The Darkroom of Damocles

  ‘A house with a porch … No houses with porches as far as I can see.’

  Selderhorst put in the clutch, reversed, stopped, put in the clutch again. Osewoudt poked his head out of the window. He read the name: Vierde Binnenvestgracht. It was not a canal, but an alleyway. There was a bend in the alley, but it was more like a sharp angle than a bend. Selderhorst took a right into Rijnstraat and then a left into Tweede Haverstraat.

  ‘Well, is it this one, Osewoudt?’

  ‘No, not this one either.’

  ‘Damn it, Osewoudt, where can it be?’

  Selderhorst accelerated; they screeched round one corner after another, back into Kraayerstraat, Tweede Gorterstraat, Derde Gorterstraat, Pakhuisstraat, until they arrived once more in the wide street called Levendaal.

  ‘Damn you, Osewoudt, I’m getting fed up with this! You spin all these yarns and expect me to take you at your word. Who do you think you are? What are you playing at? Your case was wrapped up long ago, you’re a liar, a cheat and a traitor, but since we live under the rule of law nowadays, I’ve done my level best to discover something in your defence. But you? You’ve been taking me for a ride. All this stuff about a street with a bend and a house with a porch. I bet you’ve never even set foot in this neighbourhood. There’s no street with a bend, and no houses with porches either! Do you see a porch, Spuybroek?’

  Selderhorst was so enraged that he seemed unable to drive. He banged his fists on the steering wheel.

  ‘I just don’t get it,’ wailed Osewoudt. ‘I was panicking – which way could I have been going? It must have been somewhere around here, it’s got to be, but I don’t recognise a thing. If anyone had told me there was a rough area so close to those posh houses by the park I wouldn’t have believed them. How can this be? Where’s that blasted street? It’s got to be here somewhere.’

  He opened the car door before Spuybroek could stop him, and got out. But he didn’t run for cover. He went to the middle of the road and stood there, scanning the stepped gables for any recognisable feature. Then he looked across the way to the factory buildings. The motorcyclists were on either side of him, engines sputtering.

  ‘Everything I’ve ever done is slipping through my fingers! The people I worked with during the war are all either dead or missing, and even the streets I used to know no longer exist. It’s beyond belief. I feel I’m in a different world, where no one will believe me. What am I to do? How in God’s name can I ever justify myself at this rate?’

  Osewoudt paced to and fro. The motorcyclists revved in anticipation.

  Then Spuybroek took hold of Osewoudt’s left hand and left elbow and straightened the arm, but without hurting him.

  ‘No one said you could get out of the car,’ he said.

  Muttering under his breath, Osewoudt allowed himself to be led back to the car. He got in; Spuybroek got in beside him and pulled the door shut.

  Selderhorst said nothing, put in the clutch and drove off. He drove like a madman, racing down alleyways with NO ENTRY signs, screeching round corners until finally they found themselves in Hoge Woerd again. From now on he slowed down at everything resembling a lane or side street.

  ‘Was it here, Osewoudt? Here? Wielmakersstraat? No? Not good enough?’

  He drove on.

  ‘What about here? Nieuwebrugsteeg? Was it here by any chance? Anyone see a house with a porch?’

  ‘No, not just yet,’ said Spuybroek. ‘But we’re bound to see one round the next corner, aren’t we, Osewoudt? Round the next corner, eh, because we don’t want to be going round too many more corners, do we, or we’ll be in a different part of town altogether!’

  Selderhorst stopped at an alley called Koenesteeg, and then again at the next one, called Krauwelsteeg.

  ‘Well Osewoudt? Any ideas?’

  Osewoudt looked dutifully in all directions. At the entrance to this alley was a sign saying NO BICYCLES and further along a shed with a sign saying BICYCLE PARK. Those were the only distinctive features in Krauwelsteeg.

  They drove on, and passed the house where Meinarends used to live.

  ‘Look!’ cried Osewoudt. ‘That’s where Meinarends lived. There’s a life-size picture of a duck on the fanlight over the front door. See? I told you I wasn’t making it all up!’

