The Darkroom of Damocles

by Willem Frederik Hermans

  ‘That piece of evidence is only the start,’ said Osewoudt. ‘I set about proving that Dorbeck is or was real – with some reluctance, actually, because by doing so I was in a sense giving weight to the notion that he never existed. But what does all that matter? If Dorbeck is still alive and news reaches him of the situation I’m in, he’ll come forward to set everything straight. And if he’s not still alive, which is quite possible, what with thousands of people vanishing without trace during the war, it may be because he was blown up by a bomb, or travelling under an alias on a plane that crashed into the sea, or burned to death in a tank, or he may even be in prison some-where, like me. Who can say?

  ‘You, however, know nothing about it! You’ve never seen him, that’s why you think he doesn’t exist. What makes it all so complicated is the secrecy that I was bound to. I didn’t talk about Dorbeck for security reasons. That went without saying. And the only person I ever told anything about Dorbeck is now in Palestine, and she’s not replying to my letters. But do you think I care whether you believe in him or not? I can’t help it that my mother was mad. Think what you’re doing, Doctor. Ask yourself whether you have the right to deny Dorbeck’s existence only because you happen to know that my mother suffered from delusions.’

  Dr Lichtenau leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes.

  ‘The death sentence. Do you realise what you are looking at, Henri? The firing squad. There is not a ray of hope for your case as it stands. If only you would admit that you were afraid, that you gave in under the Germans’ appalling torture. But no! All the time that was available to explain your behaviour has been wasted on a hunt for a non-existent Dorbeck.’

  Osewoudt leaned over to pat the doctor on the knee.

  ‘It was very kind of you to come and see me, Doctor. I know you mean well. But you’ve got it all wrong, like everybody else. Let me tell you something: I took a photo of Dorbeck and me together, side by side in front of a mirror. I took it myself, in the house at Bernard Kochstraat in Amsterdam. There’s still a chance of it being found. Even now they keep confusing photos of me with those of Dorbeck; they think they’re of the same person. But once that photo is found, everything will be clear. The ultimate proof that Dorbeck and Osewoudt are two different people will then have been delivered. The camera I took the photo with got lost when I fled. The film was still in it. But let’s imagine, just for a moment, that it’s found. Imagine they develop the film and find the picture of the two of us together, when I’d gone and let you declare me of unsound mind! If I did that, then I’d really be of unsound mind! I’d rather die!’

  A young Catholic priest in a threadbare cassock had been bustling about the ward all morning. On his left arm he carried a large basket containing holly and candles. He pinned a sprig of holly to the wall over each prisoner’s bed, and on each night-stand he left a stub of candle tied with a red bow.

  ‘Such a shame, such a shame,’ he muttered at each bedside. ‘The forecast isn’t for a white Christmas this year. Such a shame! But it would have been too good to be true – a white Christmas in the year of our liberation!’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ the former SS men intoned meekly. ‘Such a shame!’

  ‘Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose’ said the priest. ‘Father Christmas must have been too busy to make snowflakes. There’s not much we can do about it. We’ll just have to take it in our stride.’

  ‘Yes Father! We’ll take it in our stride!’

  ‘We’ll practise “Silent Night” again later, shall we, lads?’

  They promptly started singing.

  ‘No, not now! Later, I said! Hush now!’

  He came to Osewoudt’s bed.

  ‘I’m Father Beer,’ he said. ‘Such a shame we won’t be having a white Christmas this year.’

  ‘Yes, a shame,’ said Osewoudt, pointing up at the ceiling of toughened glass. ‘We’d get snowed in.’

  ‘Come now,’ said the priest, ‘if it got too dark we could light the Christmas candles.’

  He set one down on Osewoudt’s night-stand.

  ‘Oh, take it away, please,’ said Osewoudt. ‘I wasn’t brought up with that nonsense.’

  ‘It’s never too late to learn. A sprig of holly and a candle can’t hurt.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but I don’t want them anyway.’

  ‘What did you say? How can that be possible! Most of the lads here are well on the way to being converted. And you, talking like that? I must get to the bottom of this!’

  He put down his basket, pulled up a chair and seated himself at Osewoudt’s bedside.

  Father Beer was not much older than Osewoudt. He had a round face and cheery, round eyes of a pale brown shade.

  ‘How did you end up in this camp?’

  ‘I’m innocent,’ said Osewoudt. ‘Not scum like that lot over there.’

  ‘Who are you, then?’

  ‘My name is Osewoudt.’

  ‘Well, well. Osewoudt. So you are Osewoudt. I’ve heard about your case.’

  ‘So has everyone else.’

  ‘It’s been in the papers.’

  ‘I know, but I gave up reading them long ago.’

  ‘Let’s have a serious talk. Perhaps there’s something I can do for you.’

  ‘You don’t need to do anything for me. Once Dorbeck turns up, I won’t need anyone any more. My innocence will have been proved, clear as daylight.’

  ‘Any help I might be able to offer would have no bearing on the legal proceedings.’

  ‘I quite understand. All these sods who used to be in the SS are now singing “Silent Night”. They go along with being converted to save their skins.’

  ‘You have a point there. But what difference does it make? Even the worst sinner has the right to try and save his skin.’

  ‘Even through hypocrisy?’

  ‘Even through hypocrisy. Only, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, a priest cannot accept a hypocritical conversion. He must redouble his efforts until such time as hypocrisy makes way for true faith.’

  ‘And get a stay of execution while he’s at it, I suppose, in case the true faith doesn’t reveal itself.’

  ‘It is always better not to have put a fellow human being to death than to have done so, however depraved that human being may be.’

