Child of the River

by Irma Joubert

  Red-and-white checkered tablecloths covered the tables. Each table had four chairs.

  But the prettiness didn’t make the anger inside her go away. When her soda came and she raised the glass, her hand was still trembling.

  “Why are you trembling?” he asked. “Were you afraid?”

  “No. Boelie, I was so bloody angry!”

  He began to laugh. “Young ladies shouldn’t use language like that.”

  “You do.”

  “I’m a man. But never mind, you put him in his place,” he said, still laughing. “And De Wet says you were a credible witness.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you spoke so well that everyone believed you.”

  “Well, I spoke the truth,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Look, here are our pies and gravy. I’m bloody hungry, how about you?”

  “I’m very hungry too,” she said and smiled at him. “Thank you for the food.”

  “I just wanted to tell you,” he said, “I’m proud of you today.” He came out with it as if it was nothing, but every word settled in her mind to stay.

  “You know what, Boelie? That’s what I want to do one day.”

  “What?”

  “Work in court.”

  “Like De Wet.”

  “Yes.”

  Boelie gave her a slow smile. “I don’t know whether women can become lawyers, but if they can, I’m sure you’ll make a success of it,” he said.

  THREE

  LEWIES PIETERSE WAS FOUND GUILTY AND SENTENCED TO jail for six years. Mr. Fourie did not chase the women off the farm. In fact, he convinced Ma that she should let Pérsomi attend school.

  Early in January 1941, it rained for days on end. The roof leaked like a sieve. They put the bucket and the two pots on the floor to catch the water.

  “At least we don’t have to fetch water at the river,” said Hannapat.

  But the bucket and pots weren’t much help. The house became wetter and wetter. After a while, even the mattresses were soaked. And the wood—the fire was more smoke than flames. “We can’t even make a fire anymore,” said Pérsomi.

  “This rain must stop now,” said her ma.

  “We’ll starve if we can’t make porridge,” said Hannapat.

  “The flour is almost finished anyway,” said their ma, tucking her frizzy red hair behind her ear.

  They had no news from Gerbrand, even though Pérsomi had written. They still got an envelope with money every month, but he didn’t write.

  “Men don’t like to write letters,” Klara said when she came home from university with her brothers.

  “But he writes to you?” Pérsomi asked.

  “Not often,” Klara answered vaguely. “He doesn’t really have time. But I think he’s doing fine.”

  Ma took Pérsomi back to town to get what she needed for high school at Mr. Ismail’s store. Karla and Irene’s ouma had agreed to make a new white dress for Pérsomi to wear to church. Pérsomi wished someone else could have made the dress. Anyone except old Mrs. Fourie.

  The day after it finally stopped raining, Pérsomi woke long before sunrise. She got up and walked to the Fouries’ to try on her dress. If she didn’t try on her white church dress today, Irene’s ouma might not finish it before she left for school on Monday.

  Because the Pontenilo was a rushing brown mass of water, she had to go over the mountain. The ground was wet and slippery, the rocks slimy, but she knew her mountain. She knew every path and every rocky outcrop and every dangerous cliff.

  She avoided the Big House, passing around the back to the Old House, where the Fourie grandparents lived.

  The back door was open. Uncertainty burned a hole in her stomach. Grumpy Oupa Fourie, Mrs. Fourie, and Boelie were having coffee at the kitchen table. Her legs tingled with the desire to run away.

  Resolutely she raised her hand and knocked on the door. “Good morning Mrs. Fourie Oupa Fourie Boelie I’ve come to try on my dress,” she said in a single breath.

  “Child!” Mrs. Fourie said, surprised.

  “Pérsomi!” Boelie stood up. “How did you get here? Surely you didn’t cross the river!”

  “I came over the mountain,” she replied. “I’ve come to try on my dress.”

  “But . . . it’s half a day on foot.” He still seemed astonished.

  “I got an early start,” she said.

  “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, opening the door. “Come inside.”

  “I’m covered in mud.”

