Cannibals and Missionaries (49 page)

But executing a hostage would be a mistake, from their own point of view. Henk believed he could show that much to a few of them, at least to Greet and Jeroen. It was not a point of principle, on which Jeroen would balk, but a point of praxis. Having resolved to speak, Henk waited till he could find the two alone. The moment came after lunch on a Sunday—their fourth in captivity, unless he was losing count—when Denise had finished washing up and Carlos, a “friendly,” was on guard. Carlos carried his message, and the kitchen door was opened. The pair sat at the table. Greet was darning Jeroen’s sock, and his big white foot was bare. The others were above, presumably napping.

“You have something to tell us?” “Yes.” He had determined to come straight to the subject, and she had spoken Dutch—from her, a good sign. They had been discussing the execution of a hostage, he told them. They showed no surprise that he knew. It would be an error, he said—a
fout. “Waarom?”
That was Greet, not sounding, as so often, sarcastic but as though she were more than curious to know his reasons. Jeroen’s reaction could not be seen; he was bending down to put the sock and heavy boot on. If they killed a hostage now, Henk explained, it would be like a signal to the authorities to strike—a pretext certain elements in the coalition would have been waiting for to employ “strong measures.” “Van Agt,” said Greet, naming the Minister of Justice. “There must be much public pressure,” continued Henk. Killing a hostage would clear the way, which had been blocked by Den Uyl’s scruples. “They will storm the house. You cannot prevent that.” Jeroen held up a hand. “You are right. We cannot prevent that. But there are comrades here who do not believe they will storm it. They say, look at your Bishop. There was no reprisal. To the contrary, we gained our way. You recall that?”

That had been in the early stages, Henk pointed out, when the policy of peaceful negotiations had had the upper hand. “But now it is late, Jeroen. My government is tired; the people are tired. They feel this has gone on too long. But they will be patient and wait a little longer if you do not kill.” Jeroen nodded. That was his view, he acknowledged, and Greet’s. “But maybe we see that, like you, because we are all Dutch. Though we are enemies, we have a similar political understanding of this country. We Dutch are not fond of bloodshed. Mr. Den Uyl is not fond of bloodshed. We are of one mind on this. But the others…Even Carlos.” He sighed. Not Ahmed, said Greet. He was loyal to Jeroen; he loved him. But the others…Jeroen sighed again. “Because the imperialists did not retaliate when we gave them your Bishop’s body, they are sure the imperialists here are weak. If we shoot a hostage, they say, the imperialists will see we are serious and concede us whatever we demand. They say the imperialists will not storm the command post for fear of heavy casualties.”

“Among the hostages,” Henk corrected. “Again, that was true at the start. But not any more, if
you
kill.” Greet interrupted. “They have learned to accept the assurance of casualties. That is the weakness, evidently, of too long confrontation. I have told you so, Jeroen.” “And they are stronger,” Henk added. “You are only eight. If they lose eight men storming the house, for them it is only unfortunate. But you cannot lose eight. Even six, even five. Those who do not die will be taken prisoners. As for us, some will die, but that, too, is only unfortunate. A tragedy, people will say. But that is literature.” “They will not willingly harm the pictures,” Jeroen suddenly objected. “That was true, too, at one time,” said Henk. “But no longer, I imagine. Now, if you force them to strike, they will
hope
not to harm the pictures. Or only a few.”

“So what do you advise? An action is necessary for the comrades’ morale.” The Arabs, he said, were failing to grasp the importance of the second demand, the part, that is, concerning the NATO forces. They were interested only in Israel. “We will be frank with you, Van Vliet de Jonge. Yusuf has been a problem. He believes that we deceived him, that we promised to liberate the Israeli prisoners.” “And you did not?” “We saw this idea was invalid, though I confess we had considered it for a time. To liberate Israeli prisoners, you must strike directly at Israel. At the outset we believed that world feeling might be capable of forcing Israel’s compliance. But we came to recognize our error. Solidarity, even among those of the same interests, is unnatural in the capitalist world. You saw how Washington sought to block the agreed-on delivery of the paintings. But Yusuf is too undeveloped to understand this. He suspects we betrayed the Palestine liberation fighters to enrich ourselves with Western art.”

