The Darkroom of Damocles

by Willem Frederik Hermans

  ‘How should I know? You’re the one talking about the Germans sending recidivists and people of unsound mind to concentration camps without trial, not me! All I said was that I can’t see why they would arrest an old woman who had an unfortunate accident involving her husband ten years ago, who’s been before the courts, who’s been treated in an institution and who’s never hurt a fly since! And what about Ria? What did she do?’

  ‘I don’t know, Uncle. Everybody’s up to something, but not everybody’s found out! Take yourself, you have a radio, you listen to broadcasts from London, that alone could get you two years hard labour. The Germans can arrest anybody they like, only for being in breach of some rule of theirs. Not that they abide by the rules – they just go around arresting people anyway! How could I possibly find out why they’ve taken Ria?’

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Are you daft? Grow up! Are you going to allow your wife and mother to disappear without lifting a finger? Damn you, didn’t it ever occur to you to get hold of a lawyer?’

  ‘A lawyer? But my dear Uncle Bart, it’s not as if we’re living under the rule of law. You must be mad. Do you want to be arrested too? The first thing they’d ask any lawyer requesting information is: who sent you?’

  ‘He could say it was me!’ Uncle Bart cried. ‘Let him say I sent him, let the lawyer say: I am here on behalf of Mr Nauta, the brother of old Mrs Osewoudt and the father of young Mrs Osewoudt. I’ll instruct the lawyer accordingly. Do you hear, Henri? I’m not afraid! And if the Germans consider someone like your mother a danger to the public, I’m prepared to reach a compromise with them. I’ll do whatever it takes, but they’re not sending her to some concentration camp! I’ll offer to put her in a private clinic at my expense!’

  Osewoudt’s jaw began to twitch, he was barely capable of remaining seated. His forehead itched unbearably under the brim of the hat. Without realising what he was doing he took off the hat and wiped his forehead.

  ‘What on earth?’

  Breathing noisily, Uncle Bart leaned forwards, open-mouthed, stubble down to his Adam’s apple.

  ‘I said,’ Osewoudt went on, ‘that it’s no use sending a lawyer because the Germans won’t take any notice. Believe me, Hitler isn’t the same as Hegel, even if they both begin with an H! If we could fork out 20,000 guilders, or 50,000, it would be different, then they might listen!’

  Osewoudt didn’t look at Uncle Bart. He twisted the hat round in his fingers as he spoke, or rather shouted: ‘I also said that it’s ridiculous to think they could have arrested Mother over that. The Germans have plenty of other people to arrest! Besides, public health issues aren’t a priority. They must have had some other reason, I’m telling you, otherwise why would they have taken Ria as well?’

  He saw stars before his eyes, which were fixed on Uncle Bart’s shoes.

  Then he felt a tug at his hair and looked up. Uncle Bart was shaking his head from side to side, foaming at the mouth.

  ‘But you, what have you done to yourself? Have you dyed your hair? How come it’s black?’

  ‘Lay off, will you! What? Black hair? Yes, it’s been dyed! And do you know why? Because it’s me the Germans are looking for! It’s me they’re after, just me! Get it? They only took Mother and Ria because I wasn’t at home!’

  ‘Then you’re a coward! How can you abandon your own wife and mother for your own safety? To think that you didn’t go straight to the police and say: here, take me, just let my mother and my wife go, because they haven’t done a thing!’

  ‘I’m not a coward. But I can’t possibly give myself up!’

  ‘Not a coward! A degenerate, that’s what you are!’

  ‘Degenerate? Not that again! Degenerate – because I don’t shave I suppose! Damn, damn, damn! Ha! Ha!’

  It was not laughter, just the exclamation ‘Ha! Ha!’, as if he were reading a story out loud.

  ‘I repeat,’ Uncle Bart said, ‘degenerate! What have you been up to? Why are the Krauts after you? Because you’ve been selling those filthy cigarettes on the black market? Did you think I didn’t know? The fool goes and gets his hair dyed because he’s scared! If it were anyone else I’d be splitting my sides. But my own flesh and blood! Who shared my home for years! I did everything to make a reasonable man of him! But he’s in the black market! Selling cigarettes, the cancer of modern society! He’s dyed his hair like some old woman! It’s unspeakable. You make me sick.’

