The skull was pointed and deeply dented around the ears. Subcutaneous bleeding had already darkened the forehead.
Osewoudt’s eyes filled with tears; the space around him became murky, as if a thick pane of frosted glass were being held before his eyes. He groped for the cold stone of the slab, laid down the flowers and, ignoring the manservant, went back up the steps and ran down the corridor. The tears kept streaming down, without him having the sensation of weeping.
The fresh air struck him in the face as he ran into the street. The screech of a car engine starting up made him look round as he crossed the road.
Two German soldiers opened the barbed-wire barricade and a small DKW with a sputtering engine slowly passed through.
The car caught up with Osewoudt and overtook him. It was a DKW of the same type as Ebernuss’, only this one had been stripped of its peacetime gloss and painted with camouflage colours: dingy ochre, muddy green and rusty red. When the car was about twenty metres ahead, it slowed down. He saw the driver looking back at him. But Osewoudt walked on. Ahead of him was the car, behind him the barricade with the guards. The only alternative was to make a dash for it through the garden of one of the houses. His eyes widened with fear, he expected the German to step out of the car at any moment, pistol drawn.
But the car door remained closed; the engine continued to sputter. Osewoudt drew level and walked past. Then at his back he heard the engine revving. He walked on without a backward glance. He opened his shoulder bag; in it he saw the knife, the Leica, and the handkerchief. He took out the hand-kerchief, leaving the clasp of the bag undone. He held the handkerchief to his eyes, but instead of drying his tears it only made them worse. The DKW followed him in a low gear. Osewoudt turned a corner; the car continued to follow, suddenly accelerated, passed him, and stopped. The door swung open. A tall Luftwaffe officer got out. He was bareheaded. He left the car door open and walked somewhat unsteadily towards Osewoudt. When he drew near Osewoudt could make out the smell of liquor. He was roughly the same age as Osewoudt, twenty-three or so. He was very pale, his face had a greenish cast and the skin looked sallow and greasy. The cheeks were sunken, the mouth had no lips. He had a very thin blond moustache, not bristly but rather like floss silk.
Osewoudt felt his chin begin to quiver and the tears redoubling as the young Luftwaffe officer barred his way. He very nearly blurted: yes, it’s me! All right then, take me away! I don’t even care any more! Then the officer addressed him in clearly articulated German: ‘Forgive me for bothering you, Sister! But I simply couldn’t just drive on after seeing such lovely eyes filled with tears.’
His head swayed as he spoke.
‘Please forgive me. You don’t know me, and besides, you hate me for being German. But believe me, the war is over, only the sadness remains. There is nothing for us now but to have compassion for one another and to offer consolation. You think I’ve taken leave of my senses, but I have not, I’m just very sad, like you.’
Osewoudt tried to sidestep him, wanted to make some reply, but was unable to do anything but bite his handkerchief in rage.
‘Don’t go away, please. Believe me, I mean no harm. Don’t make me feel even worse than I already do. I am racked with remorse for everything my compatriots have done. I swear to you, none of it was my wish. I personally have not fired a single shot since the war began.’
Osewoudt stamped his feet but could not speak.
‘There is no point in our remaining enemies,’ the German officer persisted, linking the fingers of both hands and rhythmically pressing his stomach. ‘We are both victims, Sister, victims! Please don’t make me go without letting me do something for you. Tell me what I can do to help. I beseech you.’
A red mist rose before Osewoudt’s eyes, and he said: ‘I’m past helping.’
The sputtering car engine resonated at the back of his skull, as if he too were drunk.
The officer gripped the sleeve of the arm with which Osewoudt was holding up the handkerchief.
‘I could at least give you a lift somewhere. Tell me where you want to go. I’m on my way to The Hague myself.’
Osewoudt made no reply
‘I’ll take you anywhere you like.’
‘Well, if you insist,’ said Osewoudt. ‘You can take me to The Hague.’
‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
The officer went to the car and held the passenger door open for Osewoudt. His cap was lying on the seat, he tossed it in the back. Osewoudt got in. The officer walked round the back of the car like a taxi driver, slid behind the wheel, slammed the door shut and put in the clutch.
