The Darkroom of Damocles (33 page)

The new matron, Sister Kruisheer, was a gaunt woman in her fifties with a clearly visible blonde moustache.

She bent over the hospital bed, removed the thermometer from Osewoudt's mouth, and said: ‘Thirty-eight point nine. Lucky you. Thirty-eight point five and you'd have had to go.'

With her left hand she held a tray with medicine bottles and glasses. She added the thermometer to the others in a tumbler of sublimate solution. Then she took from her tray a tin dish containing a Gillette razor and a dab of shaving cream, and said: ‘Time for a shave.'

‘I don't need a shave.'

‘Nonsense.'

‘I don't have a beard. Want to feel?'

She gave him a wide-eyed stare, and slowly removed the tin dish. ‘Lucky you,' she said, with a mean smile.

Bleak morning light filled the ward, which had walls of pale blue distemper covered in stains and blisters from the damp. There were no windows, but the roof consisted of double-pitched toughened glass. This had originally been the bottle-rinsing room. Taps for hot and cold water abounded, even in the most unexpected places, hence its conversion into a sick bay. Not only were there taps on the walls, there were pipes running down the middle of the space upon which more taps were mounted, some dripping and others constantly emitting puffs of steam.

The patients lay in metal beds. The majority were malingerers.
Whenever one addressed Osewoudt, he shouted: ‘Shut your trap, you dirty traitor!'

The uproar that ensued could only be calmed by the guards going down the aisle between the beds, lashing out left and right with rubber truncheons. Osewoudt was not spared, of course, but to him it was worth it.

Thirty-eight point nine, thought Osewoudt, four tenths too many. What could he do to make the fever go down, so that he would be sent back to his own room in the basement?

He felt his damp sheets, sniffed the smell of engine oil that came from the steam, looked up at the dingy glass ceiling and thought: I'll never get better here. His cheeks bulged suddenly, he threw himself over on his side, writhing with pain, and tried to smother the cough in his pillow, but his lungs felt as if they were bursting, and his chest muscles contracted in rib-cracking convulsions.

‘Hello Henri Osewoudt!'

He turned over on his back and looked up.

An elderly gentleman stood at his bedside. In his pale, liver-spotted hand he held a black trilby. His large head hung forwards at an angle, forced into this position by a sickly red swelling on his throat.

‘I am Dr Lichtenau. You don't know me any more, but I still know you. A lot has happened since then, but I still recognise you very well.'

Sister Kruisheer came up with a chair and Dr Lichtenau sat down. He laid his hat on his knees.

‘I am the psychiatrist who treated your mother when she was in the institution. I remember you used to come and visit her, with your uncle.'

‘Really?'

‘Indeed I do! I asked you: what do you want to be when you grow up? and you said: a nurse!'

‘Did I say that?'

‘Yes. You were about five years old at the time. You haven't changed very much, really. Your father was still alive then.'

Dr Lichtenau stared into space and shook his head.

‘Did you treat my mother again later, when she went back to the institution after that business with my father?'

‘At first, yes. The murder of your father did not in fact shed any fresh light on the diagnosis. She herself did not feel responsible for what she did; that was nothing new. There was a voice, a “something”, an “it”, telling her what to do.'

Dr Lichtenau made two small gestures, as though seeking to portray the ‘something' and the ‘it' while indicating that he did not believe in their existence. ‘She would sometimes disguise herself, tear a strip off a sheet and tie it over her face like a mask, and say: there it is again, I'll just chase it away.'

He looked intently at Osewoudt; he had watery blue eyes with sagging lower lids, and seemed to be wondering if his simple résumé had sunk in.

‘She used to do that later on, too,' said Osewoudt.

‘Indeed. That was her peculiarity – that she did things at the behest of some external agent. She did not like this, it frightened her. So she would try to chase the “something” or the “it” away. Clearly, she did not always succeed.'

‘I suppose you heard about the Krauts finishing her off, Doctor?'

‘Yes, Henri. Yet she was not incurably insane. She was a perfectly normal woman as long as she did not feel threatened by the “it”. But tell me, you must have been very fond of your mother, no?'