  Osewoudt stood up. He put one foot forward, holding his hat over his groin. He withdrew the foot and put the other one forward. In a soft voice, more consoling than combative, he said: ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I can’t help being in this situation, it’s just the way it is. I had no choice. I’m not in a position to go into detail now, but you really are mistaken. Don’t go to a lawyer, Uncle Bart, because you might regret it, if not in the short term then certainly when the war’s over.’

  Tears welled in his eyes and in his nose; he had to clear his throat before continuing.

  ‘Mother and Ria are innocent, they haven’t done anything. The Germans will release them after a few weeks, I’m sure. But I beg you, stay out of this. Our enemies are making things bad enough for us as it is.’

  But Uncle Bart grabbed his chair, lifted it up and set it down again violently, with the back to Osewoudt and the seat facing his desk. Then he sat down on it, bent over the desk and riffled the pages of his book as if looking up a particular passage, or no, as if trying in vain to locate a passage that might apply to the situation. He smacked the desktop with the flat of his hand.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, boy, get out of my sight!’

  Osewoudt stood up and said: ‘I never knew you had such a low opinion of me. The fact that you don’t understand proves that you have always despised me. It’s because you’ve always despised me that you won’t believe me!’

  Uncle Bart refused to look at him. His hand kept striking the desktop, not particularly hard, but impatiently.

  ‘I suppose you can’t help it, boy, but I happen to know where you come from. I knew your father.’

  ‘True, you knew him, I didn’t. But you’re talking complete rubbish. You should listen to what I’m saying instead of thinking about my father. You’re as bad as the Germans: you can’t think straight. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m long past caring whether you believe me or not. But I beg you Uncle Bart: don’t get mixed up in this, because it’s asking for trouble, not only for you, but for me as well.’

  Yet when he was out on the street again, he was plunged into such despair that he felt capable of going up to the first German he saw, saying: here I am! But there wasn’t a German uniform in sight, which was hardly surprising in a part of town that was verboten to the Wehrmacht. He heard tapping on a window and turned to look. Beckoning him was a pale, fat whore. She sat behind the glass on a raised chair, her knees drawn up, her slip rucked up over her thighs.

  ‘Too early!’ called Osewoudt, blowing her a kiss. He laughed. It was not until he was going down Damstraat that he noticed he was still carrying the hat. He put it on and glanced around to see if he was being followed.

  It was quarter past midday. What to do until five o’clock? Get something to eat for a start. He went into Restaurant De Gerstekorrel, removing his hat once inside. He picked a table at the back, hung his coat and hat on a peg in the wall, and sat down facing the leaded window. German music came from a radio. There were Germans occupying various tables: field-grey Luftwaffe officers, green SS ones, fat Germans in civilian clothes. And there were also fat Dutchmen with slim briefcases, doing business.

  The waiter came promptly to take Osewoudt’s order.

  ‘Can I order something with my ration card, or is that too inconvenient?’

  ‘The only difference is the tip, which people don’t always …’

  ‘You can count on me.’

  Osewoudt handed him two meat coupons and two butter coupons, and ordered steak, fried potatoes, peas and pancakes.

  ‘Oh yes, waiter
, and a large beer!’

  The beer came first. He immediately gulped down half of it. In the meantime he tried to eavesdrop on his neighbours, but there was so much noise he couldn’t catch what was being said.

  Mother in prison, and me sitting here! Nice smell of food, though.

  What sort of life would you have had if your mother hadn’t lost her mind and you hadn’t been obliged to look after her? Would you have married Ria? Would you, aged eighteen, have taken to running a tobacconist’s like some retired navy officer or an invalid speed cyclist?

  But if I hadn’t done that I’d have been completely dependent on Uncle Bart. I certainly wouldn’t have met Dorbeck! Dorbeck! Where would I be if it weren’t for Dorbeck? My hair’s black now, just like his. I’ve become his twin brother!

  He checked his watch: 1 p.m. Must make that telephone call at five. Maybe I’ll get to talk to him. Maybe I’ll meet him again soon. What would he say if he saw me now? I know what I’d say: are you sure you’re not looking in the mirror? What a laugh.

