Detlev, who was already awake, called down from above, ‘How could you ride and walk at the same time?’
Reaching into the wagon, General de Groot pulled the boy out and tossed him in the air. When he set him on the ground he said, ‘You do what you have to do. Once I helped carry this wagon down the Drakensberg.’
‘What will you do, sleeping down there, if it rains?’ Detlev asked.
‘I won’t let it rain,’ De Groot promised, and during the four weeks it took to assemble a kind of roof over one room of the ruined farmhouse, it did not.
In the second week they stopped work when Detlev cried, ‘People coming!’ Across the veld they saw a distant file walking toward them, and ominously Jakob reached for his gun. ‘Kaffirs,’ he said, indicating that his son must stand behind him.
In the chaos after the war, bands of homeless hungry blacks had started raiding Boer farms in the district, stealing what they could find and roughing up any farmer who tried to protest, but there was nothing to fear from this company, for Detlev shouted, ‘It’s Micah!’
At the sight of only three Van Doorns and one De Groot, tears began to roll from Micah’s eyes, for he knew that the absence of the others could mean only one thing, for he, too, was returning from a camp, one for blacks, in which his family and friends had been interned, and of his four wives, only two had survived; of nine children, only three were left.
The suffering of these black Boers would go unrecorded. Even Maud Turner Saltwood, who had done so much for Boer women and children, had to admit, in a final report, that the situation of the black internees had been without hope: ‘Beyond affording a little relief to the sick in the few camps I visited, we were able to do nothing.’ More than one hundred thousand blacks and Coloureds had been herded behind barbed wire; how many came out alive would never be known.
When De Groot learned of Nxumalo’s heavy loss he was overwhelmed. In a gesture from the heart he held out his arms to his saddle companion and embraced him: ‘Kaffirjie, as true as there’s a God in heaven we’ll not forget what they did to both of us. Stay close and one day we’ll ride again.’
Nxumalo nodded.
‘This what’s left of your family?’ the general asked, and when Nxumalo nodded again, the old man took a step back to survey the land where the handsome rondavels had once stood. ‘We must all start over. But this time, by God, they’ll not be able to burn down what we build.’
So Nxumalo and his people returned to their security at Vrymeer, and he sketched in the ruins how his women must build the new huts. Early next morning he led the men who’d accompanied him from the camp to the Van Doorns’ farmhouse, where they all started work. They did not ask what the arrangement would be for their employment. They just carried on as before.
The Van Doorns were surprised at the end of the first month when the old general informed them that since they now had protection from the weather, he would like to start rebuilding his farm. ‘But you’re to live with us,’ Johanna protested with great warmth.
‘No, I want a place of my own.’
‘Who will cook? How will you live?’
The answer came from one of Nxumalo’s wives. ‘He is old,’ she said. ‘He needs help. We go to his place.’ And Micah agreed that the woman and a young girl must accompany the old warrior to his shattered home.
Utilizing the foundation of what at best had been a miserable house, they put together what could only be called a hartebeest hut, a pitiful affair with a flap-door and no windows. One morning as Jakob surveyed the astonishing place he thought: In our barbarism we retreat many centuries. A hundred years ago our people lived better than this. Two hundred years ago they surely built better huts.
Could he have gone back to the year when Mal Adriaan, Dikkop and Swarts lived here beside the lake, he would have found them in simpler but better quarters than these, and certainly in the days of the first Nxumalo the village and fine rondavels that stood here were superior to what the old man occupied. The centuries pass, Jakob thought, and men stay about where they were.
The rains were coming late this year, producing a drought so severe that many farmers in the area, faced by the necessity to rebuild and also to fight dust, were giving up and moving to Johannesburg, where they could at least find some kind of employment in the mines. ‘I don’t like this,’ the general complained when he heard that four families had pulled up stakes and headed for the city. ‘Boers are farmers. Our name says that. We don’t do well in cities. The damned mines, they’re for the Englishmen and Hoggenheimer.’
