Dear Wolf
I used to think I was connected to you by some invisible thread. We used to know what the other was thinking. We used to finish each other’s sentences. I thought I would know if something happened to you, but I have felt nothing of the kind. Maybe that means you are still alive. Maybe I would know for sure if you were dead. I cling on to this. I imagine the three of you riding free. I picture you crouched over a cooking fire, trying to make my bread. I see you browned by the sun, your eyes full of life. You are not like the beaten, hollow Boers I see driving wagons for the British. The hendsoppers. I can’t let you be.
Winter this year is the worst I can remember. Is it because we are sleeping on the ground in these makeshift shelters? Or is it really terribly, terribly cold? Snow has lain thick on the ground for days now, and most of us are without shoes. My big feet have grown even bigger since I came here. I wore my old shoes until they were so painful to put on, I could not bear it any longer. Now I wish I had held on to them, even if to just half slip on so that I could walk in the snow. Our feet are bound in rags. Even rags are precious here.
I have seen such cleverness in this camp, though. Andries and Helena were married in May, and her mother made new dresses from scraps. Old dresses and cloth cut into something new. I hope I can do the same when this is over – reconfigure myself into something new and beautiful – because right now I am only scrap. Too ill-fitting and tatty to be appealing to anyone.
The dresses were beautiful, ingenious in their design. Ma Maria cut those precious fabrics to fit the girls perfectly, and they could have walked into town with their heads held high. The wedding party gathered for a photograph, standing proud in their wedding finery.
Yes, life goes on here. Even in the bitter cold, amidst the death and the grieving. I sometimes wish it didn’t. I sometimes despise the laughter and chatter, the children playing in the stones. I want the world to stand still and acknowledge my despair.
I have heard nothing of the others. I beg for news from anyone new to camp, even from the soldiers who come from the blockhouse. They sneer at me. They say the commandos are gone; they say they have run away and left us. But I know that is not true.
I try not to think of the others at all. If they are in a camp like this, I can’t pretend that everything is well with them. I won’t write their names in case the words draw pictures in my head. But I can’t help Lizzie and Kristina visiting me at night when I’m asleep. They crawl into bed with me like they used to at home. But their bodies are no longer soft and warm, their breath sweet on my face. They are bony and cold. I wake with such gut-wrenching fear and then I feel the ground hard and cold below my blankets, my own knobbly spine and hips and shoulders never finding a soft place. I tell myself it was just this discomfort that made me dream so.
Come for me, Wolf.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hannah spent every spare moment to translate the journal. She had made good progress, but every time she delved back into Rachel’s story, she felt an urgency to find out what had happened to the family. As if finding the Badenhorsts would save Rachel from the terrible anxiety and fear the girl had lived with in the camp. Hannah had arranged with Barbara and planned to go to the Bloemfontein archives that week.
Joseph too had made progress, pulling strings at the University of Cape Town; Hannah didn’t want to know exactly what strings. A team of students were going to arrive at Goshen after Christmas, and Sarah had insisted on managing the logistics. Where usually they would set up camp at the site, she was planning to put them up in one of the sheds behind the main house. She had the shed swept clean, and Neil supervised the installation of basic wooden partitions to divide the enormous space into two dormitories, a rustic ablution area, and a living space. A gas stove and ancient fridge had already been installed, and Sarah was on the hunt in the district for folding chairs and mattresses. She and Joseph were getting on famously, his charm set to full blast, with Sarah enjoying every minute.
Joseph had told Neil that, if he had been around forty years previously, Neil wouldn’t have stood a chance with Sarah. Neil, secretly flattered, had replied it was a good thing Joseph hadn’t been around then. That finding Joseph’s remains buried on the plateau would have confused the dig mightily. Joseph found this hilarious. As a result, he had made himself at home on Goshen, and was coming and going as he pleased within days. Hannah juggled marvelling at his brazenness and being thoroughly irritated she couldn’t muster the same unabashed assurance.
