‘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.’