‘Who’s Hoggenheimer?’ Detlev asked.
‘The Jew who owns the mines,’ and he produced a newspaper which had been circulated avidly from farm to farm. It contained two biting cartoons by a persuasive artist named Boonzaaier, showing a bloated Jew, fingers bejeweled, vest enclosing a gigantic belly, cigar at an angle, wearing a derby while gorging on the food for which starving Boers pleaded in vain. That was Hoggenheimer, and on him was thrown the blame for everything ill that was happening in the conquered republics.
‘If you ever run away to Johannesburg,’ the old man said, ‘you’ll meet Hoggenheimer.’
The old general came over to the Van Doorn farm quite often, riding his pony, wearing his frock coat and sometimes his top hat. He came not for food or companionship, but to supervise the education of young Detlev: ‘You must remember that your great-grandfather, one of the finest men who ever lived, was dragged to an English court, where a Kaffir was allowed to bring testimony against him …’ Night after night he reviewed with Detlev the vast wrongs done by the English at Slagter’s Nek and at Chrissiesmeer, where they put ground glass in the meal. ‘Never trust an Englishman,’ De Groot reiterated. ‘They’ve stolen your country.’
‘But Mrs. Saltwood was English,’ Detlev said. ‘She brought the food that kept us alive.’
De Groot remembering how he had confronted Mrs. Saltwood on the stoep at De Kraal, would concede only that ‘some few English ladies, yes, they had hearts.’ But having granted this, he would proceed with the litany: Slagter’s Nek … Kitchener … glass in the meal.
The education was fiercely effective and achieved precisely what De Groot intended. ‘Detlev, your father and I fought our battles, and we lost. You will fight other battles, and you will win.’
‘I can shoot straight.’
‘Every Boer boy can shoot straight,’ and he would digress to tell the boy of how his men, always outnumbered, would hide behind rocks and pick off Englishmen one by one: ‘Ten bullets, you ought to get at least eight Englishmen.’
‘I could shoot an Englishman,’ Detlev insisted, whereupon the old man clasped him tight and whispered, ‘Pray God you never have to. You’ll win your battles in more clever ways.’
‘How?’
De Groot tapped the little boy on the forehead: ‘By learning. By becoming clever.’
And that was to be the foundation of Detlev’s formal education, which began one day when there rode up to the farm a remarkable man: tall, thin, with very big hands that he used awkwardly and knees that protruded from his heavy trousers. He had yellowish hair, not at all becoming a man of his size, and one of the kindest faces Detlev had ever seen. He told the Van Doorns, ‘My name is Amberson, Jonathan Amberson, and I’ve been sent by the new government to open a school at Venloo. I should be most happy to see your son in my classes.’
‘He can’t ride into Venloo every day,’ Jakob protested.
‘Nor shall he. Mrs. Scheltema will be running a hostel—’
‘Are you English?’ Johanna broke in.
‘Of course. It’s the new school, the new government.’
‘We wouldn’t want any English here,’ she said bitterly.
‘But—’
‘Out. Get out of this house and off this farm.’ Detlev, watching everything, feared that she might strike the tall stranger, who bowed, backed down off the stoep, and departed.
When General de Groot heard of this some days later, he bec
ame quite agitated: ‘No, no! Not that way at all.’
‘He was English,’ Johanna snapped. ‘Do you think we want our boy to learn English ways—’
‘That’s exactly what we want.’ And for the first time young Detlev heard the strategy of his life spelled out— and he comprehended every word.
‘The problem is this,’ the old man said, while Detlev sat on his knee. ‘The English know how to run the world. They understand banks and newspapers and schools. They are very capable people … in everything but war. And do you know why, Detlev?’
‘At the camp, Dr. Higgins cried a lot.’
‘Who was Dr. Higgins?’
‘The man who was supposed to keep us alive. When we died, he often cried. Men don’t do that.’