  He looked up. An old woman stood at the table just beyond him. She had a flat basket on her arm and was talking to two Germans sitting side by side with their backs to him. She wore black, with a faded green scarf tied round her head. Short and shapeless, she stood out against the coloured panels of the leaded window, looking like a greatly magnified potato. She turned back the cloth covering her basket, and the Germans inspected the contents. The German nearest her even pushed his chair back the better to lean over and poke his nose in.

  ‘Two guilders!’ the woman cried. ‘Good and fett!’

  The man sat up again. A discussion with his companion ensued. The little old woman stood where she was with the cloth folded back, waiting for the Germans to make up their minds. In the end they shook their heads from side to side, loudly saying ‘Nein! Leider!’

  The old woman covered her basket again, took a step back and looked at Osewoudt. Only then did he see that she was his mother, escaped from prison and now scratching a living hawking smoked eels from a basket. Don’t give me any more of your warnings, Mother, please, Osewoudt muttered to himself. I can’t help you, but you can’t help me either. Your warnings won’t get us anywhere.

  The old woman drew level with his table and lifted the cloth again.

  ‘Nice plump eels, sir.’

  ‘I can see they’re nice plump eels, but I can’t be dealing with them just now.’

  ‘Food is scarce these days, sir. Save them for later.’

  ‘I’m going on a journey, I can’t take them with me.’

  ‘Well, what if I wrap them in newspaper?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He felt in his pocket and offered her a guilder.

  ‘I didn’t come here to beg, sir!’

  She made her way past him to the table behind.

  Half past one. He had finished his meal and couldn’t very well linger in the restaurant. How to kill time until five?

  Without really looking about him, he set off towards Dam Square, dragging his feet.

  Uncle Bart must now be on his way to his lawyer, he thought, that old friend who’s been his business adviser for the past forty years, an old man like Uncle Bart himself. And he’ll say: of course, Bart, I’m entirely at your disposal! But you must understand, simply going to the Germans and demanding explanations, an old man like me, walking right into the lion’s den … Look here, Bart …

  And so he witters on. Doesn’t go to the Germans. Better wait and see, he says. Here, take a look at this underground newspaper, I’ve got the latest issue of Het Parool for you. You can keep it, but don’t leave it lying around! The Krauts are finished, that’s what it says! Uncle Bart returns home, placated. How long before he gets restive again, though? A week? Probably less. He doesn’t know what to think, but he’s as pig-headed as ever, like in the old days when Aunt Fie finally got him to the registry office and they left Ria’s pram with the porter! That was a good deed, to his mind, no: a Deed. With a capital letter! Something to be proud of later on. But why did he really do it? He did it because in those days you couldn’t go around taking potshots at anyone you didn’t like, not like now. Born at the wrong time, that was his trouble!

  Osewoudt walked down Kalverstraat and turned right towards Spui. The electric clock on the corner by the church showed two o’clock. Osewoudt reached the University Library, just past the church, and stopped.

  When I left secondary school, he thought, Uncle Bart talked about me going to university. If I had taken him up on it I might have been spending my days reading books in this very building. I wonder what it’s like inside? Would it be open to the public?

  He halted at double doors of pale oak. No signs saying anything like RING or KNOCK. He pushed the right-hand door and it yielded. He entered a marble vestibule with a porter’s lodge on the left, in which an old man sat pasting small circles of white paper on to the spines of books. Osewoudt doffed his hat, but the old man glanced at him only briefly before continuing what he was doing. Up a few steps and he found himself surrounded by oak; a strong smell of floor polish wafted towards him. Behind a counter sat a woman in a white apron, knitting. A sign at last: CLOAKROOM COMPULSORY. Osewoudt laid his hat on the counter and took off his coat. The woman put down her knitting, handed him a thick brass disc with a number, took his coat and hat and hung them on a rack.

  An oak staircase, lit only by a leaded window on a small landing. More stairs. Glass doors left and right. He looked through the door to the left and saw a gathering of intellectuals, some standing still and others strolling about. He looked through the door to the right and saw long tables occupied by people reading books. But what shall I read? he thought, as he went in. The walls were lined with books, even the spaces between the windows were fitted with bookcases. Wooden stepladders stood here and there along the stacks.

