The Darkroom of Damocles (22 page)

He thought it over. Day in, day out he thought it over. Evidently they wanted to give him ample time to think it over, because Ebernuss did not send for him again. Could they be waiting for him to ask one of the guards to tell Ebernuss he'd thought it over and had agreed to do it …? Was that their way of getting him to collude of his own free will, so to speak, so that they could take it a step further and say: look here, you said you'd cooperate, you agreed to get us into that attic Dorbeck visits from time to time … so what's the difference if you lure him away under some pretext and play him into our hands?

The prison was overcrowded, most of the inmates were five or six to a cell meant for two, but he was left alone, no company for him. The cell next to his was usually vacant, too. His was situated at the corner of the building, so there was only an exterior wall on the other side.

What would be the best course for him to take? If he refused to do as Ebernuss asked it would certainly be the end of Marianne. But if he agreed to do as Ebernuss asked Marianne might survive the war, and even if it looked as if he was in league with the Germans, the chances of Dorbeck being fooled were negligible. Dorbeck! He'd tip him a wink and Dorbeck would see through it all at once. What was the risk for Dorbeck? None at all. They'd sort it, one way or another!

One week of solitary confinement was enough for Osewoudt to make up his mind, but no one came to enquire.

A month later he thought: maybe they've managed to get hold of Dorbeck some other way. In which case they don't need me any more, I'm of no further use to them, so they won't be doing me any favours to have me cooperate. Marianne's been deported to Germany. She may well be dead. Everybody's dead, except me. It might even be an act of kindness on Ebernuss' part to keep me here and leave me alone. Once the war's ended I'll be released anyway. I may even receive an honour.

He could already picture himself behind the counter of his tobacco shop with a ribbon on his lapel. The window would be filled with cigarettes, cigars, shag and pipe tobacco. The best brands. All imported from America and the Indies. Yes, sir, all available again!

His clientele would expand by leaps and bounds. Everyone would want to buy cigars and cigarettes from the decorated Resistance hero. Suppose he had the shop refurbished and came up with another name for it? ‘The Underground Tobacconist'? No. ‘Cigar Emporium “Loyal Through the Ages”'. That was more like it.

The cash register would ring out. But for whom? Not for his mother, at any rate. For Ria? He leaped up and hammered the wall with his fists. Never, never, never.

What would it be like without Marianne, without Dorbeck, without Labare, without Meinarends, without Moorlag? No one would need him any more, everyone would go their own way. Maybe somebody would drop by every six months or so, to have a cigar and reminisce about the bad old days of the war. But even that would peter out over the years. What would he be? A nobody stuck behind the counter of a tobacco shop, a beardless youth in the clutches of a washed-out wife who
helps herself to the till without asking. The glamour of his decoration would fade, and the new-found patrons would go back to their old suppliers. His unprepossessing appearance would not favour making conquests of any kind.

Ebernuss came to deliver the letter in person.

Osewoudt folded the letter, stuffed it in his trouser pocket and lay down on his bunk.

Ebernuss offered him a ham roll.

‘You are fully aware of how things stand, I hope, Osewoudt. We, for our part, have kept our side of the bargain rather splendidly. The mother-to-be lacks for nothing. Everything hunky-dory. But it'll be over in an instant if you don't keep your promise to me.'

Sitting beside Ebernuss in the car to Amsterdam, he couldn't believe his eyes. It was pitch-dark, and theirs was the only car on the road. It was as if the population had died out during his captivity. Even when they drove into the city he saw nobody in the streets.

‘Is the food shortage that bad?'

‘Food shortage!' echoed Ebernuss. ‘Our soldiers are going short, too. They don't get more than five cigarettes a week.'

‘So why aren't there any people about? It's still early, after all.'

‘It is not early. It is close to nine o'clock, and by eight everybody has to be off the streets.'

They stopped at a junction, not to look out for other traffic, but because Ebernuss was not sure which direction to take. Now and then a heavy droning sounded in the sky.

‘I don't see any searchlights,' said Osewoudt. ‘What's up with them?'

‘Searchlights aren't used any more. The latest thing is radar; invisible rays on long wavelengths. But whether those invisible rays allow us to see our enemies is doubtful. We never shoot any down nowadays.'

‘Excellent,' said Osewoudt, ‘then the war will be over all the sooner.'

‘Quite. The sooner the better. What are your plans for after the war, supposing I get you through it alive?'

‘I'll join the American intelligence service in Germany.'

‘Very funny. What with our having spent so much time together, I've grown rather fond of you, Osewoudt. We must remain friends. When the Americans arrive, let's not say goodbye for ever. I have no one left in the world, just like you.'