‘Answer my question. “Why are the English so clever and we Boers so dumb?” ’
‘My father isn’t dumb,’ Detlev said quickly. ‘And you’re not dumb, Oupa.’
‘I mean in books and banks and things like that.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The English are clever because they know things we don’t.’
‘What things?’ Detlev asked, all attention.
‘Books. Figures. Big ideas.’ These words landed like Krupp shells in the little kitchen. No one spoke, and Detlev looked at his three elders, each of whom nodded. He would never forget this heavy moment.
‘So what you are to do, my young clever one, is to go to the English school and find out everything they know.’ When Detlev nodded, the old man continued: ‘You are to be the brightest boy that teacher has ever met. You are to learn everything.’
‘Why?’ the somber little boy asked.
‘Because when you know as much as they do, you can declare a new kind of war against the English.’ The old man’s hands began to tremble. ‘You are the generation that will win this country back. You will win the war that your father and I lost.’
General de Groot felt so strongly about this that he personally led Detlev in to Venloo, and he was impressed by the efforts taken to improve the old house that now served as schoolroom and hostel, and by the care with which Mr. Amberson had arranged things. There were books, and slates, and pictures on the wall … When he saw the florid portrait in color of King Edward VII he turned away.
‘We are honored to have with us this morning,’ Amberson said in hesitant Dutch, ‘a great hero of this country, General Paulus de Groot, the hero of Majuba, the Avenger of the Veld. We never did catch you, did we, General?’
De Groot was astounded by such words coming from an Englishman, and when the nineteen children applauded he dropped Detlev’s hand and retreated.
At the end of the second week, when De Groot returned to fetch Detlev, he asked no questions on the short ride to the farm, but that evening when supper was ended, the three adults sat the boy in a chair, faced him, and asked, ‘What happened?’
He liked school and especially he liked Mr. Amberson, who was patient with his young scholars. ‘He explains everything,’ Detlev said enthusiastically, ‘but sometimes I can’t understand his words.’
‘Does he teach in Dutch?’ Johanna asked.
‘Of course. We don’t know any English.’
‘What does he teach you?’
‘That King Edward is now our king …’
Johanna stomped out of the room.
‘Does he teach you how to figure?’ De Groot asked.
‘Oh, yes!’ And with some enthusiasm the little boy began to recite the two-times table, but in English.
‘What are you saying?’ De Groot cried.
‘Two-times,’ the boy replied.
‘But in what language?’ the old man roared.
‘In English. Mr. Amberson says that after he learns our language and we learn his, all classes will be in English.’
De Groot was so agitated that he began pacing about, but after a while he calmed down and lifted the boy up, sitting him on his knee. ‘Of course. You must learn English as fast as you can. Every week you must learn more English, because that’s how they conduct their affairs.’
But at the half-year mark, when General de Groot went to fetch Detlev, he found the boy quite distraught but unwilling to talk, so on the way back to the farm he did no probing, but when they were assembled that night Detlev suddenly burst into tears. ‘What is it?’ Johanna asked with great solicitude. She allowed the old general to mastermind the lad’s education, but she felt responsible for his safekeeping, and when he wept in this manner she knew that something most serious had occurred, for he was a boy who did not cry.
‘What is it, Detlev?’
‘I had to wear the dunce’s cap.’
He knew the word only in English, and when the three demanded further explanation, he fashioned with his hands the long, thin paper hat he had been required to wear four times that week.
‘What for?’ the general exploded.
‘Because I used Dutch words.’
‘You what …’
‘Yes. New rules. Any boy or girl who speaks Dutch instead of English must stand in the corner, with the tall hat and a sign which says “I spoke Dutch today.” ’
‘But Mr. Amberson himself speaks Dutch. You said so.’
‘Not any more. He said we’d been in class half a year now and must never again speak Dutch.’