  “Yes, you look as if you rolled in mud,” said Mrs. Fourie, sounding annoyed. “Wash at the trough, then come and try on your dress.”

  Later, when she put the dress on, Pérsomi couldn’t help saying, “It’s a lovely dress, Mrs. Fourie.”

  “Yes,” muttered Irene’s ouma, her mouth full of pins, “you must look decent when you go to church. Don’t you have a bust bodice?”

  Before Pérsomi could answer, Mrs. Fourie said, “You must have a panama hat as well. I’ll see if Klara’s old one is still around somewhere.”

  “Thank you,” said Pérsomi.

  It was the first new dress Pérsomi had ever had. It was her first dress that wasn’t way too wide and too short. Pérsomi couldn’t stop looking at it.

  “Come and fetch it tomorrow or the day after, when the river has gone down. Don’t come over the mountain again, it’s too dangerous.”

  “Thank you,” said Pérsomi.

  When she passed through the kitchen, Boelie was no longer there. She smelled the coffee but no one had poured her a cup.

  She walked past the Big House and past the barn, heading for the mountain. When she passed the kraal, Boelie came round the corner.

  “Are you going back over the mountain?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He shook his head. “And I suppose you haven’t eaten? What time did you start walking?”

  “Early,” she said.

  “Wait here,” he said and walked back to the Big House.

  He returned with two rusks. “Here, eat,” he said and fell into step with her in the narrow footpath.

  “Pérsomi, do you know what to expect? At boarding school, I mean?” he asked after a while.

  “Not really,” she admitted past the crumbs in her throat.

  “Hmm.” His gaze was fixed on the path ahead. “You’ll have to make your own bed and eat at the table with a knife and fork.”

  She felt humiliated that he knew what life was like in her home. “I know,” she murmured. “I’ll watch what the others are doing.”

  “Yes,” he said. For a while they walked in silence, then he said, “Do you have things like soap and a toothbrush and a towel?”

  A wave of embarrassment engulfed her. Boelie knew everything. Gerbrand had probably arrived at boarding school without a towel.

  When she didn’t reply, Boelie said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  A while later he asked, “What news do you get from Gerbrand?”

  “Not much,” she answered. “He’s only written once.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  She summoned up enough courage to ask, “Why do you think Gerbrand joined the war?”

  He stopped and turned to face her. For the first time he looked her in the eye, his expression serious. “It’s this bloody government of ours, Pérsomi,” he said. “They’re a bunch of Khaki lovers led by that traitor Smuts.” His hands formed fists at his sides. “You know, Pérsomi, our Afrikaner boys, like Gerbrand, are being bought by our biggest enemies, by England and the powerful Jews with the money.”

  She did not know what he meant.

  “Young men who are suffering hardship join the armed forces for financial reasons. The blood of Afrikaner boys is being spilled to help build the British Empire!”

  She was startled at the bitterness in his voice.

  “Have you ever heard of the Ossewabrandwag, Pérsomi?” he as
ked.

  Pérsomi didn’t want to admit that she knew hardly anything about it. “I’ve read about it in the paper,” she said.

  “I belong to the OB. It’s a good Afrikaner organization that’s dead set against our participation in the war. I just wish they’d become more militant, or they won’t make a difference.”

  She frowned. She had no idea what he was talking about. “Yes,” she said.

  “You know, Pérsomi, we must stop all the talk, talk, talk, the attending of meetings and singing of songs. We must start to act, blow things up. That’s what we must do.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked cautiously. It sounded a bit like war to her.

  “We must sabotage things, like the telephone exchanges, the railway lines, troop trains, harbors—everything that’s needed to take our men up north.” His anger seemed to turn into enthusiasm, as if he saw a solution. “You know, Pers, at least half the police force would join us, and with the majority of our armed forces up north, a takeover would be easy.”

  The more he talked, the less she understood. But she just nodded.

  In the future she would read the newspaper articles that dealt with the OB as well.

  Late that night, when Hannapat was fast asleep and Sissie was snoring softly, Pérsomi got up and went outside.

