There were no bridges along this stretch of the canal. The Germans would have to make a considerable detour before they could close in on him on the other side. He heard an engine running, but the sound was not coming from across the water. It was too shallow to swim. Growing impatient, he straightened up to try and take big strides instead. Shots were still being fired, but the bullets weren’t coming his way. A spot-light remained fixed on the top of a tree.
At last he was able to scramble up the opposite bank. The shooting stopped abruptly and a moment later the spotlight went out. A bird, probably roused by the noise, started to sing. Osewoudt ran on, bent almost double. The park was fairly wide; he ran through grass and across footpaths. Crouching behind a rustic bench, he focussed his eyes on the far side of the canal.
He had the idea the vehicles were still outside Labare’s house; the lights were still on but he couldn’t make out what was happening. Bending as low as he could he walked on. He came to the limit of the park. Another pavement, then a road. It was a narrow road with a bend in it, so he couldn’t see to the other end. He looked up, scanning the house fronts for some sign of life, but every window was dark and shut. Everyone was asleep, no one cared. Or maybe they weren’t asleep; maybe they had heard the gunfire and even now were shivering, with dishevelled hair and rumbling stomachs, behind their blacked-out windows.
There was no sound but the slap of his own bare, wet feet on the pavement. Then, faintly, he heard music. It was coming from a ground floor. He put his ear to a window. No, next window. He found the porch that belonged to the ground-floor flat with the window, felt along the doorpost, found the doorbell and rang. He began to shake uncontrollably. His hands were covered in mud and fronds of rotting water plants; he wiped them against each other and on his trousers. The music in the house was American. Osewoudt put his face to the letter box on the front door, and saw the light come on inside.
The music stopped, the door opened. The hallway was flooded with light. ‘What is it?’ growled the man who answered the door.
Osewoudt pushed him out of the way, stepped into the hallway and slammed the door.
People emerged from the front room. Two women in the lead, one holding a glass in her hand. There were also a few men, he couldn’t tell how many because the corridor was too narrow for more than single file.
‘Please hide me,’ Osewoudt begged, stepping forward. ‘The Germans are after me.’
Everybody started talking at once. Osewoudt tried to take another step forward, but no one stood aside to let him pass.
‘He’s been in the canal. He stinks!’
‘Oh, how awful! How awful!’
‘What did you think, that we could hide you? We wouldn’t know where!’
‘Look at the mess he’s making!’
‘Do listen to reason, sir! The Americans will be here in a couple of days, and the war will be over. You wouldn’t want to get us into trouble for nothing, would you? If we hide you we’ll all get shot pronto.’
‘Help me!’ shouted Osewoudt. ‘My life’s in your hands!’
‘He’s making everything sopping wet!’
‘Can’t you see him shaking? He’s freezing cold.’
‘He’s covered in blood! He’s bleeding to death.’
‘Care for a drink, sir?’
‘You’re all talking at once! For God’s sake! Let me through!’
From outside came the sputter of a motorcycle. Heavy foot-steps. The doorbell rang continuously, rifle butts hammered on the door.
‘Let me through!’ shouted Osewoudt. ‘Let me slip out through the back garden!’ He held out his arms and tried to squeeze through the crowd. Just then the front door burst open. His arms were seized by two Germans, handcuffs were clamped on his wrists, and he was hauled backwards out of the house with his heels dragging along the ground. He was hoisted up and slung into the back of a van. He landed so awkwardly that a numbing pain shot up from his shoulder into his skull. He shut his eyes and drew up his knees.
They put him in a dark cell and left him there for a week. He had not been allowed to wash. The gash over his eyebrow had not been dressed. When he touched it gingerly with his finger-tips he felt thick, slimy crusts. He had a permanent headache.
No one came to see him. Tapping signals went unanswered.
But when the week was over he was released from the cell. They gave him a towel the size of a handkerchief and a lump of hardened clay for soap. He was allowed to wash under a shower from which issued boiling water, albeit only in a trickle, so it seemed the shower was turned off and leaking, rather than turned on.
‘Will the Americans be here soon?’ he asked the guard.
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
‘Any chance of getting some cold water for a quick rinse?’
‘I have to stay where I am. I can’t go and get it.’
He improvised by catching the scalding trickle in his cupped hand and distributing it over his body with the infinitesimal towel. When he was done his hands were blistered.
Naked, he was taken to a bare cubicle that apparently served as an infirmary. Two nurses treated the wound with a stinging liquid, tore the stitches out and stuck a couple of plasters on his eyebrow. He was given his clothes to wear and was taken back to his cell, where the light was on.
Hardly five minutes had passed when someone came for him again; he was led down corridors and ushered into an office where Kriminalrat Wülfing was seated behind a desk. A small table with a typewriter was occupied by another uniformed German.
‘Well now, Osewoudt! The pleasure was brief. I am not referring to your escapade. I am referring to our previous conversation. Let us be grateful for the opportunity to pick up where we left off. Your looks haven’t improved since we last met, I have to say. Ebernuss will be so disappointed.’
Osewoudt sat hunched forward on the straight-backed chair, head bowed, handcuffed hands between his knees.
‘Go on, say something. Do you know Labare?’
Wülfing pushed his armchair back with a loud scraping noise and came out from behind his desk.
‘No,’ said Osewoudt.
‘You seem to be suffering from amnesia. What will become of you if things go on like this? Did you think we’d pack you off to hospital again to cure your amnesia? No, dear boy, that is a condition for which we have our very own remedy.’ The door opened. Osewoudt looked up.
A uniformed German pushed Labare into the room.
Labare did not look as if he had been mistreated, though he did have a plaster cast on his left arm. He wore his ordinary suit and a clean shirt, only the tie was missing. He was clean-shaven.
‘Melgers,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to keep quiet any more, go ahead and tell them everything you know. They found all the stuff at my place. I didn’t have time to destroy the films.’
‘I thought you were going to barricade the door.’
Labare now began to sob, lifting his good arm to wipe his eyes. His whole body seemed braced to hold back the tears, but his voice was barely audible.