  An elderly scholar wearing pince-nez left his chair, moved the library steps to another stack, took down a book from a high shelf and returned to his seat. So you were allowed to take a book from any stack you liked! No need to ask anyone for permission either! Osewoudt had reached the first reading table. On his right he had seen a woman sitting at a vast desk, like a schoolmistress presiding over a classroom. The supervisor, apparently, but not a very watchful one, as she was engrossed in a book like everyone else.

  Osewoudt paused deliberately for a moment or two, looking intently in her direction, almost hoping she would beckon to him and ask what he wanted. He hadn’t yet decided what he would say. But the woman looked up from her book, saw him, and carried on reading. She had dark, fairly thick woolly hair, which looked as if it hadn’t been combed but simply gathered at the nape of her neck. She was not particularly young, but her glasses were decidedly ancient: thick round lenses in a gold wire frame. She wore a green woollen dress, as green as the baize of her desktop. It could even be the same material, he thought, people run up clothes from the strangest fabrics these days, maybe there was some baize left over. She can’t be earning much.

  He advanced into the room. Some readers glanced up at him distractedly, their minds still on the books before them. He looked away, anxiously hoping to spot a title he would be bold enough to take to a vacant seat at one of the tables.

  Some of the stacks had labels indicating the subjects ranged on the shelves. The labels seemed to demand his diploma, but he didn’t have a diploma in any specialised subject. Once I’d done my school exams I never opened a book again. Flogged all my textbooks to the boys in the next year. Good riddance, I thought at the time. Am I sorry? He was now at the far end of the reading room and his gaze slid over the readers’ backs. Why would I want to be like them? I might not have been bright enough for university anyway, or not bright enough to be brilliant. And then if I’d ended up at a desk like that supervisor I might well have thought: I’d just as soon be a tobacconist.

  He now noticed the clock over the door through which he had come in. The clock said five past two. Three hours to wait; but not h
ere. He retraced his steps as quickly as he dared. The supervisor now drew herself up and made to approach him, but he just grinned and went out of the door. At that moment someone emerged from the opposite door across the landing. It was Zéwüster, clasping a booklet.

  ‘Hey!’

  Osewoudt had raised his voice, but his cry was somewhat stifled.

  Zéwüster stood with his hand on the banister and one foot already extended to go down the stairs. He gave Osewoudt a quizzical look.

  ‘Hello Zéwüster!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You are Zéwüster aren’t you? … I am …’

  His voice trailed off, against his will; it was as if Zéwüster’s eyes transfixed him, as if he had lost the ability to move or speak. His forehead went ice-cold.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Yes, Zéwüster. Surely you remember?’

  His voice faltered again, the last words trapped in his chest.

  ‘You are mistaken, my name is de Bruin.’

  Osewoudt now stood beside the other man, with his hand on the other banister, ready to start down the stairs, and a kind of rage made him overcome his paralysis.

  ‘If your name isn’t Zéwüster why not just say: I am not Zéwüster. Whether you’re de Bruin or de Wit or anything else doesn’t matter to me!’

  A trio of students squeezed between them and went down the stairs. Zéwüster followed, quickening his pace and overtaking them without a backward glance. Osewoudt went down the stairs as well. The three students stopped to retrieve their coats. But Zéwüster did not stop at the cloakroom, he strode towards the marble vestibule, booklet in hand. Hatless and coatless, he went out into the street.

  Osewoudt collected his coat and hat and went after him. When he got outside Zéwüster had vanished.

  It was my black hair that scared him witless! There he was, accosted by a man he’s never seen before. Never? Why didn’t he think I was Dorbeck, not even for a moment? Or is it Dorbeck he is scared of? Could he be a traitor? Has he switched sides? Is he working for the Germans? Has he gone to warn them? To telephone? Maybe he was caught by the Germans and they only let him go so he’d betray his accomplices. Which is obviously what he’s gone and done: I’ve got him! I’ve got him! One of the Haarlem gang! Quick, you lot! He’s been found!