The Cuban

by Paul Eksteen

  We arrived at the refugee camp five days later, cold, miserable and underfed. We got there at noon and, just as we got close to the gate, a bare wagon drawn by horses drove past us.

  On the wagon were six coffins, two large ones and four small ones. The wagon was followed by a procession of mourners. Surely nothing could have been a more ominous welcome.

  As we entered the camp, we were directed to the commandant’s tent. Here our names, ages and address were booked. We were told to find a place to sleep and to return the next day for a ration ticket and instructions of where we would stay.

  We were not on the rations list yet, and there were no tents for us to sleep in that night. Luckily some of the older refugees took care of us, giving us blankets to share and some of their rations.

  We were awake early the next morning, trying to figure out what was going on. Some of the other prisoners had been there for nine months already. The round white tents were pitched in many rows. More than I could count. On the one side of the camp was a small river where we could wash, and on the other side was the cemetery.

  We spent the first day cutting grass to cover the wet floor of our tent so that we could at least sleep in a dry space.

  When we arrived, there was still grass here and there, but before long there was just red earth and dust, and thick red mud when it rained.

  The summer nights in the tents were cold and in the winter, it became too cold to sleep.

  With the ration ticket we received a little flour, some black sugar, coffee, salt and sometimes a piece of meat. Most times it seemed impossible that the meat was intended for human use. The meat looked like flesh of an animal that died of malnutrition or disease. Mamma often made a hole next to our tent and buried the meat. It would do us more harm than good if we ate it.

  I had to queue for our rations as my mother had to assist with sick children. The standing made me tired because I was so hungry.

  There was not enough firewood for each family and the trees and shrubs within kilometres of the camp had already been chopped down for that purpose. We would be lucky to get enough firewood to enable us to cook once a day. The soldiers even used the crutches of one of the old ladies to cook their food.

  When we asked the commandant why we were taken from our farm, he replied, “Because you supply your burghers and commandoes in the veldt with food.” The version the people in England heard was that the camps were an act of humanity to save the Boer families from starvation!

  There were many handsuppers and joiners working for the English in the camp. Our own people. And it was they who were the hardest on the women. One of these joiners was in charge of the discipline in the camp. He had made a small barbed wire enclosure, with no shade and no protection from the wind. In this enclosure he would put the women who broke the camp rules. Their children would stand and cry outside the wire.

  A funeral procession was a daily occurrence. Those who had a family or friends were buried in coffins. The rest were placed on the wagon two to six at a time and were carted away to mass graves.

  Eight per day was the average death rate when we were there. My baby sister was the first of our family to die. She lasted for four months in the camp before the measles took her.

  Bad food, bad sanitation, bad shelter, wet floors and insufficient covering in the severe weather were amongst the causes. Disease itself would not have claimed so many victims, but when a disease such as measles came, our constitutions had been so undermined by hardships suffered, that barely anyone survived.

  Then my other sister, who was two years younger than me, became ill with stomach sickness. First, she couldn’t walk any more and went back to crawling like a toddler. A few weeks later she only lay still. When she lay on her side her cheeks were so fallen that we could see the shape of each one of her teeth in her mouth. When she passed away from starvation and dehydration another two months later, my mother couldn’t take it any more.

  “We have to escape,” she informed me and my brother one night. “In two days’ time it will be new moon. That will be our chance. I have saved a few scraps of food and water. We will then make a run for it. If we stay here, all of us will eventually die.”

  There were almost no children left in the camp. At that time almost ten children were dying every day.

  The three of them made a run for it, two nights later. Three days in the veldt on their own and the Kakies got hold of them. Hannie was shoved into an aardvark hole while her mother and brother tried to run away from the Kakies. They were both shot dead and left in the veldt for the scavengers.

  Two days later, a young boerseun from the area found Hannie by chance whilst setting traps for gamebirds. Upon finding her, he immediately ran home to report his finding to his mother. His father was out with the Boer patrols fighting the English. He thought Hannie to be dead.

  They found Hannie where she was curled up next to the bodies of her murdered brother and mother. She was undernourished and had a high fever.

  They took her to their farmhouse where she was looked after by the boy, his mother and her old parents until the end of the war, six months later. The Coetzees. They buried her mother and brother on the spot where they were killed as it was too difficult to move them. There was not really any other place to bury them anyway.

  The English troops arrived a week after Hannie was found. They opened the two graves and lifted the coffins from the graves, in spite of the repeated assurances that they contained nothing but the remains of Hannie’s brother and mother.

  The Coetzees replaced the coffins and repaired the graves whilst the troops camped upon the farm for another seven days.

  Hannie survived the undernourishment, but it took her fragile body more than three months to recover. She told me that she had to make a decision; how much did she want to live? How often did she wish she was dead with her family? Once she made the decision to live, her body grew stronger.

  After the war ended, a message was sent to her father who had returned to the farm to find it completely destroyed. He collected Hannie from her saviours and started to rebuild the farm.