‘So you said.'

‘It strikes me that you never call me by my first name. I would like to hear my name from your lips. No one ever calls me Waldemar now.'

Osewoudt made no reply.

‘What you should have said,' Ebernuss went on, ‘what you should have said is: you never call me by my first name either. To which I would have replied: I like your first name, but your surname's better. Besides, I'd rather not use your first name, because I realise there must have been plenty of people close to you calling you Henri. I wouldn't want to be forward.'

‘It's over the way,' Osewoudt said, pointing. ‘The odd numbers are on this side of the canal.'

Ebernuss braked, reversed down Ziezeniskade, then turned to cross the bridge. Slowly they jolted over the potholed Lijnbaansgracht.

‘Did your mother call you Henri?'

‘Yes, my mother called me Henri, but I'd rather not talk about her.'

‘I thought you'd be glad of a chance to talk about your mother. It must be ages since you had an opportunity to talk about her with anyone.'

‘I don't talk about her, even when there's an opportunity.'

‘You must have loved her very much. A mother who murders the father – the consummate mother! Why would a woman need a man if she has a son? It's the same with bees: after inseminating the female, the male dies. I have a confession to make. I went to far greater lengths to save your mother than the Jewish girl. But it was too late. She had already committed suicide in prison. Had I been able to save your mother, I wouldn't have lifted a finger for the little Jewess. Not even to wring a promise from you, or to make you cooperate.'

Osewoudt leaned forward. They were at the corner of Spiegelgracht. Ebernuss stopped the car and switched on a spotlight. He beamed it on a house number and said: ‘It would have been far better for you if I'd been able to save your mother instead of that girl.'

‘The address is five numbers further on,' said Osewoudt. ‘May I suggest you park by the entrance?'

Ebernuss laid his hand on Osewoudt's knee. He looked straight ahead, keeping the spotlight on the house number.

‘You're not even listening to what I'm saying. Pity. I repeat: we are both alone in the world, and once the war's over there won't be a place in it for us. Not for either of us, do you hear? Not for me, but not for you either. I won't go into details, but remember this: in times to come, you'll have cause to think of
me. If we leave each other in the lurch, neither of us will last long. Suppose the Americans get here next week – they're a hundred kilometres past the Rhine already, and the Canadians are advancing in the east. It's April now. I won't make it to the end of the year. But nor will you. You mark my words, and I don't need to read any tea leaves to make my prediction: you will have cause to think of me!'

‘Christ, I wish you'd get a move on. What do you want to do with the car? Leave it here?'

Ebernuss switched off the spotlight, put the car in gear and drove up Spiegelgracht. He parked under a tree along the canal and they got out.

It was a small DKW with a sputtering engine which still ran on proper fuel, not on gas or wood. It was black and yellow, and had a Dutch registration number. There was nothing about it to suggest that it belonged to the German police.

Osewoudt stared up at the dark sky while Ebernuss locked the car. The drone of the invisible bombers now grew deaf-eningly loud, like a circular saw of gigantic proportions being drawn across the city.

‘Here, take this,' said Ebernuss, grasping Osewoudt's hand. Osewoudt felt the chill of metal against his palm, and lowered his eyes.

‘Your Leica. Put it away, or just hold it in your hand, as you like. There's a new film in it. If it had been up to me you'd have had your pistol back too. But there you are – not everything is up to me.'

‘What is it you really want?' asked Osewoudt.

‘I want out, Osewoudt. I wish you'd believe me. I've had enough. The war's over as far as I'm concerned. I regret everything I did for the German intelligence service. You think I have a hold over you, but in reality it's you who have a hold over me. You're the ones with power now, not us.'

‘In that case, why don't you get in your car and drive back to The Hague or wherever you like. Just let me go. Leave me alone. After the war I'll see what my friends can do for you.'

‘Letting you go wouldn't be enough. There's much more I want to make up for. Your case is nothing compared to everything else I have on my conscience.'

‘Fine, but let's discuss that some other time.'

‘No! No! It has to be now! There's something very important that you don't know. Do as I say: introduce me to those people, get them to fix me up with a hideout. You'll be sorry if you don't.'

‘Is that a threat?'

‘Why don't you trust me? Here! Take the car key.'

Osewoudt took the key and pocketed it.

‘Why are you so cagey about taking me inside?' Ebernuss went on. ‘You can tell them everything you know about me. I mean it! Do you hate me so much that you'd rather see me dead, along with the rest of Hitler's gang? What have I done to deserve that? I've always been decent to you, haven't I? I did everything I possibly could for you. I had them release your pregnant girlfriend from that camp. I never raised my hand against you.'

