‘That friend of yours with the connections, any chance he could get me a new ID card?’
‘Of course, that’s what I had in mind.’
‘I also need another one for that girl I told you about.’
At Bezuidenhoutseweg they boarded the tram to Leiden.
Osewoudt sat by the window with his hand shielding his eyes to ease the headache, and also to raise the glasses slightly, so that he could look out from underneath.
Squalid, run-down tenements along Schenkweg. Prim, middle class free-standing houses on Laan van Nieuw Oost-Indië. Stretches of sodden grassland. Beyond that the railway track, on which an electric train was racing against the tram. Voorburg. The small white station. Further back, to one side, was where I first saw her, in her white raincoat, a rolled-up newspaper in her hand.
Stop. Conductors get off. New conductors get on. A low whistling sound. Under the floor of the tram an electric pressure pump begins to throb angrily.
The tram gathers speed. Shade: the Leidschendam viaduct. On the horizon three windmills in a row. Shimmering glasshouses.
He felt the sweat beading on his brow; the leather hatband on the inside was beginning to smell.
Voorschoten. The tram slowed down as it rolled into the street where he lived.
He was now covering his face almost entirely with his hand, but his eyes bored holes between his fingers.
EUREKA CIGARS AND CIGARETTES. He kept his eyes on the shop as they went past. No German car outside, no crowd. Not a soul. The blind over the door had been fully lowered, but the blind over the shop window had caught on one side and hung down lopsidedly like a half-open fan. That’s how the blinds hang in houses whose occupants have left in a hurry: from the street there is nothing much to see. You ask yourself why they didn’t at least lower their blinds properly before they went. But the neighbours know that the back of the house has been torched and that only time will tell how long the front will stay up.
At a white stuccoed house on Hoge Woerd, Moorlag rang the bell. The fanlight was decorated with a realistic, life-size painting of a white duck. Osewoudt took off the glasses and rubbed his eyes. Moorlag noted this.
‘Let me have my glasses back, all right?’ he said.
A young man in a long grey dressing gown let them in. He was short with a domed forehead under a shock of curly fair hair.
‘Hello, Moorlag, my landlady’s out, or it wouldn’t have been me answering the door.’
‘Stands to reason,’ said Moorlag, in a tone that was new to Osewoudt. ‘May I introduce you to Mr van Druten?’
Osewoudt held out his hand.
The young man took it.
‘Meinarends is the name. It is a great honour to meet you, but are you by any chance keeping something under your hat?’
Meinarends kept his left eye screwed up, thereby raising the left corner of his mouth.
‘I beg your pardon, I’m not very well,’ said Osewoudt, stepping into the hallway. Only then did he remove his hat.
Moorlag pushed the front door to.
‘Don’t tease, Frits. He’s had a terrible shock. The Germans are after him. His wife and mother were taken away by the Gestapo this morning.’
‘Well, well. Then I suppose this gentleman would like a new ID card?’ said Meinarends.
Moorlag tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good thinking, my friend, but there’s more to it than that. I’ve had quite a shock too. I’ve lost my digs. But if you go back to your parents in Deventer, I’d be able to move in here.’
‘I can’t leave now,’ said Meinarends as they went up a flight of stairs. ‘I’m far too busy. Have you matriculated, by any chance? Is that why you’re so keen on living in Leiden?’
They both laughed heartily. Osewoudt began to feel left out. These were students, the pair of them, for Moorlag also counted as a student, in spite of not yet having matriculated nor living in Leiden. And what am I? A tobacconist.
He took a packet of Gold Flake from his pocket and said: ‘Care for a smoke, Mr Meinarends? A real English cigarette. Do have one, I run a tobacco shop, you see.’
Meinarends took a cigarette without looking at the brand, and put it between his lips. They went into a room with half a metre of books neatly lined up on a shelf. The room was clean and tidy, except for a large table by the window, on which lay various small implements which Osewoudt could not identify.
They sat down.
