These two novellas were originally published in 1958 and 1960 respectively but their joint translations did not appear until between the Chernobyl and Three Mile Island disasters, when the subject of the first novella suddenly became very relevant. This concerns three men accidentally subjected to massive radiation. Just before the worst affected dies, he overhears a doctor saying that the others have only eight days to live and tells them. The remaining two then decide to escape from the hospital where they serve as little more than guinea pigs. Naturally they die soon after, but at least with the sense that they have made some gesture of their own against their fate. The tale serves as an existential parable and was written when admiration for the novels of Franz Kafka and Jean-Paul Sartre was at its height. All three authors portray man as a lonely victim who only finds dignity in asserting himself against the inevitable.


Vandeloo’s stark vision is conveyed in short sentences, made the more chilling by the knowing stance of the narrator. Nevertheless, the prose is rich in poetic images, reminding us that Vandeloo has written many books of poetry as well. He also plays tricks with time. Enclosing the three long chapters of The Danger are a prologue and epilogue which in fact tell of the few minutes before and after the death of the last surviving fugitive.


The Enemy proceeds differently. It is made up of 22 short chapters, each encapsulating a small memory, and the sentences are longer and more fluent. In the first half of the book a boy of fifteen from a Belgian mining hamlet recounts his almost idyllic relationship with the American soldiers who have just liberated it. The second half goes back to the fighting beforehand and ends with the massacre of its menfolk by the retreating Germans. But are they really the enemy the title refers to? The boy’s narrative of the present breaks off at precisely the point when the girl he is in love with is about to betray him with one of his new-found friends. The ending of his innocence will come, not from the obvious enemy, but from those he trusts.

Martin lies on the infirmary table, motionless, as if life had already left him like a sound. He has less than fifteen hundred white blood corpuscles per millilitre of blood. In good health he had seven thousand. The chance of his living is gone. The radioactive stuff has worked destructively on the organs of his body that manufacture blood. The marrow of his bones no longer generates white blood corpuscles that are the body’s guardians against decay. Bacteria have begun their undermining work.

Martin Molenaar is a dead creature in the jungle. Over unbeaten roads a gluttonous army of ants travels to the carcass. Thousands of scurrying legs beat out the end. Millions of eyes throw sparks in the night. Somewhere wild horses run through the fallow lands of recognition. At the border of awakening, men run with flags. Voices call out slogans.

On the pavement of the street marches a downhearted insurrection. Wolves howl between the shores of the empty houses. White spots push by carelessly, smiling. There is always someone who smiles. Perhaps only a child. Or an idiot. Or perhaps only a dead creature. (The Danger p. 26-7, tr. Dirk H. & Dirk P. van Nouhuys)

Her name is Bea. She is a sweet girl with a round, white face and dark hair, really dark red. I have always known her; we grew up toghether. She is the same age as I am, also fifteen. The last few months we often sat together in the hiding pit. In the dark of the cellar I sometimes held her warm hand. She breathed fast as a frightened little bird; it was just as if I held a little bird in my hand. When the grenades in the neighborhood sprang open, she pinched her fingers fearfully in the flesh of my arm. There wasn’t much flesh on my arms, so it hurt me, but at the same time, in a strange way, it made me happy and self-assured. At those moments I was scared too, the war was like sickness in my body, but I did not let it show. She had limitless confidence in me. She was a small warm animal that sought protection in the hollow of my arm or against my shoulder.

Between the howling of the cannons I dared to kiss her shyly; no one saw it; it was damned dark in that deep hole. Everybody was afraid. The grenades made a horrible whistling noise. I was afraid too, but at the same time, in those moments, I was mature and grown-up. (The Enemy p. 90, tr. D.H. and D.P. van Nouhuys)