The officer, so eloquent in the street, drove off without saying another word. He seemed pleased with his catch. Now and again, especially when steering round corners, he took a deep breath. He sat hunched forward over the wheel, more so than drivers normally do. Steering the car cost him considerable effort. Yet he did not drive cautiously, carelessly, or too quickly. His wavy auburn hair had not been cut in a long time, but he wore it in a style popular among Germans: brushed rather than combed back from his forehead, and without a parting. On his collar he wore a star between two crossed sprigs of oak. There were no insignia on his blue-grey Luftwaffe jacket. He wore riding breeches with high brown boots and a brown military belt with a small holster attachment, the holster being barely big enough for a lady’s pistol.
The roads were no longer wet. The sky had turned an even, late-afternoon blue, not a hint of cloud. Osewoudt put away the handkerchief and set the shoulder bag on his lap, without fastening the clasp. He briefly raised his rump off the seat to smooth the back of his skirt. Then he crossed his legs. The Luftwaffe officer gave him a fleeting, bashful smile. He began to talk: ‘I am Dr Georg Krügener. The name is widely known. I am indeed a nephew of the famous Zeppelin captain. Personally, I have no claim to fame, thank God. I got my degree practically gratis because there was a war on. I’m in the Luftwaffe thanks to my uncle. I don’t know what the inside of a plane looks like. My heart is too weak. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have passed any medical examination. Now they’ve got me sitting in an office, in uniform. Why are you so quiet?’
They were approaching Schiphol airport. The fields were green. Here and there Luftwaffe listening posts pricked up their gigantic ears, but the sky was quite empty. Krügener now kept glancing at Osewoudt, and the car lost speed.
‘My chatter doesn’t interest you. You are still sunk in your sad thoughts. I am only talking to distract you, please excuse me.’
He stopped at the side of the road and switched off the engine. Then he reached under the seat for a bottle of rum and removed the cork.
‘I haven’t got a glass, I’m afraid. It would be in poor taste to offer you the bottle.’
He giggled like a child and took a swig himself.
Osewoudt said: ‘Don’t mind me. I don’t drink.’
Krügener put the cork back in the bottle, and said: ‘Now I can say what I’ve wanted to say all along. Please believe me, it is no coincidence, my speaking to you. I dreamt of you last night. I saw you sitting just as you are now, but you were dressed in black, with a black veil. Your hair was longer, it came down on either side of your face. You were sitting on a cart with two big wheels, drawn by a thin horse. It was on a lonely country road. You were holding out your hands and crying. You were on the way to the guillotine, although this was all happening in the present. There were American soldiers in front of the cart and also behind. They wore camouflage gear, and had automatic weapons and hand grenades hanging off them. Their helmets, covered with netting, had dry twigs poking out. They resembled walking storks’ nests. It was like some kind of slow procession coming towards me. I saw everything from a low viewpoint, because I was lying in a ditch beside the road. I wanted to get up to save you, but couldn’t move. The horse’s hooves kicked grains of sand into my eyes. Can you make sense of a dream like that?’
Osewoudt shrugged.
Krügener took another
swig; his hands were shaking.
‘Do you know what dirty horse’s hooves smell like? The smell was far worse than I ever noticed in real life. Oh! Hölderlin says: man is a god when he dreams, a beggar when he thinks.’
‘Then I’d sooner be the beggar,’ said Osewoudt. ‘What happens to a god when he wakes up? He’s either hanging on a cross like a scarecrow or lying in a ditch, like you.’
‘My dream didn’t end there,’ said Krügener. ‘I woke up briefly and then dropped off again, and it went on. Your head had been chopped off and came rolling towards me. I knew it was yours, though I couldn’t see that because it had got wrapped up in the veil as it rolled. It came to a stop right next to me. More American soldiers appeared, advancing in loose formation. They had mine detectors, and were slowly and carefully scanning the ground. They took one step forward at a time, sweeping their instruments from side to side before taking the next step. I knew what they were looking for, but I kept quiet. They didn’t notice me. When they had gone past, I unwound the veil. It was your head all right, only, at the same time it was the head of a man: a man with black hair. The cheeks had thick black stubble.’