Meinarends struck a match and said, ‘You must understand, Mr van Druten, the university has been closed down by the Germans. I have no business here any more, strictly speaking. Which is why our theologian here is after my room. But first he ought to matriculate, in my opinion.’
Osewoudt twisted the hat in his hands, felt himself redden, put the hat down on the floor, but couldn’t think of an answer.
‘How long would it take, an ID card?’ Moorlag asked.
‘Not very long.’
‘I need two. Apparently there’s something wrong with the watermark on this one,’ said Osewoudt, producing Elly’s identity card. ‘And I also need one for myself.’
Meinarends unfolded Elly’s identity card, gave it a cursory look, then said: ‘Made in England.’
He put it in his pocket.
Osewoudt said: ‘The photo and the name don’t need changing, but on mine the name has to be different, as well as the date of birth and everything else.’
‘Occupation, too. How about police detective? You’ve got the right kind of face for that. A German name? Or isn’t your German up to scratch? A German name is safer.’
‘Not a German name,’ said Osewoudt, drawing his feet under his chair. ‘I have something for you in return.’
He felt in his inside pocket, took what he judged to be half of Elly’s ration coupons between thumb and forefinger, and gave them to Meinarends.
Screwing up both his eyes now, Meinarends studied them through a magnifying glass and said: ‘These coupons are remarkably good fakes, I must say. Pity they were declared invalid just an hour ago. Haven’t you been listening to the radio? Don’t you know what’s going on?’
‘We’ve been on the go all day,’ said Moorlag. ‘How could we have listened to the radio? We’ve been running around like refugees, no home, no nothing, haven’t eaten all day either. Couldn’t you find us a couple of sandwiches?’
Meinarends and Moorlag left the room at about five, saying they would be back in a quarter of an hour.
Osewoudt stood up as soon as he heard the front door slam. He went over to the table and examined the array of implements. He had worked out what they were for, but not how they were used. I’m no good at this underground stuff, he thought, I’ve got the face of a home-grown Nazi working as a detective for the Germans. Then he lifted the telephone from the hook, dialled the code for Amsterdam, waited for the tone and picked out Uncle Bart’s number. An extraordinary blaring he had never heard before erupted from the earpiece. He put down the phone and cast around for a directory so he could check what the extraordinary noise might signify, but didn’t see one anywhere. Maybe I made a mistake dialling the number, he thought. He tried again, but there was the same noise. He tried a third time, and a fourth. The fifth time he spoke each digit out loud before dialling and then waited a few moments before touching the phone again. All he heard was that strange blaring noise.
He headed back to his chair, changed his mind, dialled the information service and asked the operator for the number of Bellincoff Ltd., Oudezijds Achterburgwal 28, in Amsterdam.
‘48662, madam.’
‘I’m not a madam. And that’s the number I’ve been dialling, Miss, but all I get is a whining noise rather like an air-raid siren, do you understand?’
‘That means the number’s been cut off, sir.’
‘Cut off? By whom?’
‘The account has been cancelled, sir.’
He thanked her and rang off. He looked out of the window, but there was no sign of Moorlag and Meinarends. He dialled the information se
rvice again. A different voice answered this time.
‘Could you give me the number of the Sicherheitspolizei, at Binnenhof, The Hague?’ He found a pencil on the desk and wrote down the number.
He telephoned the Sicherheitspolizei straightaway. A female voice answered. He said: ‘Could you put me through to the department dealing with persons taken into custody?’
When the department came on the line, he said: ‘Dominee Verberne speaking. I would like to know what has become of old Mrs Osewoudt of Voorschoten, who was detained this morning along with her daughter-in-law.’
‘Information of that kind is not released over the telephone, Dominee. You should visit our office in person!’
Moorlag and Meinarends returned, having made up their minds as to the best course of action.
For the time being Osewoudt would stay with Meinarends, until the identity cards were ready. Moorlag would return to his relatives in Nieuw-Buinen, and didn’t even take his coat off, as he was going straight on to catch the train.
