by Alan Paton
So the lieutenant went to his office and sat in his chair. And he thought beyond all doubt that the watcher must have told this boy, for the boy smiled at him always with shyness and admiration. And the whole of that afternoon he sat in the room with his fear. And it came to him, ask and it shall be given, and search and it shall be found, and knock and it shall be opened, if it be with a man’s whole heart. Therefore with his whole heart he asked and searched and knocked, in the room with his fear, till it was time to go to the rugby.
AND IT was there at the rugby I saw him again, who had not seen him these two whole days. He was grave and silent, and stood there like a man in authority, with Hannes de Jongh and the young dominee. He waved to me and Martha, and I thought he looked fine and true and myself a fool for my fears. For he did not play, as so many others did, in a smelling jersey and dirty shorts, but always in a clean white jersey, and white shorts shining from the iron. So that a stranger once said to me, who is the man in white, and I said, with the pride hiding in my voice, it’s my brother’s son, Pieter van Vlanderen. And the stranger said, of course, of course, and then he said again, of course, of course, in such a way that I would have favoured him, had I ever met him again.
But of his agony I knew nothing at all, nor that he watched the boy Vorster with such eyes. For sometimes on the field the boy Vorster said to him, when some chance came and they were perhaps waiting for the ball, how am I doing, lieutenant? And the lieutenant would say, Ag, you could be worse, and send the boy into some heaven of delight; for he was always smiling on the field, and ran every night when there was no practice, except Sundays, and came back red and sweating to his bath, and all to get a place in the lieutenant’s team.
Yet this day the boy was silent and withdrawn, and stood apart and did not smile and did not speak on the field at all. But I did not see it with my eyes. I knew it only when I read what was written down in prison.
And I said to him after the practice, are you coming tonight?
— No, I’m going to Kappie’s.
— Ag, I said, you were there last night.
— I didn’t go, he said.
— So we must suffer, I said.
He smiled at me.
— I’m coming tomorrow, he said.
— You haven’t forgotten the picnic?
— I haven’t forgotten, he said.
— We won’t go anywhere near the pan, I said.
He smiled at me.
I dared to say to him, why don’t you smile more often?
Then I wished I had not said it, for it wounded him in some secret place. He looked at me and looked away, and he could not hide from me his look of grief, though no one would have seen it but I. Therefore my fears returned to me, though whether it was this thing or something other I could not have said, but I knew it was a thing of fear.
So we walked back together from Slabbert’s field, he and Martha and I, and Hannes de Jongh and the young dominee. And the young dominee walked with Martha, and teased her about this and that, so that something came shining into her face and eyes. And I wondered if my nephew saw it too, but I did not know that he saw but one thing with his eyes, and that was young Vorster walking ahead of us. For young Vorster never walked ahead of us; he always walked with his lieutenant, but this night he walked back alone.
When he had got home and had his bath, he trifled with the food that the boy Johannes brought to him.
And the boy said, Baas, the baas isn’t eating his food.
— I’m not hungry, Johannes.
Then he said to the boy carelessly, What’s the talk amongst the black people, Johannes?
So the boy told him of this and that, but nothing of any account.
— And how is the old woman Esther?
And Johannes said to him, she’s very old.
So they talked about the old woman Esther, and they talked round and about her, so that if there had been anything of account, the boy would have told him. But never once did the boy mention the girl Stephanie. And the lieutenant thought himself a fool, for the boy, though his home was in the location, lived in the room behind the lieutenant’s house, and what would he know at all? Yet a man in despair catches at any straw.
— Johannes, fetch me the cigarettes.
Johannes fetched the cigarettes, and when he came back he said, has the master given up the pipe?
Then he went to Kappie’s, and they played the Moonlight Sonata, but Kappie says that the lieutenant did not listen to the music, but betrayed again and again the deep agony of his soul. And Kappie noticed the cigarettes, and the movements, and when there were no movements, the pain of the dark eyes. And he would have given anything to speak to the man that he loved, but he was afraid, as a man wishes to go in and takes a step to go in and dare not go in to the room of some great man.
Then the lieutenant returned, and heard in his bed the clock of the great church striking, eleven o’clock and twelve o’clock. So the first day of the terror passed. But not the terror, for he heard the clock strike one o’clock and two o’clock and three o’clock before God’s mercy gave him sleep.
AND THE SECOND DAY of the terror was as bad as the first, from the time that he took his cap and stick, and stood for a moment at the gate, saying to himself, Protect me this day, oh God most merciful, and then went into the street like a man going from safety into the danger of the unknown, and walked with fear towards van Onselen Street.
The boy Vorster was at the desk when he came in, and stood up and acknowledged him, with no smile but a drawn and unhappy face, like a man who has taken great steps for God and has publicly given his life and his possessions, and then finds that he no more believes in Him. So with a heavy heart the lieutenant went to his room, and there found some safety as he did in his house, within four walls where he could see no eyes and hear no voices and be given no rebuffs.
