walter's arm a tug with each word: ‘You stay right here in this archway! Do exactly as I say. Don't budge. I'll nip over to find us a cart, and then it'll come here to pick us up. Got it?'

He let go of Walter and sprinted towards Rokin.

He jumped on to the open platform of the first tram that came past.

Looking across the way, he noticed that Walter was not quite as obedient as he had hoped. The little boy had gone through the archway, no doubt driven by curiosity, and now
stood with his hands in his pockets surveying the quiet side of Rokin, where no fewer than three carts were waiting. It was as if the carts were lined up there solely to increase the child's bewilderment.

Five minutes later he got off the tram at the Mint Tower. It was exactly half past six. The clock in the tower began to strike.

He saw Marianne at once. She was wearing a new summer frock. She saw him coming and smiled. He thought she was beautiful, and it felt as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened all day.

‘Hello darling!'

She pinched his cheeks, he took her in his arms.

‘You're very punctual,' she said. ‘A man who keeps appointments – I like that. Where are your glasses?'

‘Consumed by the flames of my ardent desire.'

‘What did you do today?'

‘A couple of errands. I also went to see Mr Nauta, you remember, Bellincoff Ltd. on Oudezijds Achterburgwal. He's been arrested by the Germans. They ransacked the whole house!'

‘Really? Do you think that Elly woman had anything to do with it? Or that nephew-cum-son-in-law of his?'

‘I don't know.'

‘What did you do to your coat? The front's all dirty. You look as if you've been climbing a pole.'

‘What?' Osewoudt looked down at himself and began slapping the dark streaks made by the telegraph pole. ‘Must have been leaning against something,' he said. ‘Everything's filthy these days. Nothing gets cleaned any more. The country's going to the dogs.'

‘It looks like tar, or creosote!'

She reached out to grasp his raincoat and bent to sniff it.

‘Don't!' he cried, pushing her away. ‘You almost tripped me up. Where do you want to go?'

‘Guess what! I went and bought two cinema tickets. Don't worry, not a German film. It's Czech, and it's called
Praeludium
.'

‘Which cinema?'

‘The Tivoli.' They crossed to the other side of the street.

‘You can't imagine what it feels like,' she said as they walked down Reguliersbreestraat, ‘going to the cinema like this. I have very strange thoughts. All those Aryans who won't set foot in the cinema by way of protest, and here I am, a Jewess going to see a film. Sort of perverse, don't you think?'

‘No one can see that you're Jewish.'

‘That's beside the point – I know what I am! My entire family have been rounded up, I haven't heard from them since. They may be dead for all I know, and here I am going to the cinema!'

‘You don't want to dwell on that kind of thing,' said Osewoudt. ‘Anyway, the rumours may be exaggerated, perhaps they're still alive.'

‘But even so, they'll be in prison. They won't be strolling down Reguliersbreestraat like us, will they?'

‘No.'

‘The thing is, I can't believe how I can just carry on as if I didn't care.'

They joined the queue. Above the ticket window hung a notice saying
FÜR JUDEN VERBOTEN
! They shuffled forward over Persian carpets.

‘You do care,' said Osewoudt. ‘If you didn't you wouldn't have mentioned it.'

The lights dimmed and the newsreel began.

‘Why don't the lights go out altogether?'

‘It's been like this for a long time. If Hitler or some crony of his appears on the screen and someone whistles or jeers, they'll know who it was.'

Suddenly he thought of Hey You. What had they done to her? What could have been wrong with her identity card? Did they know anything about her? Would they ask her why she had gone to Lunteren? Would they find out that she had two train tickets, one for herself and one for Walter? Would she keep her mouth shut? It seemed unlikely she had told them anything on the train, or the Germans would surely have come back for Walter. Then it struck him that Hey You was supposed to have shown him a photo to prove her identity
and that he hadn't even asked her for it, that he hadn't seen it at all. That she must still have had it on her when she was arrested!
What would it have been of? Who knows, it might have been the third photo. The third photo of the set he had posted to Dorbeck, one of which Elly had, supposedly, given to her in England. What was the third one of? I can't remember, but that makes no difference. I'd recognise it if I saw it. Will it mean anything to the Germans? He was so preoccupied that he didn't look at the screen again until the voice and the music faded and the newsreel came to an abrupt halt.

The lights now went out completely, and something odd happened. A face appeared on screen, motionless but for a slight quiver because it was a film of a photograph. It was his own face. People coughed, the projector whirred, otherwise there was not a sound.

A typewritten summons accompanied the photograph:

The audience was given ample opportunity to take it all in.