Osewoudt said nothing. He cradled the Leica to his chest as if it were a small pet he had just saved from imminent death.

‘It's not only about me, you know,' Ebernuss persisted, pinching Osewoudt's sleeve between thumb and forefinger. ‘Truly Osewoudt, it's of vital importance to you as well. You'll understand that later.'

‘If it's so important, why won't you tell me now?'

‘What good would that do? It's not
you
who needs to know, it's
them
. Not you, them. I wish you would believe me, Osewoudt.'

‘I haven't any cigarettes on me,' said Osewoudt. ‘Give me another of yours, will you?'

Ebernuss stood still, fumbled in his trouser pocket, and offered Osewoudt a cigarette.

‘Why won't you believe me? The way things stand now, with everything falling apart – do you really think it makes sense for me to go on collecting evidence against you? Why do you imagine I still care about tracking down your Mr Dorbeck? He may or may not exist, you may or may not have a double, and I may or may not have accused you of acts perpetrated by him, but do you really think I care? Let the committees doling out medals after the war sort that out! Let them rack their brains as to whether Dorbeck exists or not, and if he does, then let them decide who the hero is, Dorbeck or Osewoudt – or both, for all I care!'

Osewoudt crossed to the pavement, followed by Ebernuss, who struck a match and gave him a light.

‘I'm putting all my cards on the table,' said Ebernuss. ‘All I'm doing is trying to save my own skin.'

They came to a house with a flight of five steps set into a wide porch. There were three front doors. Ebernuss pulled a string dangling from the letter box of the middle door.

The door opened. They entered a narrow hallway leading to a steep flight of stairs.

At the top of the stairs stood a figure holding a candle.

‘Moorlag, is he here?' Osewoudt called out.

‘Yes he is. What do you want?'

‘I'm Osewoudt! I need to speak to Moorlag!'

He started up the stairs, leaving Ebernuss in the hallway. As he climbed, his view of the man at the top of the stairs improved.

‘Moorlag, is that you?'

‘Yes.'

Osewoudt now bounded up the stairs two at a time.

‘Jesus, it's ages since we last saw each other.'

Osewoudt tried to laugh, without success.

‘Yes, Henri, it's been ages. The last time was at Meinarends', I remember it well.'

‘So do I,' said Osewoudt. ‘Any news of Meinarends?'

‘Yes. He's dead.'

‘Really? Dropping like flies, we are.'

Osewoudt now stood face to face with Moorlag. Moorlag was holding the candle in his right hand, his left hand in his trouser pocket. He evidently had no intention to shake hands, so Osewoudt folded his arms over his chest, Leica in one hand, cigarette in the other. The aspiring theologian's appearance had altered considerably. He wore glasses with a heavy black frame, and had sprouted a large, frizzy moustache. He wore a thick jumper of lumpy, undyed homespun wool, with a tight collar rolled up to his chin. Osewoudt drew on his cigarette and cast an eye over the space. The stairs ended abruptly in the floor of an attic. A few small tables and wooden benches stood about. Sitting around one of the tables were several figures, whose faces were lit by a small, shadeless paraffin lamp in the middle.

Moorlag stood where he was.

‘You're the last person I expected to see,' Osewoudt said. ‘I thought you'd be sitting out the war in Nieuw-Buinen.'

‘Oh.'

‘You can't imagine what I've been through. Aren't you surprised to see me?'

‘I heard about you. People talk. I thought you'd turn up at some point.'

Who had talked about him? Osewoudt eyed the group at the table: three young men and two girls, none of whom he had seen before. There were two piles of books on the table in front of them.

‘Look here, I've got someone with me. He's waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Can he come up?'

‘What does he want?'

‘He has something to say to someone here, or who'll be here soon.'

‘Who?'

‘Dorbeck.'

It was so cold that his breath was distinctly visible in the candlelight.

‘Dorbeck? Never heard of him.'

‘Never heard of him? Can't you remember that time in Voorschoten? I'm sure I told you about Dorbeck back then. He asked me to develop some photographs, which I later got back one by one. You know, the army officer who looked so much like me!'

‘I don't remember.'

‘But you must remember the evening I went to Amsterdam with that girl who'd just arrived from England. Elly Berkelbach Sprenkel. She had real silver guilders and an ID card you could tell at a glance was fake. Called herself Sprenkelbach Meijer. An inconspicuous alias! I rang you up. It was the night the Krauts arrested my mother and Ria. You were at the station in The Hague next morning, waiting for me!'