Leliehoek had filled up for the holidays and the shop was seeing more business than Hannah had thought possible in a small town. Anticipating the holidaymakers and knowing the kinds of books she herself liked to read on holiday, she had ordered a range of paperback bestsellers which had sold remarkably well. She had also experimented with books which might be good Christmas gifts and found, to her surprise, that she had been right. A selection of classic children’s books had flown off the shelves, as had a selection of new South African War books and coffee table books of the area. She was thrilled with her December turnover, knowing it would carry the shop through its quieter months.
Kathryn, on the other hand, completely run off her feet, was wishing the holidays over, or so she told Hannah when they had the chance to have a quick coffee. Kathryn had even roped Douglas in to wait tables but had discovered he was more hindrance than help. He chatted so much to the patrons that they stayed far too long, and she couldn’t turn the tables over fast enough. Eventually, as Christmas drew closer, he apologetically asked if he could be excused to prepare his Christmas services and Kathryn had to pretend she was disappointed. Christmas itself was always tough for Kathryn. She was exhausted by the time it arrived and then had to muster the energy to put on the best possible day for her kids. Doing it alone was all the more difficult. Every year, she packed a hamper to send to Durban, and filled it with food and a set of new clothes. She included photographs of the children and art they had produced. Every year, Kathryn confided in Hannah, she wondered if her husband would even open the box, let alone recognise the love which was packed into it. In the beginning, she had hoped it would bring him home, but as the years passed, she began to hope it would not. She had let go of the dream they could reconcile, and it was a logical progression from there that she should begin to think about divorce. But she was not quite ready yet.
* * *
Alistair, meanwhile, was immersed in researching the history of the area. Canvassing the farmers in the district for any scrap of information, he had gathered that most farms had been razed and left desolate, the families relocated to camps in Winburg, Harrismith, or even further afield. He heard about heirloom rifles and pianos, Bibles and furniture that had been dug from their hiding places after the war.
Alistair had spent a long time with Mrs Venter, an elderly lady who had lived her whole life in the area. She was the fifth generation of Van Rooyens on the family farm. It was now run down, her children not interested in or capable of restoring it. Alistair sat with her in her creaking lounge, the ceilings sagging and the plaster cracking off the stone. The house had been rebuilt after the South African War, the heavy stones moved up a small slope to a new site. She led Alistair out of the house to a sheep kraal, a rondavel shelter standing in the middle. ‘Under that mud plaster is stone,’ she said in her reedy voice, pointing at the rondavel. ‘That is the dwelling where the elderly grandparents lived when everyone else fled the farm. The only building left standing after the British came through. They burnt everything else. The men were off on commando, and the women and children hid in a big cave in those hills.’ She turned and pointed to the steep sandstone faces behind the house. ‘There was much movement by both sides after Surrender Hill, and from that cave you can see the whole valley. Those crafty women developed a signal system with mirrors to warn the Boers when the British were coming. Ha! Teach them to burn our farm!’ A sadness shadowed her face, and she suddenly looked tired, her ninety-five years heavy on her. ‘I hope that
whoever buys this place doesn’t knock down that old rondavel. It’s seen some things in its time.’
Alistair felt an overwhelming urge to bundle this feisty old woman up in a big hug and tell her that he would buy and fix her farm. What a disgrace that her children could let her down, pursue their own ends in Johannesburg, and leave her to fret about her home. But this was happening all over the Free State. It was a tragic but common story. People from the cities would come, snap up this place for a song, and renovate the life out of it. It would stand empty for weeks while they alternated between their beach and berg holiday houses.
Mrs Venter had walked him to his car, a little crossbreed dog at her feet, and stood on her tiptoes to receive his soft kiss on her cheek. She patted him on his. ‘You’re a good boy, Alistair.’ He drove off, concerned about leaving her alone on such a big place, and thinking he must talk to his parents. Something had to be done for her.
A week later he had concluded that, despite the wealth of anecdotal information, there was little detailed knowledge of the British army in the area. He realised he would have to look in the archives to find more official documentation.
When he called the bookshop one morning, it was Barbara who answered.
‘Hannah’s just busy with a customer.’ He could hear her hand muffle the receiver before she said, ‘Alistair, may I take a message and she’ll call you right back?’