‘You know the address, Osewoudt, in case there’s any trouble. It’s easier for a person to hide where we live in the country. More food there too.’
Osewoudt shook his hand, saying: ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.’
‘I did it for my country,’ said Moorlag. ‘Don’t thank me, it’s me who’s grateful for the chance to serve my country by helping you.’
Osewoudt put his hands in his pockets and beat a rapid tattoo with his feet.
‘Oh Christ! He’ll be speaking in tongues next! Lord in heaven! Strike up the harmonium!’
Moorlag chuckled softly.
‘You’re thinking of your mother. She’ll be in my thoughts too, Henri, if you’d rather not hear me say I’ll pray for her.’
‘You’re a good sort,’ said Osewoudt. ‘I mean it.’
He turned away even before Moorlag left the room. My country, he thought, what’s that supposed to mean? The blue tram? The yellow tram? The service is the same as before, except for the lights being dimmed after dark. A tobacco shop with empty packaging in the window? Dr Dushkind? North State? Havana cigars? I still have a packet of real English cigarettes on me. If Dorbeck hadn’t asked me to develop a film for him I wouldn’t have got mixed up in any of this. I’d be at home, safe and sound.
‘You’re an odd bloke, aren’t you?’ said Meinarends, when Moorlag had gone. ‘What I wanted to say, though – you have a Leica, isn’t that right?’
Osewoudt went over to his raincoat, then held out the camera.
Meinarends did not take it.
‘We could do with someone who can use a camera. If you want to get involved, I could find you somewhere to stay. You can stay here tonight, and tomorrow night as well if necessary, but not indefinitely.’
‘I’ll go now if you prefer.’
‘Certainly not. The ID cards won’t be ready till tomorrow. The best thing would be for you to avoid going out during the day for the next week or two. Can’t you grow a moustache?’
‘I don’t have a moustache, no beard either.’
‘You don’t? Curious. Then we’ll get your hair dyed black.’
‘Fine by me, the sooner the better.’
But the following evening he was still waiting for his hair to be dyed.
‘Listen here, Meinarends,’ said Osewoudt, ‘you must realise that I hadn’t bargained for anything like my mother and my wife being arrested. I have appointments to keep. I was supposed to be in Amsterdam this morning. I can’t put it off any longer. I have the papers now, I have money, there’s no reason for me to hang around here. That girl’s desperate for her ID card.’
‘You idiot! Your ID card says your hair’s black! And it’s still fair! Have you gone mad?’
‘Maybe. Don’t get me wrong. I tried phoning that address in Amsterdam. No reply. I haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on there and I need to know. You go instead of me if you must, but I have to know, I have to get some message to them, it’s the least I can do.’
‘Me go? I can’t leave here.’
‘Fair enough. But black hair or not, I’m going to Amsterdam.’
‘No you’re not. Do you think I’d risk my neck on your account? What’s the matter with you? If they stop you and your ID card says you have black hair while it’s fair, don’t you think they’ll want to know where you got the ID card?’
‘It’s a risky business. Think of all the risks involved if I don’t keep my appointment. Why only consider the people at your end?’
‘But you can’t go now. Tomorrow, perhaps. I’ll see if we can hurry things up.’
Meinarends went over to the table and picked up the phone.
When it was nearly dark outside, he took Osewoudt to a small hairdresser’s in Breestraat, directly opposite the town hall.
‘Well, you can find your own way back,’ he said when the door was opened.
The light was not on in the shop, but Osewoudt could make out a girl in a white smock.
‘We can’t switch the light on here,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got everything ready out the back, don’t worry.’
She fastened the door bolts and took him by the hand, laughing out loud in the dark.
‘It’s through here. I’m taking you to the ladies’ salon. That’s where we do the dyeing.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Osewoudt. ‘Nice smell in here.’
‘You’re in good hands with me, I promise.’
She pushed open a door. An empty space, brightly lit, almost dazzlingly so, with metal hoods on stands down one side and cubicles made of white curtains on metal rails down the other.