  Hannie did not forget the young boy who found her in the veldt and was not surprised when he arrived on the farm a few years later.

  The young boy visited her regularly. They decided, ten years later, to start afresh in the far northern part of the Transvaal. On a farm fifty kilometres to the west of the newly founded town, Louis Trichardt.

  The town was founded in 1899 and named after a well-known Voortrekker leader who camped in the area sixty years earlier. He eventually moved on towards Lourenco Marques (later Maputo) where almost everyone in his trek died of malaria.

  It was here that Miss Hannie Strydom became Missus Hannes Coetzee.

  They moved to a farm between the western tip of the Soutpansberg and Blouberg where Hannie and her husband started breeding cattle.

  Hannie’s father never could adapt on his burned-down farm in the western Transvaal and was more than happy to move away to the Soutpansberg with the two newlyweds.

  He discovered a forest of yellow-wood trees at Blouberg and became an avid carpenter, making furniture for their home, and selling to other local farmers.

  Hannes was employed at the salt pans ten kilometres away on the northern side of the mountain where he eventually became the manager.

  In those days he had to travel on horseback to the mine from his farm, armed with his Mauser rifle to protect himself from lion attacks.

  ***

  I recollected the struggle of Ouma Hannie many times after the death of Antoinette. I had to make a similar decision. And after the decision was made, I could start functioning normally again.

  The ringing of my mobile phone brought my drifting mind back to reality. It was Karlien, telling me that supper was about to be served.

  CHAPTER 7

  Bloemfontein — Monday, 2 March

  The Doctor was just finishing his early morning rounds, when a nurse came up to him to tell him tha
t there was an urgent call waiting for him in his office.

  He followed the nurse down the corridor and when she turned left to her desk at reception, he turned right into his own office.

  He was wondering where the call might be from. He applied for a transfer to the State Hospital in Pretoria a few months ago but was not sure about it being successful. He also applied for a position in Spain, but he knew that such postings normally took quite some time. And they won’t call you with news either. They will send you an email.

  He saw a light blinking on his telephone console and picked up the handset. “Good day, how can I assist you?”

  “Hallo Doctor, it is Lillynn speaking. We’ve got a problem.”

  He felt his legs go numb and walked around his desk to take a seat in his imitation leather armchair.

  The Cuban lady had first phoned him two weeks ago. A week after they initially met. She had information for him, and a plan.

  The Doctor couldn’t believe his luck. She didn’t want to give him any information over the phone. Her voice was wavering and sounded nervous. He had to drive to Pretoria to meet her. He drove through that same night to meet with her.

  It was the breakthrough that he had been waiting for.

  It sounded too good to be true.

  Say the information was incorrect?

  But what could he loose?

  “I’ve done as you instructed. What is the problem?”

  The line was quiet on the other side. The Doctor was just getting impatient when: “We have to meet. Somehow you screwed up. I can’t talk on the phone. Meet me on Friday in Pretoria. Not the same place. It is too risky.”

  He would have to drive to Pretoria again on Friday to meet with the lady.

  “No problem. You will let me know where?”

  He was working in the TOP clinic during the week with Dr Ramirez, unless there was an emergency elsewhere. He also had to work twenty hours in the emergency ward every second weekend but had done his stint the previous weekend.

  He had twelve days’ accrued leave due to him of which he would use a day to visit Lillynn in Pretoria.

  “Drive through and meet me after four in the afternoon. I will let you know the location Friday at three. Goodbye.”

  The Doctor slowly removed the handset from his ear and put it down on its cradle. His could feel his heart beating twice as fast as it normally would. He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. What went wrong? Lillynn had a plan, which he followed step by step. He was good at following orders.

  He had to pay money into a bank account in cash. That was the most difficult part of the plan. But, according to him, everything went smoothly. He withdrew the cash from two different accounts over two days. Nothing suspicious. And then deposited it at a small branch into the recipient’s account. He even phoned to make sure that the money was transferred.

  Everything went as per Lillynn’s plan.

  He shook his head. He paid the money into an account of which he did not know the beneficiary. It couldn’t be a scam. If it was, Lillynn wouldn’t be phoning him to arrange for a meeting.

  His eyes focused on a photo in a silver frame on his desk. The photo was taken more than twenty years ago.

  It was a photo of him and his parents. His mother was six months pregnant with his sister and was standing smiling next to his father. His father held him in his left arm, while he had his arms around his father’s neck.

  It was the last photo taken before his father died in the line of duty.

  CHAPTER 8

  SAPS, Polokwane — Wednesday, 4 March

  It was early on Wednesday morning when I climbed the eight sets of stairs to the fourth floor of the Polokwane police station. The lifts were still not in working order since the last time I’d been here, about six months ago.

  I was not overly surprised when I didn’t find Detective Warrant Officer Manakhe in his office at seven, the time scheduled for our meeting.

  After pacing up and down in the hallway for thirty minutes, I decided to give him a call. I was getting slightly irritated as I had a charity golf day on today, and my tee off time was scheduled for ten.