  ‘If it had been a picture of Dorbeck over that door, we might be getting somewhere!’ said Spuybroek.

  Selderhorst, tight-lipped, was still braking sharply at the entrance to every lane and alley.

  He continued to do so even in Breestraat.

  ‘How about this alley, Osewoudt? Plaatsteeg, is it?’

  Now Spuybroek burst out with: ‘Look, it’s got a bend in it! Damn it, there’s a bend!’

  Spuybroek got out, pulling Osewoudt after him. Selderhorst also got out. People stopped and stared.

  They walked into the alley; Osewoudt kept his eyes on the ground. But the sides of Plaatsteeg were for the most part wooden fencing. There were no more than three front doors, and none had a porch.

  Selderhorst stood still, hitched up his trousers and took a deep breath.

  ‘Well! Now what do you want? Do you want us to go to Voorschoten and dig up that uniform of Dorbeck’s, or shall we skip that part? Eh? Shut your trap, don’t contradict me! Make up your mind, Osewoudt! Do you want us to go to Voorschoten, yes or no? But I’m warning you. If we go to Voorschoten and there’s nothing there, the uniform’s been eaten by maggots, or the whole back garden’s vanished into thin air, then I’ll see that you get a damn good hiding! I’d rather have you strung up on barbed wire than deal with any more of your nonsense! Understand?’

  ‘I understand. I want to go to Voorschoten.’

  The sun had stopped shining, great clouds were massing in the sky. The blue tram, the yellow tram – both were running again. Cows grazed in the fields.

  The car followed the route of the blue tram, one motor-cyclist in front, one behind. They passed the silver factory, and as they drove into Voorschoten it started to rain. At the point where the tramlines sidle towards each other until they overlap, the first motorcyclist turned right towards the police station.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be able to find your house, Osewoudt?’

  A blue tram approached from the opposite direction, sounding its whistle. Selderhorst steered the car close to the houses to avoid the tram.

  ‘The shop is at the other end of the high street,’ said Osewoudt tonelessly. ‘I’ll show you where it is.’

  After a minute he said: ‘Stop here.’

  They stopped right in front of the shop. Planks had been nailed across the door-pane and the display window had been bricked up with old bricks from a demolition site.

  The rain now poured down with almost supernatural force.

  Selderhorst made no move to get out. Now and then he glanced in the rear-view mirror. The motorcyclist who had gone to the police station returned. Close behind him came two policemen on ordinary bicycles. One had a spade tied to the frame.

  The policemen leaned their bicycles against the shop front. The one with the spade untied it from his bicycle, the other began to break down the door. Osewoudt recognised him. He got out of the car and said: ‘Officer, do you remember who I am?’

  ‘Certainly. You’re Osewoudt.’

  ‘Do you remember that evening – it was at the start of the German occupation – when you came to the shop? There was a thunderstorm, and it was raining as hard as this. You came to check up because the light was on and the blackout blind wasn’t down. Do you remember that? You had only just been posted here.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Didn’t you see someone leaving the shop?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Osewoudt now turned to Selderhorst and said: ‘That was the night Dorbeck brought me the pistol.’

  Selderhorst drew a cigarette from his pocket, tapped it on his thumbnail and put it between his lips. He kept his hand over the cigarette to shield it from the rain. The door opened. Selderhorst
was the first to enter.

  Inside, it was less dark than you would expect for a house with bricked-up windows. The shop had been entirely gutted. There were holes in the floor, the sliding doors were open, and most of the leaded glass had gone. So had the glass in the French windows opening from the back room on to the garden. The walls were stained with soot, there had obviously been a fire, but it could not have lasted long.

  The rainwater apparently collected on the flat roof and came straight down through the upper storey and out of a hole in the ceiling of the back room, in a gushing, clattering stream.

  Dodging the waterfall, they headed towards the back garden.

  The place was overrun with nettles and broom; it was beyond recognition.

  ‘Well,’ said Selderhorst, ‘I think I’ll wait inside. Tell them where to dig.’

  Osewoudt took two steps into the garden, halted, and pointed to his feet.

  ‘Here.’

