The Darkroom of Damocles (29 page)

Osewoudt leaped up from his chair.

‘Where's Roorda? Where's Roorda? It was Dorbeck Roorda met, not me! It was
true
that I didn't recognise Roorda. It was the honest truth! I had never seen him before. But Roorda recognised me. Because it was Dorbeck Roorda had spoken to, it was Dorbeck!'

Malknecht looked straight ahead, saying nothing.

‘Right then,' said Selderhorst. ‘Tell him where Roorda is.'

‘Roorda was shot when he tried to escape.'

‘He's lying.'

‘Don't you believe that Roorda is dead?'

‘Yes, I can believe that he's dead. But not the rest, not what he said about how I got out of that hospital!'

‘There is no doubt about that,' said Malknecht. ‘But there is more. Wülfing believed Osewoudt had information, presumably because Ebernuss had given him that idea. Ebernuss and
Osewoudt became very pally later on. So it's likely that Osewoudt was in on it. Massing and Kolkgoot drove him from the hospital to Leiden, where he asked them to drop him in a suburb. Obviously they kept him in their sights, and Osewoudt went straight to Labare's house. That was how we knew where to strike. Next morning we not only had Osewoudt back, we also had his Jewish girlfriend, the Zettenbaum girl, as well as Labare, Suyling, and a teenage boy called Robert Meier, who was a half-Jew.'

Osewoudt was now shaking on his chair. He could hear the soles of his shoes tapping the floor. He clamped his right hand on his left, but was unable to stop his limbs from trembling.

‘Surely you don't believe,' he moaned, ‘that I could have shopped my girlfriend just to do Ebernuss a favour?'

‘Well, Malknecht?'

‘I can't say. I don't know what promises Ebernuss might have made to him. They were very close in the end. Maybe Ebernuss said: if you do this for me, then I'll make sure you get through. And he did, as you see.' Malknecht pointed to Osewoudt. ‘By the spring of 1945 Ebernuss had had it up to here with the war. He'd lost all hope. He said as much on various occasions. One day he was gone, on 5 April, that was. Deserted. Took Osewoudt with him, too.'

‘Is that true, Osewoudt?'

‘Partly true. Ebernuss asked me to put him in touch with Dorbeck.'

‘So Ebernuss was aware of Dorbeck's existence?'

‘He had found out. He was bound to find out! I'd already been in prison for months! Dorbeck was not in prison. In the course of his enquiries, Ebernuss must have come across descriptions of someone who looked like me. Maybe Roorda started having doubts, too, later on. Maybe Ebernuss realised that the picture they circulated with my name attached was
not a picture of me. Because when I was arrested my hair was dyed black, and the man in the photograph had dark hair, but after I'd been in prison for a bit it obviously became clear that I was actually fair-haired.'

‘What happened to Ebernuss?'

‘He's dead. I poisoned him. I poisoned him myself! He took me to Amsterdam in his car, to a house at Lijnbaansgracht, which he knew certain people were using as a meeting place. He did say something about deserting, but I didn't take him seriously. We were allowed in, because I knew the tenant – Moorlag. Ebernuss sat down, drinks of genever were passed round. I went to the kitchen and found Dorbeck there. He gave me the poison in a Rizla packet, and told me to put it in Ebernuss' drink. So I did. Afterwards Dorbeck took Ebernuss' car and drove me to a house in Bernard Kochstraat. That's when he gave me the nurse's outfit. He took my own clothes away as he was afraid I'd refuse to wear the disguise, and he feared for my safety. He said he'd come back later to take me through the lines to the liberated zone, but he never turned up. That was the last time I saw him. He just sent a note saying my girlfriend was in labour at the Emma Clinic.'

‘Not that old story again,' said Selderhorst.

‘If Marianne were still alive, she could confirm all this.'

‘She is still alive.'

‘Where is she, then? Why don't you track her down?'

‘She's gone to Palestine. She's in a kibbutz.'

‘In a what?'

‘In a kibbutz! Don't you know what a kibbutz is? Do you or don't you? A kibbutz is a farm surrounded by trenches and barbed wire, and around that a horde of Arabs armed to the teeth. How do you expect us to get her out of her kibbutz and answer questions?'

‘What about Moorlag? Where's Moorlag?'

‘Moorlag's body was found back in May, in Spiegelstraat. Shot through the heart. D'you know, Osewoudt, I'm not so sure you're telling the truth about poisoning Ebernuss!'

‘What did you say? Is Moorlag dead? But then that means everyone who ever knew Dorbeck is dead!'

‘Precisely! They're all dead, and you're the only one who's still alive.'

‘How dare you make insinuations like that! One day you'll be ashamed you ever detained me. Someone like Dorbeck, who did so much, who went all over throughout the war, here and in England, who met hundreds of people – someone like that can't just vanish without trace. That's not what I'm worried about. But to suggest I connived in my own so-called rescue from that hospital is ridiculous. If I had, why would I have tried to escape that night when they surrounded the house and arrested Labare? I fled down the street half naked. They fired at me with machine guns. I jumped into the canal and swam to the other side. I ran to a house and rang the bell, but it was too late – the Germans had followed my wet footprints.'

‘Perhaps you were doing it all just for show, and that's why you weren't hit. They were obviously firing over your head!'

‘For show? Go and ask the people whose bell I rang, they'll tell you what sort of state I was in! Why don't you go and ask them?'

‘Good idea. What street did they live in? What was the number of the house?'

‘I didn't notice the name of the street. I wasn't familiar with that part of Leiden. It was a street with a bend, like a crescent. I'd be able to find the house easily enough if I were back in the neighbourhood. It was a house with a porch.'

