I feel another surge of pride that we made it. That the ancestors on whose shoulders I stand were strong enough to endure that hell that I shudder to imagine. So that I can stand here now. Free as ever. In the light at the top of this castle. Watching the sea and thinking about Manzanilla.
Valerie Joan Tagwira
By profession a specialist obstetrician and gynaecologist, she is also recognised as an accomplished writer of fiction who lives and works in Harare, Zimbabwe. Her first novel, The Uncertainty of Hope (2006), won the National Arts Merit Award (NAMA) in 2008, and was chosen by the Zimbabwe School Examinations Council as a set book for Advanced-Level Literature in English. She also writes poetry and short stories, which have been included in publications such as the Caine Prize Anthology 2010, and Writing Mystery and Mayhem (Weaver Press, 2015). An earlier version of “Mainini Grace’s Promise” appeared in Women Writing Zimbabwe (2008, ed. Irene Staunton) and was translated into Shona (by Charles Mungoshi and Musaemura Zimunya) for the 2011 anthology Mazambuko.
Mainini Grace’s Promise
Sarai’s mother concluded that it was not the three successive funerals but her own subsequent illness that finally did it.
Since her disclosure, things had gradually changed. In time, the subtle became obvious. The extended family seemed to have conveniently forgotten about their existence. Their visits had been shrouded in an aura of something parallel to embarrassment and detachment, then had become erratic, before ceasing altogether. For Sarai, dropping out of school to become her mother’s carer was inevitable. The family had washed their hands of all responsibility, dumping it carelessly into her fifteen-year-old lap.
Her vivacious and capable aunt, Mainini Grace, was the only one who kept in touch. She sent money for groceries from Botswana and wrote encouraging letters, filled with promises that she would visit. She promised to bring tablets for her ailing sister, as well as arrange for Sarai to go back to school.
Occasionally Mainini’s list included the gloves that Sarai had requested for her mother’s bed-baths, the bra she wanted so much because girls of her age had started wearing breast support; and sanitary pads because there were no pads or cottonwool in the shops.
While the letters were a beacon, little by little the fruition of Mainini Grace’s promises became questionable. In the eleven months since the last funeral, she had not returned from Botswana. Despite this inconsistency, the letters continued. Sarai read them avidly, over and over again, longing for her aunt’s return, wishing for her to share this experience.
In her replies to Mainini Grace, Sarai always expressed these sentiments, stopping short of hinting that the money she sent was never enough.
After the most recent letter, Sarai allowed herself to be optimistic. Previously, it had always been, “Soon, my dearest.” But the imminence of Mainini’s arrival was given life with her assurance of a date: Wednesday, the 17th July.
In the morning, Sarai woke early and tidied the shack. She wrapped her hands with pieces of plastic and gave her mother a bed-bath, just as the nurse had taught her. The raw bed-sores did not seem as daunting as before, and her mother’s muted groans of discomfort when she rolled her over were not as heart-rending. It was a day with a difference, spent in happy anticipation of Mainini Grace’s arrival.
But by early evening, Sarai knew that the coach from Botswana had long passed Kwekwe, was probably in Harare already.
“Do you think she will ever come?” she asked her mother, disheartened.
The older woman’s brow creased for a moment, before she said slowly, “There must be a good reason. I know my sister. She will come soon.”
Sarai looked at her mother, astonished by this lack of anxiety. She did not appear disturbed by her sister’s slipperiness. What good reason could there be for Mainini Grace to make false promises? Sarai felt deceived and confused.
She wondered why she had been foolish enough to expect anything different. Misery was predictable, while its opposite was simply out of reach. Her aunt was not coming. Though her own desire to go back to school was not as urgent as her mother’s need for medication, Sarai wondered, Will I ever sit in class again?
Despite her apparent complacency, Sarai’s mother was more unwell than she had ever been. Nothing seemed to relieve her cough. Not the bitter juice from boiled gum-tree leaves that had given her husband temporary relief. Not the lemon tea and the Vicks chest rub. She needed proper medication, but there was none. It was three months since the last bottle of cough mixture ran out.