‘Do take a seat, we pride ourselves on our prompt service.’
He sat down, she remained standing behind him. He saw himself and her in the mirror. Her breasts were level with his ears. It was impossible to see what she had on under the white smock: the neckline of her dress was evidently lower than that of the smock. At her throat hung a red coral pendant from a thin gold chain. She had a long neck, and also long, wavy, pale blonde hair reaching down past her shoulders. Her mouth was so big that her teeth were almost permanently on view. Beautiful teeth. She had a naturally smiling expression in any case.
She took a handful of his hair, and with her free hand brought a strand of her own to hold against his.
‘Such sweet fair hair, do I really have to dye it pitch-black?’
‘Everything sweet turns sour in war,’ he replied. ‘You mark my words!’
She took a small basin from the washstand, turned on the hot tap and filled the basin.
He wanted to put his arm round her hips, but she swung round to face him.
‘Are you a student too?’ she asked.
‘No. I’m in the tobacco trade.’
‘I went to university for a year and a half, but when the Krauts closed the place down I looked for a job here in Leiden. I was already rooming with these people anyway.’
She stirred some sort of powder into the water, put down the basin, draped a large towel over his shoulders and began to tuck the edge into the collar of his shirt. The backs of her hands brushed against his cheeks, so he said: ‘I don’t need to shave, I don’t have a beard.’
‘Really?’ She turned her hands over and he saw her ten red fingernails lying like geranium petals on his face. He wished he could bite her slender fingers. She smiled, gave his jaw a playful pinch and asked: ‘Something to do with hormones?’
‘Never thought about it.’
‘Everything okay otherwise?’
‘Big questions for a little girl like you.’
‘Come on! I was a medical student!’
‘Want me to strip to the waist?’
‘No. Just keep your head over the washbasin.’
She pushed his head down, warm water streamed through his hair. He heard the soap frothing, not through his ears but directly through his skull, he felt her fingers on his scalp. Another gush of warm water. Maybe it was warming up his brains. I’ll be a new man,
he thought, it’ll be a new life! Ria arrested, the tobacco shop closed down, Uncle Bart may well be gone, too. I’m being born again. Whoever ends up winning this war, I’ll be among the winners. He now felt her squeezing the moisture from his hair, then her two hands pushing his head back until he was sitting upright. He opened his eyes and saw the girl in the mirror again.
‘Do you mind telling me your first name?’
‘My name’s Marianne. What’s yours?’
‘Filip.’
In another dish she mixed a black paste. She divided his wet hair into narrow sections, dipped the comb in the paste and set about applying the dye.
‘Will it be ready soon?’
‘It’ll take another twenty minutes or so.’
‘This is all so ridiculous.’
She combed. His scalp turned a shiny black. Suddenly it hit him: Dorbeck! He was the spitting image of Dorbeck! Same black hair, same white face with red spots on the cheekbones. If I’d always had black hair, my entire life would have been different, even without a beard, he thought. A man who appears and disappears as he pleases, bound by nothing but his own will, a man before whom the world bows. As if by magic, Ria and the shop fell away from him; he dared to admit to himself it might not be such a bad idea if the Germans helped his unfortunate mother to a painless but better world. He burst out laughing, couldn’t stop.
‘Keep your head still,’ said Marianne. ‘Watch out, you’ll get the dye all over you!’
‘My hair’s turning black, but apart from that it’s all sweetness and light,’ he laughed. ‘You’ve put a spell on me. It’s not just the colour of my hair you’ve changed, it’s my whole face!’
‘In that case you’d better put your head over the washbasin again. Time for the final rinse.’
When he was sitting upright again, she passed him the comb. He stood up and made a parting in his wet hair.
She stood beside him, washing her hands.
‘Like it?’ she asked in the mirror.
He put down the comb and caught her wet hands. He was still laughing. At the edge of his vision he could see the mirror, and in the mirror himself, laughing. He was certain his new laugh would get her to do anything he asked!