He took another swig from the bottle.
Somewhere in the distance, out of sight, the drone of aeroplanes began.
‘The Americans,’ said Osewoudt. ‘Let’s drive on before they shell us.’
Krügener replaced the cork in the bottle, put it back under the seat, started the engine and drove off. The drone grew louder. There must have been quite a number of planes, because they were not in sight and yet made so much noise. There was the occasional flash as from a diamond in the sky, nothing more. Parallel white stripes began to appear overhead, as if the blue were being inscribed with musical staves, but the planes themselves stayed out of sight, and there was no shelling.
As they reached Leiden Osewoudt said: ‘Since we’re in the neighbourhood, I’d like to take this opportunity to pass a message to some friends of mine in Voorschoten.’
‘Voorschoten? I don’t know where that is.’
‘I’ll show you the way. You can follow the tramline, it’ll lead you straight there. I don’t suppose the trams are still running, but you’ll still see the tracks.’
They followed the rusty tramline.
It was after six when they went past the silver factory. From there he could see the steeple of the Reformed church, which looked like an upended Zeppelin. Then the low medieval tower of the church of St Willibrord.
They passed the police station and reached the stop where the tramlines sidle towards each other until they overlap in a single track. He read the sign: NO OVERTAKING.
There were no vehicles or carts in the narrow high street, nor any oncoming traffic.
‘Stop here!’ yelled Osewoudt.
Krügener slammed on the brake, too drunk to pull over to the side of the road. The car stopped on the tramlines.
‘Couldn’t you borrow a glass from your friends?’ Krügener whined. ‘I’d love to pour you a drink …’
Osewoudt snatched the key from the ignition, got out of the car and made straight for the tobacco shop.
The first thing to catch his eye was a small notice: CIGARETTE PAPERS SOLD OUT.
In the display he saw some open cardboard boxes containing strips of tightly rolled paper: CHEWING STICKS FIFTEEN CENTS. There were also a couple of paper bags on their sides, from which spilled green hay. The roller blind over the door-pane was up. He could see there was no one in the shop. He opened his shoulder bag, took out the knife and slipped it into his right-hand coat pocket. Then he reached for the door handle. It gave way.
The bell did not tinkle as he stepped inside. The leaded glass sliding doors to the back room were closed. Osewoudt pushed one of the doors aside.
There was Ria! She looked up from an ironing board and set the iron upright. Thin curls of steam rose from it.
Her jaw dropped, exposing her teeth which looked longer than ever, rather like matchsticks protruding from her jaws.
Osewoudt slowly shut the sliding door behind him, keeping his eyes fixed on Ria. His arms and legs began to shake; he felt the nurse’s cap wobble on his head. From the corner of his eye he took in the rest of the room. The furniture had changed. It was new. Where had she got it?
Then a noise escaped from his throat, he didn’t know what sort of noise it was.
Ria said: ‘Sister! You gave me quite a turn! You reminded me so much of my first husband!’
Once her screams had stopped there was no further sound in the house.
She lay on the floor beside the ironing board. Osewoudt wiped the knife on everything within reach: clothes waiting to be ironed, tablecloth, lampshade, it was as if he wanted to spread Ria’s blood all over the house. Then he stood still for a moment, panting, and stuffed the knife in his coat pocket. He went to the front of the shop, parted the short curtains at the back of the display, and peered outside.
Krügener’s car was beginning to attract attention. Looking over it were two boys, lounging against the crossbars of their bikes, which had wooden tyres. Now and then they called out to the driver, and laughed. Three girls, arm in arm, came clattering along and halted in front of the car. They giggled at the boys.
Osewoudt took a step back and shut the curtains.
‘Turlings! Turlings!’ he called. But he had already guessed that the chemist’s son was not there.
It grew darker in the shop because people were gathering in front of the window and perching on the sill. He could see their hair protruding over the top of the short curtains.
He took a deep breath, made for the door and seized the handle. Just above it the enamel plaque was still there: HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN ANYTHING?