He went to the inspection, and if he saw anything, he said nothing. For had he said one word, however light or careless or generous, it might have loosed on him the hatred of a man who even now might have concealed on him a weapon, given to him by the watcher, that could destroy him. Therefore he would have suffered all. And the captain was still in the silent mood, and nodded to him as briefly as he would have done to any man.
But that very morning came the most frightening thing of all. He had to go to Labuschagne, at the Garage and Service Station, about some trifling thing; for the garage building was very small, and Labuschagne had got into the easy habit of taking out all the cars every morning and putting them into the street, and bringing them all in again at night. And lately he had got into the still easier habit of leaving them out both day and night, and the lieutenant went to tell him that it was favour enough that he should put them out in the day, but at least he must bring them in at night. He spoke courteously to Labuschagne, not as policeman to offender but as friend to friend; and Labuschagne was obliged for the lieutenant’s courtesy, and gave him a cup of coffee, and promised not to offend again. Labuschagne was so friendly that it could be seen that he had no secret knowledge, and the lonely and anxious lieutenant was for a moment lifted up, but no Labuschagne would ever have heard the drawing in of the breath of pain, or seen the mark of pain come between the eyes, when the lieutenant suddenly remembered the note, the note, and knew there could be no lifting up.
Then he left Labuschagne and walked back along van Onselen Street, and there was old Herman Geyer standing at his gate, for he like my brother had left his farm to his son and come to the town, and often stood at his gate, wanting the chance of a talk.
So the lieutenant called out cheerfully, goeie more, Meneer Geyer, it’s a lovely day today.
But old Geyer did not answer him with any word. He took the pipe from his mouth, and spat with anger and contempt. Then he turned his back to the lieutenant and walked up the path to his house.
Now one can imagine many things in fear. For a boy’s silence and withdrawal may be because of some trouble of his own; and your capt
ain’s silence may be because he is always silent. But when a man does not answer, and spits and turns, what other thing can that mean? So the great waves of fear rose yet higher and higher, and all his strength was drained out of his body, and his face was white as death, so that it would have been God’s mercy for him to die. He was afraid he might stumble and fall there in the street, so he went into our little park, which is no park at all but only a piece of the grass country fenced in and planted with trees, and there he sat on a seat and said, God have mercy upon me, O Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon me. And all the people went by in the street, and saw only the lieutenant taking a few moments from his duty to sit on a seat in the park, and did not know it was a man in agony, calling on God for mercy. For to them the sun was shining, and the doves were calling in the trees, and they had no trouble greater than General Smuts or the Government, or the rumour that the black people were planning a great strike and procession in Johannesburg.
Then he forced himself out of the safety of the park into the danger of the streets, and walked in fear to the Police Station, and saw again young Vorster silent and unhappy, and sat himself down again in the safety of his room. Then at one o’clock he forced himself out of the safety of his room and again into the danger of the streets, but he could not face old Herman Geyer’s house, and he turned down one of the other side streets, and turned left and left till he reached the safety of his house, which was a thing he could not remember to have ever done before. And he would not eat in the sun, but in the house; and he would not eat at all, but drank many cups of coffee, and smoked the cigarettes. And again he said what’s the talk amongst the black people, Johannes? But the boy could tell him nothing of account.
Then he went to his study, and did not take out the book with the paper again, for nothing could alter it. But he vowed and prayed, and longed for the war with Russia, or for the rain, that the rain would come down from the black and heavy sky, that would not open fitfully and show the sun but would be for ever heavy and black, day after day, week after week, pouring down out of lightning and thunder such water as had never been seen before, sweeping away the world, and all men’s miseries, and past offences, flooding the world so that when it recovered no man could remember what had been before. Or that the watcher would die, or that the girl Stephanie would die. Or that all else failing, he would die.
That was the first time I had thought of my own death, but I shrank from it, not because I was afraid to die, but because it seemed to me to be the one unforgivable thing, the destruction of God’s body, and the doubt of God’s mercy. And perhaps even yet some miracle might happen, though what I could not see. But so pitiful was my state that I went again to the book, and took to the dark corner of the room, and took out the note, hoping that by some great mercy the words had changed. But it said, I SAW YOU, even as before. So I began to think I might kill myself, if there were no miracle.
THEN HE forced himself out again into the street, not towards van Onselen Street and past Herman Geyer’s house, but away from van Onselen Street and then right and right, and back again into the safety of his room. And the day passed slowly and in agony.
That night he came to us, dark and silent and drawn, and we sat there at the meal, he and his mother and sister and I, and his darkness and silence hung like a pall over us, over his mother and me. For the young girl was in love. After dinner we went to my brother’s room, and my brother was in low spirits and sombre, and read to us from the tenth chapter of Job. And you may ask why I remember that, for my brother read from no plan, but of his choice and will. Yet I remember it because it is written there—
Wherefore hast thou brought me forth out of the womb? Oh that I had given up the ghost, and no eye had seen me! I should have been as though I had not been; I should have been carried from the womb to the grave.