‘Um, yes. I wanted to know if she was still going up to Bloemfontein this week.’ He paused, feeling awkward, knowing that the speculation would hit the streets of Leliehoek in a matter of minutes. ‘Tomorrow? I was wanting to tag along – would she mind?’
Alistair could hear Barbara’s smile across the phone line. ‘I’m standing in for her tomorrow. Why don’t you pick her up early, say six o’clock?’
Alistair wasn’t sure how Hannah would deal with the arrangements being made on her behalf, but he wanted to end the call as quickly as possible. ‘Fine. Thanks, Barbara. Goodbye.’
Barbara replaced the phone in its cradle.
‘What did he want?’ said Hannah, returning to the desk and beginning to ring up a sale.
Barbara took the books on the counter and packed them into a brown paper carrier bag. ‘He phoned to say he’d drive you to Bloem tomorrow.’
‘What? I don’t need to be driven to Bloem. I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.’
‘Of course you are.’ Barbara’s attempt to sound soothing was undermined by her grin. ‘But why be a feminist when you can be chauffeured?’
Hannah harrumphed in reply.
‘He’s picking you up at six. Put something nice on.’
Scowling, Hannah returned her attention to the computer while a still-grinning Barbara handed the parcel to the bemused customer.
The following morning, Alistair pulled up outside Hannah’s gate as she stepped out onto the deck. She’d chosen a soft skirt that came to her knees, and a light cardigan over a strappy vest top. Wearing just the barest of make-up, she had left her hair loose to fall to her shoulders. She hoped he wouldn’t notice her efforts. He held the door for her and, as he walked around the front of the truck to the driver’s door, she saw him smile and lightly tap the bonnet of the car. Dammit, he had noticed. She tucked her skirt under her legs and pulled the cardigan closed over her chest, not meeting his eye.
It was only when they had left Leliehoek behind that she turned to him. ‘Why did you want to come with me?’
He glanced across at her, perhaps trying to read her mood. ‘I have some things to look up at the archives too, so I thought we might as well travel together.’
‘Oh.’
‘I want to find out where the blockhouses were built in our area. The anecdotal information I’ve found so far is more to do with Boer farms and the camps than the British army’s positions.’
‘I suppose that would make sense if Leliehoek farmers are mostly Boer descendants. Aren’t there still blockhouses which remain?’
‘Not in our area, it would seem. Maybe the Boers demolished them when they returned to their farms.’
‘I certainly would,’ said Hannah, thinking of the families returning to devastated farms and burnt-out homesteads. ‘I wouldn’t want any reminder of what the war had done to my home.’
‘And building materials would also have been in short supply,’ said Alistair. ‘Corrugated-iron sheets and bricks would’ve been very useful in rebuilding. If we can establish where the blockhouse line ran, then it might explain why a camp was built on Goshen, so far from the railway.’ He glanced at Hannah, who had relaxed as the conversation had shifted away from themselves. ‘What is your agenda for today?’ he asked.
‘I need to find out what happened to the Badenhorst family. I know it doesn’t have particular bearing on the Goshen camp, because they were sent to another one, but not knowing is gnawing at me.’ Hannah propped her forehead into the cup of her hand, her elbow leaning on the window frame. ‘Imagine being separated from your family and having to spend at least two years in a camp, not knowing where they were or if they were still alive. Rachel’s despair is driving me crazy. I can’t bear it. What if she never found out?’
Alistair smiled at her, his eyes gentle. ‘It’s rather lovely actually. You care deeply for her and want to help. That it’s over a hundred years down the line is inconsequential.’
As they approached Bethlehem, Hannah watched the mountains of the eastern Free State fall away and the land begin to flatten out, stretching to the horizon.
‘Did you know,’ said Alistair, raising a smile from Hannah, ‘Bethlehem got its name from the Hebrew?’
Hannah laughed. ‘No! I’d never have guessed.’
Alistair persisted, now grinning. ‘It means, “House of Bread”,’ he gestured out the window, ‘and, as you can see, it makes a lot sense.’
In every direction stretched vast fields of wheat, and Hannah smiled at him. ‘I actually did not know that.’