In any case, Yusuf was a source of disaffection. He was intent on revising the demands and on starting to kill hostages to enforce the one close to his heart. “He has a cousin, you must know, that the Israelis are torturing.” And he had half won over Hussein. “But the Germans?” That was different, Jeroen said. The Germans and Carlos, more developed politically, were in full agreement with the demands as they stood. But they, too, were arguing that it was time to kill a first hostage. “So you are outnumbered.” “Not altogether. Among themselves, the comrades disagree on the timing and order of the executions. The German comrades prefer to go slow and to start with you, Deputy. The Arab comrades would start with the Jewish woman.” Henk felt himself turn pale. “You need not be afraid,” Greet said with a smile. “This dissension means that we are still masters. But you must offer us a solution.”

There was no solution, Henk thought, and, before long, Jeroen would see that. The woman already knew. Surrender with promise of safe-conduct might still be acceptable to the authorities but not any longer to the comrades, he judged from what he had heard. Some, at least, among them were on a suicidal course. In his clever planning—admirable, the touch of the German “television team” that the
boer
had told of!—Jeroen had overlooked the time factor. For all concerned, this had gone on too long. Nevertheless he pondered. If there was no visible solution, there could be an immediate alternative that would take the edge off their hunger for executions. A substitute could be offered, as in an old story. Instead of a hostage, why not a painting? One not sufficiently “priceless” to seem a flagrant provocation. A Marie Laurencin? As he spoke the words, he felt a strange sorrow, as though he were condemning a frail living thing—a moth or butterfly—to death.

Jeroen and Greet nodded. He had chosen well. “We shall tell the comrades that this is our decision.” The door opened. Horst and Elfride entered. “Ah,” said Horst in German, “you are instructing the prisoner to tape an appeal? Excellent!” Henk closed his eyes. He had hoped to avoid that stupid imperative. But the Germans, evidently, had been conferring too. They had decided that a plea from the deputy might work as well, for the time being, as an execution; finding him there persuaded them that the other two had come to the same conclusion. Henk shrugged and looked at Jeroen. It could have no effect on The Hague, but, if Jeroen wanted it, he would do it. He had enlisted, he saw, as Jeroen’s ally and Greet’s in their contest with their own dissident elements. That was the result of having been taken into their confidence; he would do whatever would help them. An hour ago, if ordered to tape an appeal, he would have cheerfully refused, not desiring to sound like a fool or a coward to his governmental colleagues. And when it became known that he had made a tape for transmission—should that be Jeroen’s will—his fellow-hostages would be surprised and shocked. They would not have expected that of him. Even if he did not immediately tell them what he had done, there would be no way of concealing the fact from them: tonight he would be back on the screen—still campaigning or talking with the Queen in her feathers at the opening of Parliament—as his craven words were registered on the sound track. He felt sad in advance for Sophie. She would not know what led him to it; that a majority of the
kapers
had been calling for executions was a fearsome thing he must keep from her.

“And what, pray, am I to beg of my government?” Acceptance, of course, of the second demand. “You will add,” said Elfride, “that if they fail to give a positive response, acts of justice from our side will commence.” Jeroen met his eyes; he, too, shrugged. This must mean that he, too, saw the futility of it. “You will state in your own words what the comrades require.” In the end, the tape was dispensed with. With the four standing over him, he sat in a chair and spoke directly to the shortwave radio. Though the idiot words were shaming, when he had finished, he felt satisfied, rather proud. He had been careful to keep his voice light to obviate the suspicion that he had been tortured or drugged.

Horst and Elfride went out. Jeroen and Greet remained with the radio. “You expect a response?” said Henk. “You ironize, Van Vliet de Jonge,” Jeroen answered, without hostility. “You do not believe there will be one.” “In any case, negative. I have told you why already. Nothing has changed.” “I would like to hear again,” Greet said. Wearily, Henk repeated the arguments demonstrating the impossibility of the second demand. As he spoke, he felt compunction for Jeroen; if finally he was convincing him, brute force of reason was killing a long-held dream. He was sorry for that; it would have been wonderful if the brave fellow, single-handed and by sheer persistence, could have taken the Lowlands out of NATO. He would have gone down in the national annals like William the Silent or the boy with his finger in the dike. “You have only your will on your side, Jeroen. Den Uyl has reality—the power of circumstances.
His
individual will does not count. You see a battle of wills but you are wrong. It is your single will against the inertia of facts. Holland will not send the NATO forces away unless many facts change and evolve, of their own weight, independently.” The woman was nodding. Jeroen only stared at the silent radio. He drew a deep breath. “It is exercise time,” he said. “You will go out with the others, Van Vliet de Jonge. And you also, Greet. Everyone must have exercise today. I order it.”