Although deeply tired, Sarai knew she could not sleep before her mother nodded off. Her place was right there, next to the older woman, who now lay huddled on a reed mat spread out on the floor. Only Mainini Grace could have shared this place with her. Her heart ached with love, and with profound loneliness.
Sarai mopped her mother’s brow with a slow, gentle movement. Beads of sweat reappeared, no sooner had they been soaked up by the cloth. The older woman’s forehead continued to glisten in the dim light.
Sarai sat in silence, overcome by a yearning for happier times. Reality swooped back swiftly to fill the temporary emptiness of her mind.
Her eyes strayed to the soot marks staining the wall. She must scrub it first thing in the morning, or risk the landlady’s wrath. Mai Simba’s rages were guaranteed to instil fear into any living soul, and eviction was a real threat.
Sarai had been warned several times about the hazards of fire in the shack, so now took care to make a great show of cooking outside, before sneaking the fire indoors for her mother at night.
Just yesterday, the care nurse had looked at the soot marks with displeasure. “You had a fire in here? How do you expect her cough to get better?”
Sarai had been contrite, but had wondered, What else can I do? Her disobedience came of necessity. July was cold and starting to get windy. Her mother’s body was hot, but she often complained that the cold gnawed relentlessly into her bones. It was winter, after all.
Why aren’t you here with us, Mainini Grace? Sarai stared blindly at the dying fire that mirrored the demise of hope.
The room was dimmer, now that the fire was almost out. Cold air was starting to creep in. She shivered. Just as they had used up the last of the firewood, they were also using the last precious candle whose lone flame looked as feeble as its source.
If Mainini Grace had come, maybe she would have brought a few candles from Botswana. Sarai’s thoughts wandered again to her elusive aunt. Her mother’s eyes seemed to be summoning her, pleading for something that was not hers to give.
Sarai strained her ears, at once reluctant and fearful of what she would hear. Instinctively, she knew the words before they were spoken.
“Be strong, mwanangu. It will happen soon. I know it.” Barely a whisper, “Be strong. Be strong.”
The words seemed to hang suspended between them, and then fell like the fading notes of an echo. A repetition was whispered through bouts of coughing. Her mother’s voice was muffled, but still her wish seeped into Sarai’s awareness. The words seemed to reverberate like a haunting refrain.
“Find Mainini Grace. She will put you back in school. Don’t end up like me.”
She willed her mother to stop and reached out to hold her hands. Mainini Grace should have been there with them as promised, but it was simply inane to wish for her now.
The feverish hands quivered in her grasp, now so wasted they could have been a child’s. Sarai remembered holding her young brother’s hands in the same manner and thinking that they were like the feet of a tiny bird.
Her young sister’s small hands had had a similar feel. Little birds’ feet. The two little birds had flown, one after the other. But her father’s journey had been slower and more agonising, almost like her mother’s.
Sarai steadied herself. Her voice was strong, but gentle when she spoke.
“Don’t worry, Amai. Don’t worry.”
In preceding years, she had perfected the modulations of these same words. Don�
��t worry, Mary. Don’t worry, Tafara. Don’t worry, Baba. And now it was, Don’t worry, Amai. She was the untouched; destined to be the survivor, the comforter.
It was two days since they had discharged her mother from hospital. Only two days, but the bleak medical ward and its caustic smells were already a distant memory. There had been no medicines in the hospital pharmacy.
“You will have to look after her at home. Our outreach nurses will support you,” the doctor had said sombrely.
The words had fallen empty and meaningless.
Yesterday’s follow-up visit by the care nurse had been no compensation. The woman came empty-handed. Although she counselled Sarai and told her what to expect, denial had been so much easier to embrace.
Making no attempt to disguise tactlessness, or simply lacking the skills to do so, the nurse had explained that there would be no need to call an ambulance. The hospital no longer had anything to offer.
Nothing.
Nothing.
In the dead of night, Sarai knew that they only had each other.
The wind howled eerily.