It was nine o’clock when they reached Bloemfontein, the Free State’s bustling capital. The archives were housed in an unprepossessing house on the university campus. It sat on Badenhorst Street which struck Hannah as a promising coincidence. Alistair parked outside and pressed the gate intercom. They were buzzed through and followed signs to the reading room. An impeccably dressed lady worked behind the desk and looked up as they approached. Her hair was braided in intricate patterns over her scalp. She stood to explain the reading-room procedure, handing them request forms.
Hannah and Alistair sat at adjacent tables and began to fill in the forms from the notes they had made from their online searches. When they handed them to the lady, she disappeared through a door behind the counter. Twenty minutes later, she returned, pushing a wooden trolley, the shelves loaded with brown cardboard box files. She left the trolley between their tables and returned to her desk.
Hannah opened one box at a time, sifting through the documents in each. When she came to the boxes of death notices from Winburg Refugee Camp, she reached for her notebook and settled in to read them at length. With a mix of horror and fascination, she ran her finger down each page, eyes scanning the columns. Too many of the dead were small children.
She found Rachel’s youngest sister, little Lizzie, first. Elizabeth Badenhorst, dead in June 1901 from diphtheria. Rachel’s ma, Aletta, died a month later, from typhoid. Beautiful, wild Kristina at the end of 1901 from measles. And Oupa Jakob in the winter of 1902. Hannah’s throat caught as she took in the implications of this loss. Rachel’s sisters, her mother, her grandfather – all gone while she sat on Goshen, longing for them, fearing for their lives and wishing for the day when they would be reunited on the farm. She looked again at the dates she’d scrawled, and her heart twisted at the thought of gentle, wise Oupa Jakob, nursing the last of his girls alone, until Kristina too was dead. Those last six months of his life must’ve been desolate.
Hannah sat back in her chair, her heart sore in her chest. She had expected to find that one or two of
the family had been lost at Winburg. But all? She thought of the photographs in the album at Silwerfontein, of the little girls in their best dresses. Their faces without the formality of the adults’ capturred, their eyes alive, and bodies just before they were cast into motion once again. And Ma. Firm, capable, fiery Ma, who couldn’t save her children in the end.
She thought of Wolf’s wedding portrait from after the war, his solemn face and distant gaze. No wonder he couldn’t summon any lightness on his wedding day. He had returned from commando to find the house destroyed and empty, the women of his family gone.
Alistair looked up from the piles of papers on his table, seeing Hannah’s face.
‘You found them.’
She nodded. ‘All dead.’ She looked back down at the papers. ‘I can’t actually believe it. All of them? That leaves only the two sons and their father.’
‘And Rachel,’ said Alistair.
‘And Rachel,’ she repeated. ‘Although, who knows for how much longer. I mean, I only found Wolf’s grave. What if he was the sole survivor? How terribly tragic.’
Hannah felt Alistair’s sympathy and took comfort in his gentle, ‘Sorry, Hannah.’ He paused for a bit, watching her. ‘Do you want to go?’
She nodded and gathered up the files, replacing them on the trolley.
Outside, the midday heat was heavy on her skin, the seats in the baking-hot Toyota burning the backs of her legs. Rolling down the window only marginally helped. She could feel Alistair’s eyes on her.
‘Are you hungry?’ he said. ‘I’m going to need some food before we head home.’
‘Can we get a take-away?’ she said, not feeling like being in Bloem any longer. ‘I’d like to be back before the end of the day.’
They were quiet while Alistair negotiated his way around the campus. Hannah rolled her discovery around in her mind. Fumbling with her sense of loss. They found a cafeteria, which in term-time would have been packed with students, but now was largely empty except for a few staff members. Alistair insisted on paying and they carried their salad wraps and icy cold Cokes back to the car. Alistair unwrapped the wax paper and demolished his in five big bites, then started the engine, his cooldrink sitting between his thighs where he could reach it. Hannah felt slightly nauseous, and tried to force a few mouthfuls down before rewrapping the paper and putting it in her bag.
An Unquiet Place Page 17