He pulled the door open, shut it quickly behind him and ran to the car. The crowd of onlookers was swelling to mob proportions. Voices were raised, there was even some shouting. He didn’t catch what they were saying. Osewoudt opened the passenger door. Just then Krügener threw the empty rum bottle out of the car window on the other side. He slumped diagonally against the seat back, twisted round to face Osewoudt, and said: ‘I thought you were going to stay there, with your lover.’
Osewoudt leaned into the car, grabbed Krügener by the arm and dragged him away from the driver’s seat. Then he slammed the passenger door, went round to the other side of the car and got in behind the wheel. He put the key in the ignition and started. The engine made a hollow, scraping noise like an empty coffee mill, but did not fire.
A boy shouted: ‘Look at her! Wants a roll in the hay with a Kraut while she’s got the chance!’
Again Osewoudt tried to start the car.
‘See that? She’s covered in blood!’ the boy jeered.
Laughing hysterically, Krügener tried to lay his arm around Osewoudt’s shoulders. Osewoudt shook it off and pressed the starter again. This time the engine responded. Osewoudt put it in gear. Jolting and grinding, he nosed the car through the crowd. The street widened. The door of the chemist’s opened and a woman came out, but he didn’t recognise her.
He looked at the sleeves and the front of his coat. On the dark fabric the stains were simply darker, not red. His left hand was sticky. He let go of the steering wheel and wiped his bloody fingers on the edge of the seat.
The posts supporting the tram wires flashed past. The sun beamed into the car at right angles to the direction they were going. The houses along the road thinned out, making way for the sprawl of glasshouses.
A furious screeching noise arose, and not far off a huge rocket shot up into the sky, swerved away in the direction of England, and dwindled to a glowing spark.
‘Got no more to drink,’ Krügener whined. ‘And I asked you to get us a glass, too.’
Osewoudt pressed the accelerator to the floor, but the small car would not do more than forty kilometres per hour.
‘The glass must’ve broken,’ said Krügener. ‘You’ve cut yourself, you’ve got blood all over you. Don’t think I didn’t notice, my p
oor darling.’
He laid a slimy hand on Osewoudt’s cheek.
Osewoudt’s right hand let go of the wheel, clenched in midair to a fist, and landed a blow under Krügener’s chin, on the soft part of his throat.
Not a sound came out of Krügener after that. Osewoudt, tight-lipped, glanced at him from time to time. Krügener’s eyes were shut, but he was not unconscious.
He had to stay alive. When would they be stopped at a checkpoint? There was bound to be one at the tunnel under the river in Rotterdam, in which case Krügener might come in useful.
The car drove through Voorburg, but nothing happened. Nor did anything happen in Delft. By the time he reached the outskirts of Rotterdam it was growing dark. He switched on the headlamps, but they were largely blacked out with leather flaps and shed practically no light.
It was long past eight o’clock, the streets were deserted.
He felt no excitement or fear as he approached the tunnel, but the sentries didn’t even come out of their boxes. Without having to stop he rolled into the tunnel, which was unlit.
Once he left Rotterdam behind, the condition of the road worsened. It was badly rutted by tanks and heavy vehicles, and he was forced to drive even more slowly than before.
When they reached Dordrecht night had fallen. In the distance he saw a church. Osewoudt stopped at the side of the road a few hundred metres short of the church.
Krügener began to stir. He pulled in his legs and sat up. He gave a cry, threw both his arms around Osewoudt and tried to kiss him on the mouth. With his hands he fumbled under the veil at the back of Osewoudt’s neck.
‘Oh my darling,’ he gushed. ‘You are the first. It wasn’t that I couldn’t get any girls. But I’ve never felt so attracted to a woman as I am now, to you!’
He was almost sitting upright, bracing himself with one leg while kneeling on the passenger seat with the other. That way he loomed over Osewoudt in the low space.
‘You are my angel,’ stammered Krügener. ‘My angel of deliverance! You are the first woman I have ever kissed! And I thought women meant nothing to me! How could I have been so mistaken! Give me your lips, my darling!’
The Darkroom of Damocles Page 24