  Boelie’s words haunted her. England and the mighty Jews with the money bought Gerbrand, Boelie had said. Gerbrand was a traitor. Gerbrand was a Khaki lover.

  He was also her big brother who was looking after them. The money Gerbrand sent home was keeping them alive. It was the porridge they ate every day, it was the new bloomers and bust bodice packed in the flour bag, ready for her to take along to boarding school.

  She undid her long braid. It was tugging at her scalp.

  Where did Boelie fit into the picture if he wanted to blow up railway lines and sabotage telephone exchanges?

  A cold breeze came up. She rubbed her bare upper arms with her hands. Then she went back into the house. She lay down on her mattress and drew the thin blanket over her head. She didn’t want to think about everything Boelie had said.

  But even in her cozy nest under the blanket Boelie’s words kept coming back to her: “The blood of Afrikaner boys is being spilled to help build the British Empire!”

  Monday morning the Pontenilo was considerably lower, yet Pérsomi was still drenched when she reached the other side. She washed the mud from her legs, waited for her dress to dry, then walked slowly to the Big House. There was more than enough time. Mr. Fourie would only be taking them to school at ten.

  The flour bag she carried contained her new hairbrush, an extra bloomer, her two old dresses, the brand-new church dress Irene’s ouma had made, as well as the towel, soap, and toothbrush Boelie had brought. She was wearing the other bloomer and the bust bodice under her green dress.

  The bust bodice felt strange and tight.

  Aunt Marie had said she would bring her uniform to the school in the afternoon.

  When Pérsomi reached the barn, she put on her courtroom shoes. She hoped Aunt Marie would bring socks, because the shoes gave her blisters.

  She waited outside the barn for a long time before the door of the Big House opened. Mr. Fourie came out, carrying a suitcase. Irene carried a basket and a leather satchel, and her mother, Aunt Lulu, followed with two cookie tins. Oupa and Mrs. Fourie also came out. Mrs. Fourie was carrying Irene’s brand-new panama hat, and her husband hobbled after the rest of them, leaning on his cane.

  When they had almost reached the barn, Mrs. Fourie noticed her. “Oh goodness, I forgot to find the child a hat,” she said. “Lulu, is Klara’s old panama hat still around here somewhere?”

  Now Aunt Lulu also noticed her. “For Pérsomi? Don’t you have a hat of your own, Pérsomi?” she asked, sounding surprised. “And do you have all your things in that little bag? Irene, see if you can find Klara’s hat in her closet. And fetch that old suitcase in the storeroom. The child can’t arrive at school with her belongings in a flour bag.”

  “The latches are broken, Ma,” said Irene.

  “We’ll tie a rope around it. Go now,” said Aunt Lulu.

  “Hurry, I want to leave,” Mr. Fourie said.

  Pérsomi felt herself shrinking. Her mouth was bone-dry, and her legs tingled with the desire to run. But she swallowed and stood motionless. And she didn’t look away.

  When at last they drove over the causeway and left the farm behind, Pérsomi felt a strange sadness in her heart. For a long time she gazed at her mountain, until it disappeared behind the hills.

  The room the prefect took Pérsomi to had two iron beds that stood against the walls like railroad tracks. Each bed had a coir mattress, a pillow, two stiff white sheets, a gray blanket, and a blue bedspread embroidered with the letters T E D for Transvaal Education Department. Under the window two small tables had been pushed together, and in the corner stood a small bookcase. The other corner housed a steel locker with four shelves, two for her and two for her roommate, the prefect explained. There was hanging space for four items of clothing each.

  The room was at the back of the building and overlooked a row of garbage cans, several long clotheslines, and a sad thorn tree surrounded by concrete.

  In the distance lay the wide expanse of the bushveld. She couldn’t see her mountain.

  When she heard the door open behind her, she turned. “This is Beth Murray, your roommate,” the prefect said. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Pérsomi Pieterse.”

  “Well, show her the ropes and bring your mugs at four,” said the prefect before hurrying away.