‘Need you ask? The only way I could take care of her was by moving into the flat over the tobacco shop and running the business. I was only doing it for her.'

‘Then why did you put her at such risk by getting involved in underground operations?'

‘I wouldn't … If I'd never met Dorbeck …'

‘This Dorbeck business, do you believe in it yourself?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Do you really believe that Dorbeck existed, that you met him several times, and that he gave you all sorts of assignments? Look here, Henri, please don't interrupt! I don't mean that you're not well in the mind, not by any means! But the war has been a time of enormous strain for all of us. It could be that in periods of great fatigue you came to believe that Dorbeck existed, that he telephoned you, sent you messages on the back of photographs, and so on and so forth. Come now, Henri, we who both knew your mother so well need have no secrets from each other. What I'm saying is that we all have our moments of weakness. You don't believe in Dorbeck yourself, if you ask me! There were times when you did believe in him, such as when you were suffering from mental exhaustion, but you don't believe in him any more. You are only sticking to your story because you are in a tight corner. What do you hope to achieve by that? The judiciary have obliged you in all sorts of ways. Tons of paper have been used up on your case – and that at a time when paper is in such short supply. The files keep piling up. The search for Dorbeck has extended to every country in the world, every person who might have met him at one time or another has been questioned, but he is nowhere to be found. If the authorities had not gone to such lengths to trace him, they would never have called me in. It is only because they have been scrutinising your entire past as well as your family's that they found me. No, don't contradict me, Henri, let me finish. The brief for your case is now as good as complete. It won't be long now before you are brought before the judge. What course will
you pursue then? Saying you knew that Dorbeck didn't exist won't help, because you will not only be held responsible for everything, but the judges will also be greatly annoyed with you for having misled the police inquiry for months on end. Let me give you some advice: from now on, say as little as possible. Stop contradicting them, just let them get on with it. Remain silent in court. I shall draw up a report for the judges saying it was all a delusion in your mind, a hallucination. I shall say that you yourself were convinced Dorbeck existed. Dorbeck was simply the personification of certain inclinations embedded in your own soul. I shall say that this in fact reveals moral instincts on your part, in that you could not tolerate being responsible for your criminal inclinations, so you stepped outside of yourself, so to speak, by attributing them to Dorbeck.'

‘So you want to declare me of unsound mind?'

‘It's not me declaring you of unsound mind! It's you, by placing all the blame on Dorbeck, by saying that Dorbeck was behind it all. It's not me saying that, not the prosecution, it's you. If Dorbeck is indeed responsible, the only logical conclusion is that you are not.'

‘No! No! No! I was obeying Dorbeck's orders, but the fact that I obeyed him does not mean I'm of unsound mind! You're confusing the issue!'

‘What do you expect, if Dorbeck doesn't exist? He is a figment of your imagination. You invented him – not deliberately, of course, you had no choice. That is what I am talking about: your invention of Dorbeck was involuntary, the will did not come into it. That is why your case qualifies for a plea of, no, not insanity – of diminished responsibility.'

Osewoudt was seized with another coughing fit, and when it subsided he sat up straight, so that his head was almost level with the doctor's. In a voice that could only whisper, he said:
‘Doctor, don't listen to a bunch of lazy coppers who are too stupid to find Dorbeck. Don't believe what they say about Dorbeck never having existed. I gave them proof. I showed them where his uniform was buried in my back garden, and they dug it up.'

‘What does digging up a uniform prove? It wasn't a uniform marked with Dorbeck's name, was it?'

‘Who else could it have belonged to? I always said Dorbeck and I were as twins, we were exactly the same height. And the uniform they dug up in my back garden was exactly my size. What more do they want?'

‘How do you know the uniform was your size? Did you try it on?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘It had decomposed in the soggy earth. It fell apart at the touch. But it was clearly the right size.'

‘What is the value of a piece of evidence that falls apart at the first touch? Of course I knew about the uniform. I went though all the documents pertaining to your case before I came to see you. Look at my throat: swollen from all that reading. I have all the details. There is nothing left of that uniform of Dorbeck's, just the brass buttons, green with mould.'

‘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”.'