He sat down again on the oak bench, thinking: perhaps it’s not a good idea to talk too much to a real nurse, under the circumstances … Suddenly he realised his teeth were chattering, thought of turning tail, leaving the flowers for the student nurse to deal with, coming back the following day. But he stayed where he was.
After ten minutes or so a morose manservant in a pink and white striped jacket came up to him and said: ‘You wanted to see the Sondaar baby? Come with me.’
The manservant was carrying two buckets filled to the brim with ashes.
Osewoudt stood up and followed the man down the corridor. At the end of the corridor they went down a flight of stone steps; the occasional clank of the buckets against the steps echoed in the cellar.
Reaching the bottom, the manservant set the buckets on the floor. They were standing in a small hallway, dimly lit through a square of thick glass in the ceiling.
The man took a key from his trouser pocket and said: ‘Very sad.’
He shot Osewoudt a quick look, then opened a door. On the other side it was dark. The man put his hand round the door frame and a weak light came on: a naked bulb suspended on a length of flex.
Together they went inside. It was a narrow space with pale, grey-painted walls. Along one side were dark blue stone slabs, upon which stood three coffins in a row. One large, the other two small.
The manservant stepped forward. On the lids of the coffins lay calling cards with names on them written in ink. He picked up the card lying on one of the two small coffins. Osewoudt craned his neck to read what was on it. It said: Baby Sondaar, 4 April, 1945. Then the man removed the coffin lid. The infant lay under a thin blanket. It was dressed in a shirt with elbow-length sleeves. The hands were folded on its breast. The tiny fingernails were dark brown, like fingernails that have been caught in a door.
The baby’s face reminded him of a newly hatched bird: the upper lip protruded over the lower, making the mouth resemble a juvenile beak. There was some dried blood at the corners. The head had been propped up at a steep angle, presumably to keep the mouth closed, which gave the infant the appearance of looking down its nose. It wore an expression of infinite sadness, as if it had lived just long enough to mourn the fact that it would not survive.
The skull was pointed and deeply dented around the ears. Subcutaneous bleeding had already darkened the forehead.
Osewoudt’s eyes filled with tears; the space around him became murky, as if a thick pane of frosted glass were being held before his eyes. He groped for the cold stone of the slab, laid down the flowers and, ignoring the manservant, went back up the steps and ran down the corridor. The tears kept streaming down, without him having the sensation of weeping.
The fresh air struck him in the face as he ran into the street. The screech of a car engine starting up made him look round as he crossed the road.
Two German soldiers opened the barbed-wire barricade and a small DKW with a sputtering engine slowly passed through.
The car caught up with Osewoudt and overtook him. It was a DKW of the same type as Ebernuss’, only this one had been stripped of its peacetime gloss and painted with camouflage colours: dingy ochre, muddy green and rusty red. When the car was about twenty metres ahead, it slowed down. He saw the driver looking back at him. But Osewoudt walked on. Ahead of him was the car, behind him the barricade with the guards. The only alternative was to make a dash for it through the garden of one of the houses. His eyes widened with fear, he expected the German to step out of the car at any moment, pistol drawn.
But the car door remained closed; the engine continued to sputter. Osewoudt drew level and walked past. Then at his back he heard the engine revving. He walked on without a backward glance. He opened his shoulder bag; in it he saw the knife, the Leica, and the handkerchief. He took out the hand-kerchief, leaving the clasp of the bag undone. He held the handkerchief to his eyes, but instead of drying his tears it only made them worse. The DKW followed him in a low gear. Osewoudt turned a corner; the car continued to follow, suddenly accelerated, passed him, and stopped. The door swung open. A tall Luftwaffe officer got out. He was bareheaded. He left the car door open and walked somewhat unsteadily towards Osewoudt. When he drew near Osewoudt could make out the smell of liquor. He was roughly the same age as Osewoudt, twenty-three or so. He was very pale, his face had a greenish cast and the skin looked sallow and greasy. The cheeks were sunken, the mouth had no lips. He had a very thin blond moustache, not bristly but rather like floss silk.
Osewoudt felt his chin begin to quiver and the tears redoubling as the young Luftwaffe officer barred his way. He very nearly blurted: yes, it’s me! All right then, take me away! I don’t even care any more! Then the officer addressed him in clearly articulated German: ‘Forgive me for bothering you, Sister! But I simply couldn’t just drive on after seeing such lovely eyes filled with tears.’
His head swayed as he spoke.
‘Please forgive me. You don’t know me, and besides, you hate me for being German. But believe me, the war is over, only the sadness remains. There is nothing for us now but to have compassion for one another and to offer consolation. You think I’ve taken leave of my senses, but I have not, I’m just very sad, like you.’
Osewoudt tried to sidestep him, wanted to make some reply, but was unable to do anything but bite his handkerchief in rage.
‘Don’t go away, please. Believe me, I mean no harm. Don’t make me feel even worse than I already do. I am racked with remorse for everything my compatriots have done. I swear to you, none of it was my wish. I personally have not fired a single shot since the war began.’
Osewoudt stamped his feet but could not speak.
‘There is no point in our remaining enemies,’ the German officer persisted, linking the fingers of both hands and rhythmically pressing his stomach. ‘We are both victims, Sister, victims! Please don’t make me go without letting me do something for you. Tell me what I can do to help. I beseech you.’
A red mist rose before Osewoudt’s eyes, and he said: ‘I’m past helping.’
The sputtering car engine resonated at the back of his skull, as if he too were drunk.
The officer gripped the sleeve of the arm with which Osewoudt was holding up the handkerchief.
‘I could at least give you a lift somewhere. Tell me where you want to go. I’m on my way to The Hague myself.’
Osewoudt made no reply
‘I’ll take you anywhere you like.’
‘Well, if you insist,’ said Osewoudt. ‘You can take me to The Hague.’
‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
The officer went to the car and held the passenger door open for Osewoudt. His cap was lying on the seat, he tossed it in the back. Osewoudt got in. The officer walked round the back of the car like a taxi driver, slid behind the wheel, slammed the door shut and put in the clutch.
The officer, so eloquent in the street, drove off without saying another word. He seemed pleased with his catch. Now and again, especially when steering round corners, he took a deep breath. He sat hunched forward over the wheel, more so than drivers normally do. Steering the car cost him considerable effort. Yet he did not drive cautiously, carelessly, or too quickly. His wavy auburn hair had not been cut in a long time, but he wore it in a style popular among Germans: brushed rather than combed back from his forehead, and without a parting. On his collar he wore a star between two crossed sprigs of oak. There were no insignia on his blue-grey Luftwaffe jacket. He wore riding breeches with high brown boots and a brown military belt with a small holster attachment, the holster being barely big enough for a lady’s pistol.