  Pérsomi’s new roommate was small, with white-blonde hair and a pale face. Her long dress had long sleeves and a frill around the high neckline. She wasn’t a welfare child, Pérsomi decided, but she looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment.

  They stood looking at each other uncertainly.

  Pérsomi realized that Beth was afraid. She smiled and asked, “Which bed would you like?”

  Beth shook her head, her blue eyes big and shiny.

  “Okay, I’ll take this one,” Pérsomi decided. She turned to the locker. “You have two shelves, and there’s hanging space for your clothes. I put my towel over—”

  “I don’t have a mug,” Beth said, her eyes wide. She spoke with a strange accent.

  “I don’t have one either,” said Pérsomi, “but it doesn’t matter, we just won’t have coffee.”

  “Oh,” said Beth, as if that option hadn’t occurred to her.

  “Why don’t you unpack now?” said Pérsomi.

  At four o’clock a bell rang and they went down to the dining hall. They were told to line up according to their room numbers. Pérsomi and Beth were in room 27. Irene and her roommate were in room 31. The girls were assigned the same table. A matric girl took the place at the head. She was the table captain.

  There was a stiff white tablecloth, and each place was laid with a plate, knife, fork, spoon, and small coarse cloth. They stood behind their chairs until the teacher had said grace. Then they were allowed to sit.

  The matric girl lifted the lids of the four serving bowls and began to dish up. She passed along the plates. “Put your napkin on your lap, Pérsomi,” Irene said.

  Pérsomi bundled the stiff cloth onto her lap and looked at the food in front of her: samp, chunks of meat in gravy, and cabbage leaves. There was enough meat on her plate for her entire family. Her mouth watered, but nausea pushed against her throat. She wished she could run away, far away.

  Carefully she picked up her knife and fork. All the other girls handled the cutlery easily, as if their hands knew exactly what to do. Furtively she watched the girl sitting opposite her and tried to copy her movements. The knife and fork felt awkward in her hands. Her feet were burning inside the school shoes. The strange food got stuck in her tight throat.

  She longed to be back on the farm, seated at the table where her ma and Hannapat and Sissie were eating their porrid
ge at this moment.

  Gerbrand had done this. She could do it too.

  Pérsomi forced down the food. It was quiet at the table, the only sound the clink of cutlery.

  After supper the teacher rapped on the table. “Let us pray,” she said.

  Then they were summoned to the study hall to listen to the rules. There were hundreds of rules, and if you did something wrong, you would not be allowed to go home on free weekends.

  Next the Form I and II girls took showers. The prefect hurried them along. “You have fifteen minutes before you must be in your rooms for quiet time.”

  Pérsomi grabbed her soap, toothbrush, and small towel and followed the others to the bathroom. Beth was nowhere to be seen.

  Clouds of steam hung in the bathroom. Pérsomi stopped in the doorway, uncertain of what to do. “Next, next!” the prefect called. “Come, girls, come, out of your clothes and under the water!”

  Pérsomi saw the girls take off their clothes, put them in neat piles on the bench, and disappear behind a curtain. “Come along, get undressed!” the prefect scolded.

  She stepped under the shower. It felt strange, the hot water gushing from above and running over her body. She raised her face. The hot water ran down her neck, over her hair and down her back, forming warm puddles at her feet.

  “Come along, out, out,” the prefect cried. “Goodness, why did you wash your hair? You’ll never get it dry! You’ll get a terrible cold.”

  Confused, Pérsomi grabbed her towel and tried to dry herself. The other girls had big towels that they wrapped around themselves. Still wet, she put her clothes back on. “Next time, bring along your nightdress and dressing gown,” the prefect said crossly. “Come, back to your rooms!”

  Beth was in the room, clad in a suffocating pink nightdress with long sleeves and a stiff frill around her neck. Pérsomi decided to wear her yellow dress to bed. It was her oldest dress and very short. Its floral pattern was faded and worn with washing.

  A shrill bell rang. “Quiet time!” a prefect roared down the corridor.