The next morning at about eleven he was taken from his cell and shoved into a waiting car.

He had to sit in the back, next to Spuybroek. Osewoudt was not handcuffed; he had been given a clean shirt and even a tie. Only Spuybroek was in uniform. Selderhorst was at the wheel, in his shabby grey suit. If it hadn't been for the escort of two helmeted and armed outriders, they might have been going for a jaunt.

Even the sun was shining when they arrived in Leiden three hours later.

‘Why are you grinning?' asked Spuybroek.

Spuybroek was a young MP, roughly the same age as Osewoudt.

Osewoudt said: ‘Because this is my first look at the fatherland since the liberation. See that? The funny little old tram's still running, with the same old sign on the front saying OEGst-GEEst with the same old variation in type size. No change there.'

He looked left and right.

‘Turn left here!' he cried. ‘Don't go over the bridge!'

The motorcyclists were already halfway across the bridge. Selderhorst braked and hooted twice. Then he turned left past Dingjan's Steam Laundry, and drove up Zoeterwoudsesingel.

‘Labare's house is exactly on the first bend to the right,' said Osewoudt.

The motorcyclists caught up again and overtook them.

‘There, on the corner, that's it!'

Selderhorst sounded the horn again and then parked by the canal, under a tree. The motorcyclists swerved round on the asphalt and stopped, one in front of the car and one behind. They remained astride their vehicles with the engines running.

Selderhorst got out, followed by Spuybroek and Osewoudt.

Osewoudt raised his clenched fists and stretched his arms, taking deep breaths.

‘Watch out,' Selderhorst said. ‘He knows judo.'

Spuybroek said: ‘Really? So do I.'

‘You too?'

Osewoudt and Spuybroek stood facing each other. Spuybroek was more than a head taller than Osewoudt. They bowed, made feints, then grabbed each other's hands and pushed, their arms quivering with exertion. Osewoudt's forehead was covered with sweat, but the tension in his arms snapped. Spuybroek pulled him over his hip, swung him through the air like a lasso and laid him carefully on the road.

‘Have you two finished?' Selderhorst said.

Osewoudt scrambled to his feet, gasping and coughing. He wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

‘I'm out of practice,' he said. ‘Besides, my feet hurt. In the old days I had my shoes made to measure.'

Selderhorst surveyed Labare's former home from top to bottom. It had been converted into some sort of office; there were no curtains over the bay windows. An array of drawing boards could be seen on the first floor.

‘Ah,' said Selderhorst, ‘so you were in better form back then, when you dealt with that German, eh?'

‘I gave him a hip throw and lobbed him over the railing. Their van was parked right here, and I crept behind it and then dashed across, in that direction …' Osewoudt demonstrated
his moves. He crossed the road from the house towards the canal. He pointed to the grass sloping down to the water and the clump of rhododendrons on the bank.

‘I went into the water just past those rhododendrons.'

‘But this is the widest part of the canal,' said Selderhorst, staring at the tall weeping willows on the other side.

‘I didn't swim across, the water wasn't deep enough.'

‘Right. So when you got to the other side you climbed up on to the road again?'

‘Yes, and then I went through the park. I'm not sure which way, because it was dark. There were bits falling from the trees, brought down by bullets.'

‘Right. I suppose the street where you rang that doorbell must be over there, beyond all those trees?'

‘Yes, a fairly narrow street with a bend. I don't know what it was called. I don't know this part of town very well.'

‘Let's go and take a look. See if we can find your street.'

Selderhorst held the passenger door open, the motorcyclists revved their engines and put them in gear.

‘Which way do we go?' Selderhorst asked. ‘This way or that way?'

‘The two bridges are equally far, which was lucky for me as it meant that the Germans had to make quite a long detour. If those people hadn't held me up, I'd have got away.'

They were now driving on the other side, which was called Plantage for part of the way, and then Plantsoen.

‘Here, all these trees – is this the park you ran across?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's quite a distance from the canal to the houses. Where's that street of yours? I don't see any street. Here, directly opposite Labare's house, there's no side street at all!'

They drove past the stately old houses with large front gardens. No spaces between them, not a single side street.

‘No sign of your street,' said Selderhorst. ‘You ran a pretty long way in your bare feet, I must say. Was it here by any chance?'

He braked.

Osewoudt looked out. The street was called Rijnstraat. It was straight, and led to a bridge.

‘No, this can't be it. It was a street with a bend, and I didn't see a bridge at the end of it either.'

Selderhorst put in the clutch.

‘When people get jittery they run faster than they realise,' said Osewoudt.

‘How about this street, then? It's called Kraayerstraat.'

‘No! Damn it, this one's straight, too, and it has a bridge at the end of it like the other one! They're all the same!'

They turned around and drove all the way back along Plantage.

‘What about this one?'

Selderhorst didn't bother to stop the car, but slowed and turned into the street. The two motorcyclists buzzed about them like giant bumble bees.

‘This one's called Levendaal. Was it here?'

It was a straight thoroughfare and so wide that it must once have had a canal running down the middle. On one side stood a row of small houses with stepped gables, hundreds of years old, on the other side were factories.

‘Not this one either, eh?' said Selderhorst. He accelerated, turned right into Rijnstraat, where they had already been, and thus they came to Hoge Woerd.

‘This it, then?'

‘No, this is Hoge Woerd. This is where Meinarends used to live, a tram runs down it. I'd have known this street by the tramlines, even at night. It was a different street, one with a bend, and the house was a house with a porch.'

‘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.'