Where was that picture from? Probably from his original identity card, the duplicate of which would be at the civil registration office. Only, was his hair on that photo as dark as on this one? Or was it a photo of Dorbeck they were showing?

The picture faded. Melancholy Slavic music struck up and the feature film began.

‘Filip! How very odd! That man looked just like you!'

‘Listen carefully,' he whispered. ‘Do exactly as I say.'

He felt in his pockets.

‘I'm going to clear off, back to Leiden. But you must stay here until the end of the film, or near the end. I can't wait that long. If I leave at the same time as everybody else who's seen that picture someone will surely recognise me, some amateur sleuth eager to make 500 guilders. So I'd better go now. Take this.'

He gave her the pistol. ‘Put it away now.'

‘Hadn't you better keep it yourself, Filip?'

‘No. I've used it far too often already. I should have got myself another one long ago. If the police catch me with it and they have some bullet they can trace back to it, then I'm done for.'

He gave her the pliers, and also the pieces of his broken glasses.

‘Here, take these too. They're no use to me any more.'

He checked his pockets for anything else he was better off without, but found nothing.

‘What's this? Pliers?' she asked.

‘Bye now, dear Marianne. Don't worry. I'll see you later. It'll probably be okay, but you never know.'

‘It's my fault,' she said. ‘If only I hadn't dyed your hair black!'

He drew her towards him, then stood up, put on his hat and buttoned his raincoat.

At the far end of the auditorium an usherette was perched on a chair. She slipped out before he reached the exit.

Osewoudt came into the large foyer with the fitted Persian carpets.

‘Sir!' called the doorman.

Osewoudt stopped. The doorman stopped too, further away from him than you'd expect for someone with something to say.

Osewoudt said: ‘All right, what is it?'

The doorman said nothing. Osewoudt heard a clicking sound coming from the nearby ticket office. He couldn't see inside the window, but recognised the sound: a telephone number was being dialled. He walked out of the cinema. At his back the doorman shouted: ‘Stop! Thief!'

A ridiculously theatrical yell in the unlit street. Osewoudt stood still, saw other people standing still too. When he saw the doorman rushing towards him he proceeded on his way, but did not run. He walked quite normally. The doorman clapped his hand on his shoulder. Osewoudt seized the hand, yanked it forward until the arm was stretched, twisted the arm round and bent down fast and low. Howling, the doorman smashed on to the cobbles with a force that could have broken his back. Osewoudt let him go, but in the meantime he was being hemmed in by passers-by.

Osewoudt took a step towards them.

‘Why not let me through? That doorman's bothering me for no reason at all.'

‘Identification, please.'

A Dutch policeman was barring his way with his bicycle.

Osewoudt handed over the identity card, the policeman switched on a pocket torch and inspected it.

‘Well, well, in the Force yourself are you? Where's your other card?'

Osewoudt gave him the fake German police card. The policeman pocketed both cards, saying: ‘You'd better come along with me.'

‘Look here, I'm on an assignment, I don't have time to keep you company for no reason.'

‘Maybe so, but I'm doing my duty.'

‘And if I refuse?'

‘I don't give a damn,' said the policeman. ‘You're coming with me whether you like it or not. If you start running I'll shoot, mind.'

Osewoudt glanced over his shoulder. The crowd was growing. Running away was out of the question.

‘All right then, I'll go with you. Since you insist.'

The policeman let go of his bicycle and fumbled in his trouser pocket. Click. Before Osewoudt could react, a handcuff was snapped on his wrist.

An about-turn was made. Without another word he was conducted to the police office on the corner of Halvemaanssteeg. The crowd straggled after them.

Not until they entered the police office did Osewoudt break his silence: ‘Look here, officer. You may be a good patriot, I don't know. I'm not really in the German police. Those papers are fake. But I didn't commit any robbery with assault. It isn't me in the picture of the wanted man. I look a lot like him, but I'm not him. Different name, too.'

‘True,' said the policeman. ‘The man they're hunting is called Osewoudt, and your card says van Druten. But it's the same man in both pictures. Besides, your papers are fake, you said so yourself.'

‘I didn't commit any kind of robbery. You must release me. It's a matter of life or death. You'll be sorry if you don't let me go. Give me back my papers.'

‘Anyone could come out with your spiel.'

‘Let me go. I'm wanted for political reasons. You'll be sorry for the rest of your life if you hand me over to the enemy.'

‘If you ask me, sir, there's nothing wrong with your papers. You work for the Germans under an alias and now you've got into their bad books. Am I right?'

‘No, the papers are forged, I tell you. You'll regret this.'

‘And don't you think we'll regret it, here in the police office, if we let you go? I have a wife and children, sir.'