This novel is one of the undisputed masterpieces to have emerged from the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands. It is a tour de force of taut, suspenseful story-telling, which in the book’s final section is radically undermined when the version of events the reader has been given up to that point is questioned and proves impossible to substantiate.


The protagonist of The Dark Room of Damocles, the tobacconist Osewoudt, who has settled into a humdrum suburban existence and an unhappy marriage with an older cousin, sees the glamour and excitement of war passing him by. All this changes when the mysterious figure of Dorbeck appears in his life and enlists his help in undercover operations, including assassination. The action, adventure and romance he had longed for are suddenly his, thanks to Dorbeck, who oddly enough is the spitting image of his protégé, except that he is dark and manly, with a voice ‘like a bronze bell’, whereas Osewoudt is fair and underdeveloped. The resemblance is that of a photo and its negative.


When Holland is liberated Osewoudt expects his exploits to be acknowledged but instead finds himself denounced as a traitor. His strenuous attempts to prove the existence of his ‘controller’ founder on the absence of witnesses and on the fact that the film containing the one photograph he took of Dorbeck has been exposed. Imprisoned in an internment camp, he is further demoralised by an encounter with a fellow-inmate, a cynical S.S. man. In despair he makes a dash for the barbed wire and is shot down.


The novel’s import extends beyond the particularities of an individual’s fate at a certain historical moment. Its chilling thesis — greatly influenced by the linguistic scepticism of the philosopher Wittgenstein — is that the world is ultimately chaotic and unknowable and that our conflicting versions of it are equally arbitrary and inadequate.


John le Carré has expressed his admiration for Hermans’ book, which has been filmed by the Oscar-winning director Fons Rademakers.

‘Those muddle-headed philosophers who’ve made our Western civilisation — they thought there was a difference between guilt and innocence. But I say: in a world where everyone gets the death sentence, there can’t be any difference between guilt and innocence. And then — pity! Of course, you’ve never read a decent book in your life, just like all the other imbeciles in this country. But if you get the opportunity just have a glance through Shakespeare’s Richard III. Shakespeare ¼ there was a man who understood it all right! What happens when Richard’s kingdom’s on the verge of collapse, and he’s on the eve of fighting his decisive battle? He sleeps; and in his dreams appear all the friends and relatives he’s murdered in order to reach the throne. D’you know what they say? What d’you think? D’you think they say: Richard, it was nasty of you to murder us, but it can’t be helped now, what’s done is done, we can’t come back to life again, we forgive you for what you did to us, we hope you’ll be spared our wretched fate, because, even if you’re punished for your crimes, we shan’t be any the better off for it, shall we? D’you think they say that, Osewoudt? No, old boy, they don’t. «Despair, and die!» they say. That’s what they say: «Despair, and die!» Women, children and old men. «Despair, and die!» they say! Shakespeare knew!’ (p. 336, tr. Roy Edwards)