  I didn’t really have anything else to do, but I know that if I didn’t see Manakhe today, I would have to return again tomorrow or the day after. And now it seemed that, if I eventually get hold of my ‘friend’, I would be missing my golf game.

  The golf day was a fundraiser for the grade eight hockey team tour for which Danielle played. Their team will be touring to Gauteng to play the top five hockey schools as a training exercise, and to gain some experience.

  The detective answered his phone after it rang for two full minutes. He sounded surprised to hear my voice and told me that he was sitting in the canteen on the first floor.

  I slowly descended the stairs whilst counting to a hundred to get rid of the irritation in my system. I joined him five minutes later in the canteen for a cup of coffee.

  “It is the problem with the lifts, you know,” he explained. “It is very hard work to climb these stairs, so I have moved my office to the canteen.” He winked at me, “Unofficially of course.”.

  I decided not to reply out loud. At least he sort of apologised which should be respected, coming from a government employee.

  Luckily, he had the docket with him. “I called you yesterday to set up this meeting to inform you that the docket will be moved to the SAPS fraud branch at Head Office in Pretoria. Sorry, but I can do nothing more for you. Fraud HQ will contact you if they need more information.”

  And, with that, the meeting was over. I left my half-drunk cup of sewer water on the table, and left for the golf club, not bothering to count this time.

  I ended up at the golf club an hour before tee-off time and decided to hit a few balls on the driving range. Letting go at small white balls with a huge number one wood was a pretty good way of getting rid of the frustration caused by my meeting.

  I was not an avid golfer — I played four or five times a year at fundraisers or when customers could con me into sponsoring something for a good cause.

  Karlien bought me a Big Bertha driver for Christmas and this would be the first opportunity for me to use it. After emptying the bucket of golf balls on the range, I had a good idea of how to compensate for my constant draw. I strolled back to the clubhouse looking for my partners of the day.

  I was playing in a four ball with a farmer from Levubu and an estate agent and his father from Polokwane. The farmer, Deon, and the estate agent, Theo, both had daughters playing with Danielle in the same hockey team.

  I knew the farmer from Danielle’s primary school days but luckily never had the misfortune of playing with him in a four ball. His normal way of introduction would be: “Hi, I’m Deon Schoeman and I was a Parabat in the army”.

  And for the rest of the day, he would entertain you with his tarnished army tales. The fact that he did his National Service in the 1990s, years after the real war was fought, does not seem to stop his tales of heroism.

  He was farming with his father-in-law on a farm near Levubu, twenty odd kilometres to the east of Louis Trichardt, and would buy a rebuilt bakkie every two years from Papillon. A client and, therefore, someone I had to be nice to.

  I was going to be good at counting by the end of this day!

  Theo Retief and his dad made a good team and challenged Deon and me to a personal competition as we walked to the first tee. Both Deon and I had high handicaps with the two Retiefs playing at low handicaps. It made for an interesting day with the Retiefs beating us by a marginal point.

  I drank a few beers with some of the other parents at the clubhouse after taking a shower and sneaked away just before the prize-giving ceremony started.

  I had done my share for the day, and I could go home for a quiet early evening.

  But what I saw on the screen of my phone as I got to my car, shattered all peaceful thoughts.

  1205038.

  Damn, I have to be in Pretoria tomorrow!

>   CHAPTER 9

  Elardus Park — Thursday, 5 March

  It was just before twelve and I was sitting at Ocean Basket in Elardus Park, looking at the menu and waiting for the waiter with my glass of wine.

  I was waiting for Nic. After receiving his message, the previous day, I’d spent most of the night in my La-Z-Boy in my studio contemplating what it was all about.

  And I could come up with no answers. At least this time, Nic should be happy with my performance. The second instalment on my Atlantis contract was paid into my bank account in Malta. That was a good sign.

  Nic hobbled in with his characteristic limp and took the seat opposite me. On time. He must be impressed with me.

  “What are we having?” he asked.

  “Calamari.”

  When I eat in a restaurant I try whenever possible to eat something I do not get at home. And the Ocean Basket’s calamari was the best.

  “Tom, I’ve got bad news again.”

  Shit.

  What was it this time? I have really behaved well lately, completing contracts in time. Nic and the SSA should be happy with my performance.

  “Tom, your profile at SSA was hacked two weeks ago.”

  I could feel something heavy settle in the pit of my stomach. This was something that was not supposed to happen. My personal file was rated ‘Top Secret’ and there were only two or three people who had access to it.

  Nic’s favourite saying was; “National Security — it trumps the Constitution”. And because of my role in National Security, not many people were supposed to know about me.

  “You told me that one needed a pretty high security clearance to get to my file.”

  “We are looking into it, Tom.”

  “What do you mean you are looking into it? And why wait two weeks before telling me? Your looking will show you that the person who accessed the file is working at the SSA.”

  “That we know Tom. It is actually worse than that. We know who, but not why. That is why I had to wait. We had to do an internal investigation first.”