  The policeman swiped his spade to clear the nettles, and began to dig. Osewoudt turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain and watched closely. Spuybroek lounged in the doorway with his thumbs in his belt.

  The soil was black and lumpy. The spade turned up a large bisected worm. Then a piece of newspaper.

  ‘There it is!’ Osewoudt cried. He bent down; the policeman stopped digging.

  Osewoudt squatted down and continued to dig, using his hands. The newspaper disintegrated into slimy shreds at his touch. In the end he managed to pull away a handkerchiefsized piece, which he held out to Selderhorst.

  Selderhorst took it and stepped outside. His shoulders darkened instantly in the rain. Both Osewoudt and the policeman were now squatting. The uniform emerged: tunic, breeches and boots. The fabric had gone completely black, and soft as a spider’s web, the insignia were rusty, and also the buttons had turned green. When they picked up the boots, the soles stayed behind in the mud.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Osewoudt. ‘Here it is: Dorbeck’s uniform. See the two pips on the collar? The crossed cannons? It’s the uniform of a first lieutenant in the artillery, just as I said. This is the uniform that belonged to Dorbeck. See for yourself. It’ll fit me, because Dorbeck and me were the same height.’

  He snatched the jacket from the policeman and held it to his chest to show that it was his size. But the fabric was so far gone that the garment fell away in rags, and they had trouble collecting the buttons, which had rolled away.

  This cell wasn’t really a cell. It was a good-sized space, if not high. It was half buried underground, so the only source of daylight was a double row of glass tiles just below the ceiling. An electric light covered with a griddle remained on all day. It wasn’t cold, because there were thick central heating pipes passing through it, but dank due to the absence of a window. An enamel bucket with a wooden lid stood in the corner.

  Things could be worse, Osewoudt thought. From time to time cries and groans sounded overhead, where a large number of political prisoners were being held. He was relieved to be on his own.

  It would not be long now, he told himself, before everything came out in the open, enough at any rate for them to let him go, regardless of whether Dorbeck ever showed his face again.

  He got up and took a newspaper from the small table, on which all his worldly possessions were gathered. The newspaper was much smaller than normal – no bigger than a pre-war weekly. He knew everything in it off by heart. On page three was his own picture, captioned:

  500-guilders reward for anyone able to provide information concerning the individual pictured above, going by the name of DORBECK, who was sighted repeatedly during the Occupation in various locales (Voorschoten, Amsterdam) passing himself off as an officer in the Dutch army.

  A description of the wanted man followed, along with a list of official addresses where such information could be handed in.

  A key turned in the lock, and Spuybroek stepped inside.

  ‘Still reading that newspaper? Well, you’d better come with me. Apparently somebody’s come forward at last with some information.’

  Osewoudt stood up and coughed.

  ‘Put a scarf on,’ said Spuybroek. ‘The wind’s blowing from the potato-meal factory.’

  Osewoudt pulled a faded but thick woollen scarf from the table and wound it around his neck.

  ‘Who is this person who’s come forward?’

  ‘An old man in a wheelchair. Spent a long time in a concentration camp.’

  Osewoudt followed Spuybroek out of the cell. They went past the central-heating furnaces, and then through another basement area filled with rusty machinery. The building was an old milk factory that had been shut down in the early days of the German occupation. They went up a flight of crumbling concrete steps and out through a small door.

  An expanse of cracked concrete sloped down to a canal. The water was fenced off with barbed wire. Across the water was the potato-meal factory, beside which rose a mountain of pale, rotting foam like beaten egg white, so poisonous that dumping it in the canal was prohibited. Black clouds hung low over the flat, bare countryside. It was raining steadily; the stone terrace was full of puddles.

  Osewoudt was racked with coughing again, and stood still. He cast a nervous eye over his surroundings.

  On the chimney of the factory the word COOPERATIVE was still legible in a column of faint white letters. Beyond the concrete yard there was a second expanse of concrete, divided from the first by a tall screen of barbed wire. A small factory producing flavouring extracts stood there. When the weather was fine there was usually a breeze from that direction, carrying the smell of vanilla.