‘That monster!’ Johanna snapped. She was twenty-three, a fierce, hard-working young woman, and if this schoolmaster was mistreating her brother, she would teach him a lesson.
‘No,’ Detlev said quietly through his tears. ‘He is not a bad man. He is very kind, and he helps me with my numbers. But he says that our country is now English—the war decided that—and we must forget we were ever Dutch.’
‘Good God!’ Johanna cried, but to her surprise it was General de Groot who pacified her.
‘We must remember that this is still war,’ the old man said, and he took from his pocket a newspaper containing a new set of Hoggenheimer cartoons, proving that the Jews were stealing the country. It carried also a statement by the English high commissioner, which unknowingly outlined the nature of the insidious battle the Boers now faced:
If ten years hence there are three men of British race to two of Dutch, this country will be safe and prosperous. If there are three of Dutch and two of British, we shall have perpetual difficulty.
Coldly, De Groot explained the next level of strategies: ‘The English are doing everything they can to bring in more of their people. Bring them in and drown us in a wave of English books, English plays, English education.’
‘But you said you wanted me to learn English,’ Detlev said.
‘I do. Detlev, I want you to learn all of everything. Whenever he offers you a new English word, take it and say to yourself, “This is a knife I shall use against you.” ’
‘When?’
‘Every day of your life from now on. When you are twelve, use your knowledge against the English boys that age. At eighteen, use it against the young men in college. At thirty, against the Hoggenheimers in Johannesburg. At fifty, against the government people in Pretoria. And when you’re an old man like me, keep using it. The enemy is the English, and they can be destroyed only by cleverness.’
Johanna, deeply angered by the psychological abuse heaped on Detlev by the dunce’s cap and the degrading sign, wanted to ride right in to Venloo and confront Mr. Amberson, but the old general had more to say: ‘Accept English in your mind, but keep Dutch in your heart. For if a conqueror once makes you accept his language, he makes you his slave. We were defeated …’
He had never voiced that admission before. He had said, ‘We’ve lost the battles. We’ve lost the war.’ But he had never conceded that he had been defeated. Now, as he uttered the terrible words, he rose from his chair and stamped about the little kitchen. ‘We have been defeated—your father, I, Oom Paul, General de la Rey, General Smuts …’ He stopped speaking, for the words were grinding in his throat. Then with a great roar he cried, ‘But the next war we s
hall win. The war for ideas. You and I will see the day when Dutch is the only language in this land—the only one that counts. There will be no English spoken where men of power assemble.’ Towering over Detlev, he pointed a long finger at him: ‘And you will be responsible.’
Johanna felt her own responsibility, and early Monday morning when the time came for General de Groot to take the boy back to school, she surprised him by saying sternly, ‘I take him today.’
She arrived at the school half an hour early and found that Mr. Amberson was there, arranging his materials. The first thing she saw, waiting in the corner, was the dunce’s cap and the elegantly lettered sign: I SPOKE DUTCH TODAY. Walking directly to them, she said, ‘Why would you dare use these?’
‘I use the cap every day. For numbers missed, for words misspelled.’
‘But this?’ she demanded, shaking the sign at him.
‘It’s half a year now, Miss van Doorn. The children must begin seriously to learn the language under which they will live for the rest of their lives.’
‘It won’t be English, Mr. Amberson.’
He was astonished by this statement, for it had never occurred to him that Dutch could persist in competition with the victors’ language, but he surprised both Johanna and Detlev by the gentlemanly manner in which he reacted. ‘Sit down,’ he said graciously, and when she elaborated her complaint, he listened attentively, endeavoring to catch the full meaning of her words, for she would speak only in the language of her people, the vital adaptation of Dutch by generations of her ancestors.
‘There is something else we must take into account,’ he said courteously, as if reasoning with a child. ‘I’m told that the Dutch you do speak—in these parts, and throughout the country—I’m told it really isn’t very good Dutch and should not be perpetuated.’
‘Who told you that?’
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