‘To sleep with a Jewess, Osewoudt! That’s why! Am I right?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘That’ll be the day. But I have proof.’
‘It’s nobody’s business who I sleep with. It’s got nothing to do with politics.’
‘Ah, you mean to say it has nothing to do with politics if you go to bed with a Jewess in possession of a forged identity card?’
‘I know who you mean. But I’d never met that young lady before, and she wasn’t Jewish either.’
‘Are you telling me you didn’t know she was Jewish?’
‘It didn’t occur to me. I met her for the first time that evening.’
‘Well, well, straight off to bed was it? There weren’t enough beds so you had to share, was that it?’
Osewoudt shrugged. Wülfing opened a desk drawer.
‘Whose tie is this? No takers? And whose is this shirt? Nobody’s? Going, going … And whose are these nice shoes? Not Osewoudt’s by any chance? All found in Mirjam Zettenbaum’s virginal bed!’
His voice dropped.
‘Perhaps you should try them for size, Osewoudt. And whose is this Leica? Not yours either? Don’t worry, the film that was in it has been developed. My word, you do take some charming pictures with your little box!’
He placed the Leica carefully on the desk and said: ‘And I have another charming plaything just here.’
He bent low to the drawer and took out an automatic pistol, lifting it up with slow deliberation.
‘This pistol, Osewoudt, was found in the handbag belonging to Mirjam Zettenbaum, also known as Marianne Sondaar. With whom you have never slept. And yet you lent the lady the toy pistol. Or are we to take it that it was she who pulled the trigger on 23 July, 1940 at Kleine Houtstraat 32 in Haarlem? Because you must understand, Osewoudt, establishing criminal responsibility is an exact science, not a game! The bullets found in Knijtijzen’s body have been traced to this firearm. And that is not all. Once we’ve examined all the bullets we collect from dead bodies, who knows what else we’ll discover?’
Osewoudt was taken back to his cell, where he was given half a litre of soup and a hunk of brown bread. The brown bread was surprisingly good: rough and moist, with plenty of coarsely ground wheat in it. At last he was able to eat his fill.
That evening, at seven, the cell door opened and Ebernuss came in. Ebernuss had a stone bottle of Bols genever under his arm, and in his hand a piece of sausage in greaseproof paper.
He looked as if he had shaved specially for the occasion, and had put on a freshly pressed uniform. His scent of violets overpowered the prison stench of rising damp, corrosion and dried urine.
He seated himself on the stool, reached into his pocket and produced two glasses, which he filled with genever.
‘Prosit,’ he said.
Wordlessly, Osewoudt took a sip.
‘Let me explain. The reason I let Wülfing take you to task this afternoon was because Gustaf was present. I felt obliged to make my little contribution to the cause, especially with Gustaf there. But you mustn’t think I have it in for you. Indeed, I rather like you. I took to you from the start. Anyway, the Americans will be here any day now. But even if they never get here, the war is lost. I am well aware of that. Go on, drink up. Let’s have another.’
‘I don’t like genever.’
‘Teetotal?’
‘Not really. I just don’t like it.’
‘You’re not ill are you, Osewoudt?’
‘Nothing wrong with my health.’
‘What kind of treat could I give you, then? A woman, perhaps?’
Osewoudt said nothing. He did not like Ebernuss’ friendly tone, nor did he trust his air of familiarity. But there was something about the man’s manner that gave Osewoudt a glimmer of hope, so he thought he’d better not antagonise him straightaway. It was not that he had any idea what he might yet achieve with this man, but what would Dorbeck think if didn’t even leave the possibility open?
‘Your girlfriend was a Jewess all right,’ said Ebernuss. ‘All that has been investigated in minute detail. Mirjam Zettenbaum. Personally, I have nothing against Jews. What do you say to that?’
‘I think it makes sense, at least if you’re convinced Germany’s going to lose the war.’
Osewoudt lay back on the bunk, drew up his knees and rolled over, turning his back to Ebernuss.
‘Slumbering Ganymede! What a pretty picture!’ Ebernuss exclaimed. Osewoudt could not recall having heard the name Ganymede before, and thought: his mind’s rambling.