  ‘I hope for your sake,’ said Spuybroek, ‘that we have a mild winter, otherwise you’ll have a hard time of it here in the peat-cutting district.’

  ‘I’ll be out by then, with any luck.’

  Osewoudt put away his handkerchief.

  ‘Where will you go when you’re free?’

  Osewoudt looked about him and saw the armed guards by the entrance, who had nothing better to do than follow his every move.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he replied softly. ‘I’ve no one left in the world.’

  They went into a building which, had it been surrounded by a garden, would have resembled a villa. Formerly home to the factory boss, it now served as the camp offices. Spuybroek handed a note to one of the Sten-wielding guards, and they went inside.

  Spuybroek knocked on a door, poked his head in, then beckoned Osewoudt.

  Osewoudt stepped inside. In the middle of the room stood a wheelchair, occupied by a man with long snowy hair. His head lolled on his chest; he seemed to be asleep. He wore a heavy black overcoat and had a rug tucked round his apparently lame legs. Beside him stood a woman, resting her hand on the back of the wheelchair. She wore a coat with a fur collar, and a nurse’s cap. She had purple, cracked cheeks and hard, beady eyes, like a hen. She eyed Osewoudt with scornful interest, then gave the old man’s shoulder a shake.

  ‘Mr Nauta, here he is.’

  ‘Uncle Bart! Is it really you?’

  Osewoudt moved up close to the wheelchair.

  The old man raised his head, but his chin stayed on his chest. White threads of saliva dripped on his coat, his pale tongue protruded over his bluish lower lip. He had a horrible scar at the left corner of his mouth.

  He focussed his eyes on Osewoudt and said something, but he was unintelligible.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Mr Nauta says he knows you.’

  Inspector Selderhorst now stood up, took his chair and pushed the seat against the back of Osewoudt’s knees.

  Once seated, Osewoudt was able to put his head close to his uncle’s, whose mouth emitted a vile smell, as if his entrails were rotting away.

  ‘Uncle Bart, I didn’t know you were still alive.’

  Uncle Bart nodded and again tried to say something, but his lips barely moved. His voice was altered beyond recognition; the sounds he produced were more like grunts than words. Osewo
udt had to strain to make out what he was saying.

  ‘Yes, everyone’s dead, but I’m still alive, Henri! I gave those Krauts a piece of my mind, so they tried to cut out my tongue. But I can still talk.’

  ‘Uncle Bart, do you remember that I came to your house one night with a girl called Elly Berkelbach Sprenkel?’

  ‘Yes, I remember that.’

  ‘Do you remember what I told you about her, later on?’

  ‘Henri, lad, I always knew you’d come to a bad end. I did everything I could for you.’

  Selderhorst, too, rested his hand on the back of the wheelchair and bent low towards Uncle Bart’s ear.

  ‘Mr Nauta, nothing has been proved against your nephew as yet. We just have a couple of things we want to put straight.’

  ‘I never knew what the girl’s name was. He came to me with a girl after he left his wife. That’s all I remember, what does it matter, anyway?’

  ‘Why were you arrested by the Germans?’

  ‘I had a row with a German in the street.’

  ‘Didn’t they ask you about the girl? Didn’t they want to know whether she had stayed in your house?’

  ‘No. Oh, Henri, that it should have come to this! You, in this place! Your poor mother’s dead. My poor daughter’s dead, too. Murdered – and no one knows who did it! What a terrible world I’ve been living in. But there’s a better world in store. I’m a socialist in every fibre of my being, I will never lose my faith in humanity. My sacrifice has not been in vain. Sacrifices are never in vain. The time will come when there will be no more war. Peace, liberty and prosperity for all men. We now have an excellent government. Before long, everybody will be receiving old-age pensions – an ideal that was regarded as a fantasy when I was young. In the longer term there will be family allowances for everybody, and that, too, is a very fine thing. We ought to pay more attention to the good things in this world. Oh, Henri, you who are still so young – that you should have thrown away your future like this!’

  ‘Mr Nauta!’ shouted Inspector Selderhorst. ‘Was he working for the Germans?’