The nurse forgot to tell me about the pain I would feel. She forgot about me . . . Sarai found herself weeping silent, clandestine tears. Almost immediately she was resolute once more. Her mother should not see the tears that shimmered in her eyes, that rolled effortlessly down her cheeks.
Her mother appeared not to notice.
Though much quieter now, the insistent whisper continued: “Do not end up like me. Find Mainini Grace.”
Sarai caressed her mother’s hands, keen to reassure her but no longer confident of her ability to do so.
She nodded. They had been through enough to make them courageous. Words that her mother would never hear formed a lump in Sarai’s throat.
The older woman had closed her eyes, her breathing rapid and increasingly shallow. Her words kept ringing in Sarai’s head, distressing but at the same time strangely comforting because she knew that her mother wanted the best for her. She allowed herself to hope once again that Mainini Grace would come. Mainini Grace had a way of taking charge and making things happen. Sarai knew that if anyone was capable of putting her back in school and giving her a bright future, that person was Mainini Grace.
As Sarai sat, she heard the distant hum of a car engine. The sound became louder as it approached the dwelling. Then there was a brief silence followed by the resonance of doors banging. A dog barked. She heard hushed voices, mingling with the thud of footsteps.
Sarai wondered if the landlord, Mai Simba’s husband, was back from one of his cross-border trips. He often arrived late at night. She pictured his children rushing out of the main house, falling over each other in eagerness to welcome him home. Jealousy surfaced. They had a father who was alive.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her musing.
Who could be calling so late? She hoped it wasn’t Mai Simba coming to spy for evidence that might suggest that they had broken yet another household rule. Reluctantly, she stood up and dragged her feet towards the door. She pulled the handle.
The bizarre vision she encountered was of her mother standing at the doorstep. The right side of her body was concealed in shadow; the left side was harshly illuminated by the glare of an electric bulb shining from Mai Simba’s veranda.
Sarai stood frozen in shock as she took in the sunken eyes, the gaunt cheeks, the emaciated form dwarfed by an oversized coat. At her mother’s feet were three suitcases. She shook her head, confused by this peculiarity. She remembered weird stories of how dying people sometimes said goodbye to their loved ones in the form of apparitions.
“Amai? How did you . . .?” Her voice trembled in query and died in her throat.
The woman held out her hands and stepped forward. “Please don’t tell me she’s gone . . .” The voice was fearful. It was not her mother’s voice. It was familiar, but unexpected, coming from this spectre.
Sarai found herself shaking uncontrollably. In that moment, she understood everything. Reality and reason merged, eliminating the need to demand an explanation.
And then came the realisation of what must surely have been fate’s calculated conspiracy against her. All her expectations collapsed in that instant. She felt as if something had exploded in her head.
“No-o!” Screaming, she launched herself forcefully on the woman. She grabbed the scrawny neck and squeezed. They fell backwards in a writhing heap on Mai Simba’s cabbage patch.
The woman struggled and gasped. “Sarai . . . please . . . no. . . .”
Sarai thought she heard her mother calling out, but she felt something stronger compelling her to focus on squeezing harder. The buzzing in her head grew louder, drowning out everything.
It was her anguished hysteria that severed the stillness of night summoning Mai Simba and the neighbours. She felt hands pulling her from all directions, trying to break her hold on the woman who now lay on top of crushed cabbages, apparently lifeless, her eyes glazed.
“Why you too? Why you too, Mainini Grace?” Sarai sobbed brokenly, as they led her away to Mai Simba’s veranda.
Jennifer Teege
with Nikola Sellmair
A German writer, she worked in advertising for 16 years before becoming an author. For four years in her twenties she lived in Israel, where she became fluent in Hebrew. She graduated from Tel Aviv University with a degree in Middle Eastern and African studies. She lives in Germany with her husband and two sons. A New York Times and international bestseller, her memoir My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me: A Black Woman Discovers Her Family’s Nazi Past (2015) is her first book.