AND I remembered that I had said, out of some childish mood, I am angry that I was born. And I remembered that he had said, out of some deep dark grief, it’s I that should be angry that I was born.
Yet it was not only I that remembered what my brother had read, but he also. For it is one of the things that he wrote down when he was in prison.
When he went back home we usually fussed over him to the door, and I would make some jest to him, such as, we never see you when the rugby’s on, or I would say, don’t wear out your welcome. And his mother would say, put on your coat, it’s cold, or she would say, you’re naughty not to bring a scarf. But tonight she said nothing to him, but gave him his coat and scarf, and looked at him with the look of care and love. And I said nothing also, but goodnight, my child when he kissed me, full on the lip, as he always does.
And when he had gone I looked at his mother, but she would not look at me. So the shadow fell over us too, the first cloud of the clouds of the storm that swept us all away. Yet she had no thoughts or knowledge of any storm, but only suffered for a child that was in trouble too deep for her to understand; and I think still that she thought it was Nella, and did not understand it. And I, I do not know what I thought, being confused between comfort and fear. So I went to my bed and prayed, and he went to his bed and prayed too, in the safety of his home where there was no safety, but only the striking of the hours that struck a day of terror out, and struck a day of terror in.
AND THE THIRD DAY of the terror was the worst, not because neither the captain nor the boy Vorster would smile or speak to him, but because Herman Geyer had spat and turned; and again he went through the back streets, and would not go past Geyer’s house. And still the boy Johannes could tell him nothing of account.
And he could not endure any longer to be tormented, and he thought he would go to the captain and ask him why he was so cold and silent. But suppose it were some other thing, some private thing that the captain kept for himself alone, and suppose the captain turned to him cold and angered, and said to him, van Vlaanderen, you forget yourself, be so good as to return to your duties.
Therefore when young Vorster came to his office with some papers, he said to him, sit down, and the boy sat down stiff and silent, as though he sat down because he was commanded, but would not from choice have sat in the room of such a man. Then the lieutenant went through the papers, but he saw that the boy would not look at him, but sat looking at the table, all stiff and silent.
Then the lieutenant, still looking at the papers, said to the boy carelessly, what’s the matter, Vorster?
But the boy did not answer him, and the lieutenant went on looking at the papers.
— I asked you what was the matter, he said.
— There’s nothing the matter, lieutenant.
And the lieutenant, greatly daring, said to the boy, that’s not true.
Then he said, you’re unhappy.
Then he said again, with a slight note of authority that he dared to put in his voice, you’re unhappy.
Then he said again, there’s something on your mind, but you don’t want to tell me.
And the boy looked at him briefly and said, that’s true. Then he looked away again.
Then the lieutenant, like a man going into the deep waters, said to the boy, you can tell me.
And the boy said, it’s a terrible thing to tell.
And the lieutenant said in a low voice, how terrible?
And the boy said in a low voice too, not looking at the lieutenant, very terrible.
And the lieutenant said, is it terrible news that you have heard?
And the boy said, yes.
— How did you hear it?
— In a letter.
And the lieutenant, in torment and anguish, said, may I see the letter?
But the boy did not answer him, and the lieutenant said to him desperately, may I see the letter?
For if there was such a letter, it had better be seen, far better to be struck down now and destroyed than to live in torment and anguish and yet be destroyed.
And the boy took out the letter, which was loose and not in any envelope, and gave it to the lieutenant
. And the lieutenant opened it slowly, with his whole heart breaking. And he saw that it was a letter from a shop in Johannesburg, threatening the boy for twenty pounds. And sitting in his chair he gave thanks to God for this great mercy.
— And you haven’t twenty pounds, he said.
— No, lieutenant.
— And you’re afraid your mother will know.
— Yes, lieutenant.
— And you couldn’t think of one human soul that would lend you twenty pounds.
— No, lieutenant.
So the lieutenant got out his cheque book and wrote out the cheque for twenty pounds. And he gave the boy the cheque, and the boy put down his head on the desk, and said, lieutenant, lieutenant, so that the lieutenant got up and closed the door, and went and stood by the window and let the boy finish with weeping.
When the boy had finished weeping, the lieutenant said to him, you’ve been in misery.
— Yes, lieutenant.
And the boy told him he had not slept, but had heard the great clock of the church striking, every night, hour by hour; and that he had been afraid that the captain and the lieutenant would hear of his shame, and he dared not go to any person for such a sum as twenty pounds.
He got up from his chair and he looked at the lieutenant out of the shining eyes.
— One day I’ll do something for you, lieutenant. I’ll never forget it.
And the lieutenant said with a sudden anger, Good God, do you think I’d see you in misery for twenty pounds?
So the boy went out, and no sooner had he gone out than the lieutenant gave thanks again for this great mercy. And he dared to hope that there might be a greater mercy. Yet the hope died in him when he remembered the note, and the way old Herman Geyer had spat and turned. But the hope returned when he thought of the mercy of this boy and his twenty pounds.