  ‘Well now,’ said Osewoudt. ‘Allow me to give you some advice: get the Pope to endorse the abolition of capital punishment the world over and the release of all prisoners too while he’s at it, including those who haven’t converted. So much better than you having to run around wangling one false conversion after another.’

  ‘Of course that would be better, but there is only so much one can do. I am only human, I can’t do any more than lies in my power. And I have no say in the policies pursued by His Holiness.’

  ‘If I were to convert, what would that prove?’ asked Osewoudt. ‘I’m innocent. How could I become any more innocent by being converted?’

  ‘Not more innocent, but if you did convert, the people holding you here – and the judges who will sentence you because they don’t believe in your innocence – might think: there’s some goodness in him after all. They might even allow redemption to prevail over justice.’

  ‘I can do without redemption. If I’ve sacrificed everything for the good cause and all I get is redemption, what have I lived for? And why should I have to go on living?’

  ‘Because life is a gift, and it is not to be cast aside. For we must go on living, even if we don’t know why.’

  The sheet was rumpled up under Osewoudt’s nose. He pulled his arms out from under the covers and straightened them. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘don’t you hate having to go around in skirts like that? I fled from occupied territory disguised as a female nurse. It was horrible. Like having your legs tied together.’

  Father Beer began to laugh heartily.

  ‘It has never occurred to me.’

  ‘There’s something else I’d like to ask you, something I’ve been curious about all my life
. That little circle on the top of your head, do you maintain it with a razor, or are there special tonsure clippers for priests? Are there optional courses in tonsure maintenance?’

  Father Beer was now choking with laughter.

  ‘Is it hard to learn?’ asked Osewoudt. ‘Does it involve taking exams?’

  ‘That is one of the best kept secrets of the liturgy,’ said Father Beer. ‘I would risk being defrocked if I told you.’

  Osewoudt did not laugh. He said: ‘I am boring you, and you are boring me. Conversation between you and me is pointless. You go around with holly and candles. If it were up to me, everybody in this building would be taken outside and shot, Christmas or no Christmas. They might still gain redemption after death, anyway. My case and theirs don’t compare. My presence here is a strange accident. I feel no hatred for the people holding me here. If someone gets a falling rock on his foot and the foot has to be amputated, his entire life will be changed for ever. Yet he won’t hate the stone. It’s the same with me. It happens in every war, apparently, that soldiers get hit by their own side. My situation is a bit like that. But once Dorbeck’s existence has been proved, everything will be different. That is all I hope for, nothing more exalted than that.’

  ‘You are being presumptuous,’ said Father Beer. ‘You are putting justice above redemption. But suppose justice is too long in coming?’

  ‘It makes no difference to me.’

  ‘How can you say that? Or is it because, in case Dorbeck turns up after you’re dead, the people who have your death on their conscience will be consumed by remorse? Is that what you want?’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh! What’s in it for me, once I’m dead, if someone who knew no better feels consumed by remorse years later? Besides, I don’t believe in being consumed by remorse, as far as I’m concerned it doesn’t exist. During the war I killed the father and mother of a small boy with my own hands. The father was scum, but the child had done nothing. I caused that child great sadness, I changed the course of his life, but I had no choice. I don’t feel remorse. In the same way, the people mistreating me will always insist they had no choice. And if I’m not shot and it takes another ten years, say, for them to find Dorbeck, I’ll still have spent ten years behind bars for nothing. Ten years which can never be made good. Ten years in prison is one of the heaviest sentences going. But if they let me out they’ll act as if I should be grateful.’

  Osewoudt burst into a coughing fit, stuffed the sheet into his mouth to stifle the noise, but it didn’t help.

  ‘After ten years in prison for nothing, there would only be one way for you to get on with your life,’ said Father Beer. ‘You would have to forgive those who trespassed against you. Do you see? Whatever happens, it all comes down to redemption in the end.’

  Osewoudt shook his head.

  ‘Whether I forgave them or not wouldn’t matter a hoot to them, because—’

  ‘You don’t understand! It’s not about other people, it’s about your own welfare!’

  ‘—because the reason they’ve put me in prison is not that Dorbeck can’t be found, the reason is that I have a high voice like a castrato, a face like a girl and no beard. I’ve been imprisoned in this body all my life; my appearance has made me what I am. That is the answer to the riddle.’

  Father Beer’s face flushed a deep red; he began to blow his nose on a filthy handkerchief which he had whisked from his skirts as if by magic.

  Then he said: ‘But if what you’re saying is true, then how else could you be saved than by redemption?’

  ‘What’s the point of my life,’ replied Osewoudt, ‘if I was born under a curse which can only be lifted through being redeemed? Is that what I’m living for – to have two gifts bestowed on me that cancel each other out, when I never asked for any gifts in the first place? I never asked for anything. I never asked to be born, I never asked to be cursed at birth, nor do I ask to be redeemed at death. And if there’s nothing left for me but to die, I won’t be needing redemption anyway: the end of my life will mean the end of the curse. You may be able to wangle redemption for your converted traitors and murderers, but what could that kind of redemption mean for me? Let’s give it a rest. You have tired me out. I’m ill, I have a fever, and I’ve been in this stinking ward for over a month already. I don’t care about the afterlife. All I care about just now is finding the camera I used to take a photo of Dorbeck. Once that’s been found, once I’m able to present Selderhorst with a genuine picture of Dorbeck, I’ll be halfway to salvation. Then at last he’ll have eyes for Dorbeck, not me. That’s all the salvation I ask for.’

  ‘We’ll talk again some time then,’ said Father Beer. ‘I’ll be praying for you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I’ll pray for the Leica to be found. I’ll beseech all the saints for its recovery.’

  Osewoudt turned over on his side, muttering: ‘I wish they wouldn’t sing “Silent Night”.’

  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 ne
ck. 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!’