From My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me
It is the look on the woman’s face that seems familiar. I’m standing in the central library in Hamburg, and in my hands I’m holding a red book that I’ve just picked up from the shelf. The spine reads: I Have to Love My Father, Don’t I? On the front cover is a small black-and-white photograph of a middle-aged woman. She looks deep in thought, and there is something strained and joyless about her. The corners of her mouth are turned down; she looks unhappy.
I glance quickly at the subtitle: “The Life Story of Monika Goeth, Daughter of the Concentration Camp Commandant from Schindler’s List”. Monika Goeth! I know that name; it’s my mother’s name. My mother, who put me in an orphanage when I was little and whom I haven’t seen in many years.
I was also called Goeth once. I was born with that name, wrote “Jennifer Goeth” on my first schoolbooks. It was my name until after I was adopted, when I took on the surname of my adoptive parents. I was seven years old.
Why is my mother’s name on this book? I am staring at the cover. In the background, behind the black-and-white photo of the woman, is a shadowy picture of a man with his mouth open and a rifle in his hands. That must be the concentration camp commandant.
I open the book and start leafing through its pages, slowly at first, then faster and faster. It contains not only text but lots of photos, too. The people in the pictures—haven’t I seen them somewhere before? One is a tall, young woman with dark hair; she reminds me of my mother. Another is an older woman in a flowery summer dress, sitting in the English Garden in Munich. I don’t have many pictures of my grandmother, but I know each of them very well. In one of them she is wearing the exact same dress as this woman. The caption under the photo says Ruth Irene Goeth. That was my grandmother’s name.
Is this my family? Are these pictures of my mother and my grandmother? Surely not, that would be absurd: It can’t be that there is a book about my family and I know nothing about it!
I quickly skim through the rest of the book. Right at the back, on the last page, I find a biography, and it begins like this: “Monika Goeth, born in Bad Toelz in 1945.” I know these dates; they are on my adoption papers. And here they are, in black and white. It really is my mother. This book is about my family.
I snap the book shut. It is quiet. Somewhere in the reading room someone is coughing. I need to get out of he
re, quickly; I need to be alone with this book. Clutching it close to me like a precious treasure, I just barely manage to walk down the stairs and through the checkout. I don’t take in the librarian’s face as she hands the book back to me. I walk out onto the expansive square in front of the library. My knees buckle. I lie down on a bench and close my eyes. Traffic rushes past me.
My car is parked nearby, but I can’t drive now. A couple of times I sit up and consider reading on, but I am dreading it. I want to read the book at home, in peace and quiet, cover to cover.
It is a warm, sunny August day, but my hands are as cold as ice. I call my husband. “You have to come and get me; I have found a book. About my mother and my family.”
Why did my mother never tell me? Do I mean that little to her, still? Who is this Amon Goeth? What exactly did he do? Why do I know nothing about him? What was the story of Schindler’s List again? And what about the people I’ve heard referred to as Schindler’s Jews?
It has been a long time since I’ve seen the film. I remember that it came out in the middle of the 1990s, while I was studying in Israel. Everybody was talking about Steven Spielberg’s Holocaust movie. I didn’t watch it until later, on Israeli TV, alone in my room in my shared flat, in Rehov Engel—Engel Street—in Tel Aviv. I recall that I was touched by the film, but that I thought the end was a bit kitschy, too Hollywood.
Schindler’s List was just a film to me; it didn’t have anything to do with me personally.
Why has nobody told me the truth? Has everybody been lying to me for all these years?
Chika Unigwe
Born in Enugu State, Nigeria, she has degrees from the University of Nigeria and the KU Leuven, and holds a PhD from the University of Leiden in Holland. She is the author of four novels, including On Black Sisters’ Street (2011) and Night Dancer (2007). Her short stories have appeared in several literary journals. Her works have been translated into a number of languages, including German, Japanese, Hebrew, Italian, Hungarian, Spanish and Dutch. She was the 2016 Bonderman Assistant Professor of Literary Arts at Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. She lives with her family in Atlanta, Georgia, and is an Adjunct Professor of Writing at Emory University.
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