The Darkroom of Damocles (34 page)

On Christmas Day, before the carol singing started, Father Beer appeared at Osewoudt's side and said: ‘I've been praying for you. I prayed for the Leica to be found.'

Osewoudt couldn't think of anything better to say than: ‘That was very kind of you.'

When Father Beer made to leave after the carols, he said, in passing: ‘I shall pray for you again. Times like these tend to be most auspicious for the granting of special prayers. I will be back tomorrow; we'll have some more singing. You needn't join in if you don't want to, you know!'

Father Beer kept his word and returned on Boxing Day. Carols were duly sung, and some parcels were handed out. There was nothing for Osewoudt, because there was no one to send him anything.

Father Beer came to sit at his bedside.

‘I prayed to all the saints on your behalf. I'll go on praying until that camera is found. God's goodness is infinite, and we must not despair.'

But Osewoudt turned over on his side and said: ‘Well, if it's all the same to you, I have a headache. I'd prefer to rest. You and I were never destined to see eye to eye.'

On the morning of 27 December, Selderhorst came into the ward. Sister Kruisheer followed, holding a brown woollen
dressing gown over her arm and a pair of slippers in her hand.

Selderhorst carried a small cardboard box with the flaps open. ‘Well now, Osewoudt, guess what's in here!'

Osewoudt sat up in bed and held out his hands for the box.

‘A present from Father Christmas,' said Selderhorst, lifting the box teasingly just out of his reach.

‘It's not my Leica, is it?'

‘You never know. Have a look.'

He put the box down on Osewoudt's knees.

Osewoudt pushed the flaps aside and lifted the camera out of the box. His high tenor shrilled out in the ward.

‘When was it found? This morning?'

‘Oh no, we've had it for a week or so. Is it yours?'

‘Yes! It's mine!'

Osewoudt turned the rewind knob.

‘And the film's still in it!'

‘It must be yours. At least, the serial numbers match those you gave us. And it's still got the film in it.'

‘Then why haven't you had the film developed? If you had, you'd have seen that Dorbeck's on it!'

‘Have it developed? No! You'd better do that yourself – you being such an expert developer! You did pretty well with those films of Olifiers, remember? Now you can have a go developing a film of your own.'

‘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.

‘It's a foul business, all the same.'

‘What did you say?'

‘A foul business! Don't you ever read the newspaper?'

‘Not me.'

‘I believe in that boy. It's a foul business. He knows too much, that's why they're letting him bleed. Dorbeck did exist, he may even still be alive, I'm convinced of that. Not that the papers tell you everything.'

Skirts flapping, Father Beer came running down the corridor.

He fell to his knees in the puddle of blood and slid one arm under Osewoudt's head, as if he wanted to hug him.

‘Osewoudt! Osewoudt!' he cried. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?'

Osewoudt's eyes opened halfway.

‘Dorbeck knows everything. Find Dorbeck. Dorbeck must be somewhere. Dorbeck knows everything.'

‘But Osewoudt—'

‘Dorbeck must be found. The photo didn't come out, but what does that prove? Tell Dorbeck … Ask Dorbeck …'

‘You must stay alive, Osewoudt! If Dorbeck is to be found, then you'll have to hunt him down yourself, because no one else will find him for you!'

Osewoudt said no more and his eyes closed again.

‘Osewoudt, don't give up! Osewoudt, can you hear me? Don't give up! You can't die like this. You must get away. Osewoudt, can you still hear me? You can have my cassock to escape in! What's keeping the doctor?'

Father Beer looked about him, but saw no one apart from the guards, hunched forward as they smoked their cigarettes. They paid no attention to Father Beer; they had their eyes on
the gate. With chains clanking, two armoured vehicles drove into the factory yard, their guns trained on the front of the building.

‘The bleeding must be staunched!' cried Father Beer.

He parted the front of Osewoudt's dressing gown and undid the buttons of the pyjama jacket. But the fingers on Father Beer's hands numbered fewer than there were bullet holes in Osewoudt's body.

Voorburg, May 1952

Groningen, July 1958

Postscript (1971)

I can look for him when he is not there, but not hang him when he is not there.

One might want to say: ‘But he must be somewhere there if I am looking for him.'

Then he must be somewhere there too if I don't find him, and even if he doesn't exist at all.

Ludwig Wittgenstein

WILLEM FREDERIK HERMANS

Translated from the Dutch by Ina Rilke

Widely hailed as the most important Dutch writer of the 20th century, Willem Frederick Hermans was reintroduced to the English speaking world this year with the publication of his stunning
Beyond Sleep
. Bookforum called it “as bright and black as anything contemporary,” and
The Scotsman
announced that “the world really needs Hermans.” Now, in this new translation of his epic
The Darkroom of Damocles
, Hermans takes on the very core of the morality of conflict.

During the German occupation of Holland, tobacconist Henri Osewoudt is visited by a man named Dorbeck. Dorbeck gives Osewoudt a series of dangerous assignments helping British agents and eliminating traitors. But the assassinations get out of hand, and when Osewoudt discovers that his wife denounced him to the Germans, he kills her too.

At the end of the war Osewoudt himself is taken for a traitor and captured. He cannot prove that he received his assignments from Dorbeck. Worse, he cannot prove that Dorbeck ever existed. It is the very impossibility of ascertaining the “right” side and the “wrong” side—the moral issue of the Second World War in a nutshell—that makes Hermans's novel as breathtaking now as when it was written.