‘The whole treatment of the Jewish question,’ said Ebernuss, ‘amounts to nothing but a bid on the part of some high-ranking SS men to parasite the rest of Europe! It wasn’t only the Jews they were out to rob, but us as well! Just think what all that shunting about of absolutely harmless, and moreover, useless people has cost us in terms of transport potential. The old, the sick, children, women, intellectuals – thousands of wagonloads, while the fighting troops were short of supplies! The worst the Jews ever inflicted on Germany was taking up all that space in our goods trains and cattle trucks.’
Ebernuss laughed. Osewoudt said nothing.
Ebernuss said: ‘I may laugh, but I didn’t mean what I said. Is it really impossible to envisage a world in which people do not go out of their way to kill each other? Surely mankind ought to be able to reach that minimum standard? Don’t you agree, Osewoudt? Wasn’t that why you joined the Resistance?’
‘Yes it was! That was the only reason!’
‘I never doubted it for a moment! The thing is knowing who your enemies are, and where to look for friends. Friends turn up in the strangest, most unexpected places. Remember that, Osewoudt.’
Osewoudt thought: he’ll throw his arms around me next, but I’ll kick him senseless, to hell with the consequences.
The spyhole opened, making a very soft clicking sound, almost inaudible. Osewoudt’s head started. Each click of the spyhole made him jump. He did not look round at the door. He did not hear footsteps moving off, but was certain, after a time, that the spyhole had been covered again.
This meant, likely as not, that he would be left alone for the next half-hour. He got off the bunk and looked up at the corner of the cell next to the frosted glass window. He peered at the air vent and saw a string dangling from the grating. His heart raced as he clambered on to the bunk and stood up. He flexed his knees, jumped, and succeeded in getting hold of the grating with one hand and grabbing the string with the other, before dropping back on the bunk. At the end of the string was a pencil stub.
He sat down on the bunk and took a sheet of toilet paper from his trouser pocket.
He wrote:
Dearest Marianne,
I have been in prison for three months already. Nothing is happening, weeks go by without my being interrogated or seeing anyone. Once in a while they come to my cell to question me about things I know nothing of. How will all this end? Are the Americans coming? Or not? Sometimes I think I’ll be murdered one of these days, like so many others, without trial, without any reasons being given.
I have found out you are in Westerbork transit camp. Do your best to stay there, avoid deportation to Germany at all costs. The war can’t last much longer. Then we’ll be together again. I think of you day and night, which is no exaggeration as I seldom get any sleep. Try thinking of me too, maybe that will help. I am suspected only of things I didn’t do. They can’t keep me here for ever. Goodbye my darling, I kiss you a thousand, thousand times.
A thousand times a thousand, he reflected, folding up the note as small as possible. He lay back on his bunk. Was that a lot – a thousand times a thousand – where kisses were concerned? How long would it take to kiss someone a thousand, thousand times?
He heard the click of the spyhole again. He got up, went to the door and stuffed the note into the round hole.
Nothing much happened for a whole month. Only, someone had been put in the cell next door, with w
hom he was able to communicate by tapping signals. This man claimed he had been caught red-handed stealing rubber stamps from a German police office. Osewoudt replied that he himself was entirely innocent of the crimes he stood accused of. Would the war go on for much longer?
His neighbour was in the know. From him Osewoudt learned that the Allies had already got as far as Arnhem.
That same day, the cell door suddenly swung open and Osewoudt was summoned. He was not handcuffed.
He went with the guards. He was positive that he would be released.
They opened a door and a wave of violet scent penetrated his nostrils.
A small office with bars on the windows and Ebernuss sitting with his back to the bars.
Ebernuss stood up at once, and hurried forward to clasp Osewoudt’s right hand between his.