Henk’s conscience misgave him. Jeroen’s voice was dull; there was the lead of despair in it, and his arms hung heavily by his sides. With a violent gesture, he had turned off the radio. It had been wrong to discourage the dream without offering something in its place. “Look, Jeroen, here is another thought. Why not sensibly ask for a food drop? They will accept, because of the hostages, and the mood of your comrades will soften. Hungry men are prone to mutiny. Then we can think together of what is to be done.” “He is right, Jeroen,” said Greet with a sigh. Jeroen smiled. “Thank you. You are a man of good will. I have seen that. It is a pity that your lot has been cast with the class enemy. Yes, we will consider, as you say, what is to be done. Yet if we give up our second demand, what is left? Nothing.” Henk was silent. “You have not killed anyone,” he said finally. “That is in your favor.” “If we surrender, you imply….” “He implies that the imperialists will allow us safe-conduct out of the country,” said Greet, “Since you’ve committed no capital crime,” Henk agreed. “It is likely that they will concede that, yes,” said Jeroen. “But to Yusuf and Hussein unbelievable. They have another mentality.” “With food, they may be less suspicious,” Henk argued. “And you can impress on them that many capitals will be proud to receive your band, now that you are famous.” “Thank you. While you are having exercise, I shall be thinking.” He moved to the door. “Carlos!”

Only Ahmed remained behind, to be with Jeroen. He would not be dissuaded. It was a sunny cold afternoon. They saw a flock of snow buntings around the house, and in the field near the canal the binoculars showed them mallards walking in pairs, like couples on a Sunday outing. “And it
is
Sunday,” cried Aileen. “Isn’t that funny? Do you suppose they know it?” Henk welcomed her chatter. “You were in there a long time,” Sophie had said to him as he was helping her on with her coat. “What was it?” “I was advising them to ask for a food drop.” “Oh, glory. And will they do it?” “I don’t know. Jeroen is thinking.” They walked briskly in threes and twos—Sophie with Henk and Jim, Aileen with Archie and the dominie, Horst and Elfride with Carlos, Denise with Greet, Hussein and Yusuf bringing up the rear. “We look like a procession,” Aileen called out. “It’s the first time, isn’t it, that so many have been out together. I wonder what it means.” Henk wondered too. Any departure from custom had a significance, they had learned. It was the first time, also, that Greet had left the house, and evidently she did not feel easy.

“We shall return now,” she announced abruptly, seizing Denise’s arm and wheeling about. Cries of protest arose. “Oh, Greet, that’s not fair,” remonstrated Aileen. “Jeroen
said
we were to have thirty minutes. We all heard him. And we’ve only been out ten.” “Another five,” pleaded the pastor. “It’s such a wonderful day. You need the fresh air, Greet. It’ll put roses in your cheeks.” Greet did not bother to answer. With big strides, almost running and pulling Denise along, she was on her way back to the house. “What’s got into her?” said Archie. “She’s gone white as tallow.” “She’s jealous of the Vermeer,” Aileen said. “Haven’t you noticed? She hates it when he shuts himself up with it.” But suddenly, as if stampeded, they were all rushing toward the house, Greet in the lead and the Germans just behind her. Henk felt Yusuf’s rifle at his back and irritably pulled away. He and Sophie were the last into the shed. As they stumbled in—Sophie’s boots were bothering her—they heard a fearful yell: Jeroen.
“Uitstappt!” “
Get out!” “Berserk,” estimated Archie. They could not see Jeroen, but those ahead—who could, apparently—were turning back in a rout, choking the narrow entry hall, when the first explosion came. A second explosion followed, then a third. Wood and plaster were falling. As if transfixed, Henk watched the profile of a painted stag’s head with a big baleful eye alight on his own head; he brushed it off. His last action—at any rate, that he remembered—was flinging himself on Sophie, to shield her from a huge piece of jagged glass that was hurtling toward them through the air. Then something—a timber or window frame—hit his skull with a loud crack, and he “knew no more.”