‘Osewoudt! It’s been such a long time! I have been very busy, very busy indeed! Not a day has gone by without my hoping to spare fifteen minutes for you! Something kept coming up! Do sit down! Cigarette? Real English ones, Gold Flake! Whole crates of them are dropped from the sky these days. Such a friendly nation, the British. Take the recent developments in Arnhem. You have heard the news, I presume? You thought the war would be over soon, did you not? Wrong! Those British! Did they get a thrashing from our SS! Lads of sixteen, just back from France for a breather. We pulled it off! Jawohl! My dear fellow, I was afraid I might never see you again. But we have not been deprived of each other’s company yet, not by any means!’
Osewoudt dropped his eyes, saying: ‘I haven’t done anything. Nobody has produced any evidence against me. Why won’t you let me go?’
Ebernuss propped his elbows on the desk and pressed his hands flat against his cheeks, the way older women sometimes do to tighten their jowls.
‘Evidence. Oh, what a nice boy you are! Did you think we were keeping you here because we’re gathering evidence? The world you live in ceased existing long ago.
‘We only detain two kinds of people. The first kind are people we prefer to keep off the streets for one reason or another. The second kind are people who can supply us with interesting information. Nobody is released simply for a lack of evidence. Furnishing proof is the business of professors, not politicians. The only thing that interests a politician is achieving his aims. What would we achieve by accepting the lack of evidence against someone? Have some sense, boy! I’m telling you: for a politician it’s more important to get rid of an innocent victim than to punish someone who’s guilty, because the innocent victim, once released, will seek revenge, whereas a sinner who gets let off will be grateful.
‘Do try to understand how the world works, Osewoudt!’
‘Oh, Herr Ebernuss! What I don’t understand is how you can make the National Socialists out to be such monsters!’
‘Try telling your mother that!’
‘I don’t even know if my mother is still alive.’
‘I do. She is no longer alive.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am sure.’
‘And my uncle?’
‘He has been sent to Germany, to a concentration camp, but nobody seems to know which.’
‘And my wife?’
‘That I do not know. I will enquire. Any other questions?’
‘No.’
‘You’re lying. You want to know where Marian Zettenbaum is. It’s no use denying it! You wrote her a note. Here it is. Here, here! You do make me laugh, you know!’
Ebernuss picked up a folder of papers, leafed through the contents and found the sheet of toilet paper on which Osewoudt had written his note. Ebernuss started reading it aloud: ‘“Dearest Marianne. I have been in prison for three months.” Which is four months, now. “How will all this end? Are the Americans coming?” Yes, they’re coming, but far too late for most people.’
‘So you know what’s happened to Marianne! You must tell me! Has she been sent to Germany?’
‘“Goodbye my darling, I kiss you a thousand, thousand times.”’
Ebernuss slipped the note back into the folder.
Osewoudt sat there, sobbing.
Ebernuss went up to him and tapped him under the chin.
‘Let me tell you something. She is not in Germany. I saw to that. I’ll tell you something else. She is pregnant. What do you say, Osewoudt? Pregnant! Congratulations, my friend! If it’s a boy you can call him Waldemar, after me. Agreed?’
Osewoudt said nothing.
‘By the way,’ said Ebernuss, ‘it’s time you started calling me Waldemar, too. We have known each other for so long now, months and months … But that’s not the only reason. You are alone in the world. Your mother is dead, your uncle is dead, so is your girlfriend Elly Sprenkelbach Meijer, so is Labare, and your friend Robbie is either dead or in a concentration camp which he won’t come out of alive. Let me make myself clear: I too am alone. All my friends have fallen in battle. As for my mother, she is buried under the rubble of her house in Frankfurt. Who will do anything to help me when the Americans get here?’
Osewoudt sat up straight, gave Ebernuss a nasty grin and said: ‘Nobody, I expect. The shoe will be on the other foot!’
‘So what if the shoe is on the other foot? Will that bring back your mother and your friends? Well, what do you say?’
Osewoudt crooked the index finger of his right hand and bit the knuckle.
Ebernuss laid his hand on his shoulder.
‘We are comrades in misfortune. I am prepared to help you, as a good comrade. I can arrange for them to let that Jewish girl go. Do you understand? So there will at least be one person waiting for you at the end of the war. What am I saying? One person? Maybe two! Possibly three, if she has twins. But you must help me in return, you must tell me something you know and I don’t. Is the girl worth that to you? And the child? Or do you prefer to keep quiet and have her sent to Germany and end up in a gas chamber? Then who’ll be there to say thank you when the war is over?’
Ebernuss stood up and raised his voice.
‘No one in the whole world is going to say thank you! No one! Even if you’re still alive when the Americans come!’
He took up the folder again.
‘Look, I might as well tell you what I’m getting at. We have come up with an idea, something that sounds insane, but is apparently true. You needn’t say anything, just yes or no. Are you sticking by your story that a meeting between you and Roorda at Vondel Park never took place?’
‘Yes.’
‘Quite. On the day Roorda says he met you at Vondel Park you weren’t anywhere near there. Because you were with Meinarends in Leiden, were you not?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘They turned up the heat on Roorda and he changed his story slightly. Added to it, in fact. He says he met you in Amsterdam not once but twice, the second time in the waiting room of the public baths a few days later.’
‘He’s lying.’
‘Quite. Because that afternoon you were not in Amsterdam. You were on the heath at Lunteren, where you shot Lagendaal and his wife. True or false?’
Osewoudt said nothing. The whole room danced jerkily before his eyes, and his thighs felt drenched in ice water.
‘Well?’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘Stop fibbing like a schoolboy. The bullets from the bodies have been examined. They were discharged by the pistol found in the handbag belonging to your friend Zettenbaum. What more do you want? You’re not going to tell me it was Zettenbaum who went to Lunteren to deal with Lagendaal? You’re not shifting the blame on your girlfriend, are you?’
Osewoudt tried not to show how ill these words made him feel. If words could kill, he would gladly have dropped dead, but he did not: he saw Ebernuss’ grim expression, heard everything Ebernuss said.
‘Fine. So Zettenbaum didn’t do it. It was you. Don’t worry about it, we’re not worried either. We can’t go around checking every particular! But there’s one question we would like to resolve. Who did Roorda meet? We have n
o reason to assume that Roorda is lying. In fact we can prove he is not. So if that man is not lying, he must have met someone. Who was it? It wasn’t you. So who was it?’
‘I wasn’t there, as you said yourself. So how should I know who Roorda met?’
‘You don’t need to know. The solution is obvious: it was someone who looked like you. Who looked very much like you. Not your twin brother, because you don’t have one, but still someone so like you that it’s nigh on impossible to tell you apart. Same height, same shape, same mug, and so on and so forth. Well, there is one difference I suppose: he has black hair and yours is fair. It would be too much if he had no more beard growth than you, though that hardly seems likely, ha, ha. A man who shaves, then. Right. Who is that man, what is his name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But I do. His name is Dorbeck. If he actually exists, then his name is Dorbeck. And you know him. Why else did you dye your hair black? You were acting as his double.’
‘That’s not true. If I’d known about somebody in the Resistance who looked like me I’d have been more likely to dye my hair red.’
‘Don’t give me that.’
Nevertheless, Ebernuss hesitated: what Osewoudt had said sounded reasonable enough.
‘Come on,’ Ebernuss continued, after a pause, ‘let’s stop beating about the bush. There is evidence that this man exists, and that he’s in Holland. There seems to be some sort of clandestine club in Amsterdam for underground heroes. They meet in the attic of a canal house. The place is run by a theology student. His name is Moorlag. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him, because you know him. He was your lodger in Voorschoten.’
‘Moorlag?’
‘Well then. Now you’re reminded of Marianne again. I have a proposition to make. We take you to that club in a day or two. You go in, you have a chat with Moorlag. You pay close attention to their reactions. They might address you as Dorbeck, for instance, or say something like: hey, what’s going on? We thought you got here a quarter of an hour ago.
‘That’s all you need to do. Plain sailing. I won’t go with you, none of us will, you can be sure of that. All you need to do is have a drink in that attic. You won’t be betraying anyone. And if you do as I say, I promise you they will release Marianne Sondaar and issue her with a genuine ID card, without the J on it. Think it over!’