by Irma Joubert
“And since the first of May, families on the home front have been eating only standard government bread,” said the commentator. On the screen a father, mother, two little boys, and two little girls sat at a neatly laid table, eating bread. The boys’ hair was slicked down on their foreheads. The girls wore frilly dresses and ribbons in their hair.
After intermission the actual movie began. It started with black-and-white pictures, just like the cowboy serial and African Mirror, but then it changed and everything was brightly colored. Pérsomi’s jaw dropped. Hastily she closed her mouth without taking her eyes off the big screen.
The movie drew Pérsomi in. Fear gripped her when the tornado flattened poor Dorothy’s home. She laughed at the stupid scarecrow, at the stick-like tin man, at the cowardly lion. The jolly songs swept her along to a strange and wonderful world.
“Did you enjoy it?” asked Reinier when the lights came back on.
“It was absolutely . . . amazing,” said Pérsomi. “It was so . . . real. Thank you.”
They walked back to the dormitory with the others. In the cloudless sky overhead the moon hung like a big ball. Ahead of them a group of girls were giggling about something. Far behind them the prefect and her boyfriend came sauntering along. The streetlights cast long shadows that became shorter as they approached, then vanished until the next streetlight drew the long shadows from under their feet again.
Pérsomi said, “You only actually realize how bad the war is when you see it on the screen, larger than life. And especially when you hear it.”
“I don’t care too much about the war,” said Reinier, shrugging. “The Khakis went looking for trouble and they’re getting what they deserve. Serves them right.”
“But those are people whose homes are being blown up, Reinier.”
He shrugged again. “I’m an OB man,” he said, “I’m against the war.”
“My brother is a Red Tab,” she said, almost defiantly.
“That’s his business,” said Reinier.
“I wrote him a letter to ask why he joined but he hasn’t replied.”
“Hmm,” said Reinier and kicked at a pebble. “What matters is how you feel about it.”
“I don’t like war. I think it’s stupid and cruel,” she replied, “and a waste of money.”
He laughed. “Seems to me you’re an OB man yourself.”
“I’m a girl, and I don’t belong to the OB. I think for myself, thanks very much.”
He laughed so loudly that the girls walking ahead of them looked over their shoulders. “You’re strange for a girl, Pérsomi,” he said affably. “But I could tell you a thing or two, if you wish.”
“Things I don’t already know?” she teased.
“Things you definitely don’t know,” he said. “Many people inside the OB feel that the movement isn’t doing enough, that they should protest more openly against the war.”
She thought of Boelie.
“I know that,” she said.
“At the beginning of the war,” Reinier eagerly continued, “Smuts issued a decree that authorized the police to confiscate firearms. One guy got his hands on a number of the police’s receipt books, and he drove around the bushveld confiscating people’s firearms. And he wrote out receipts—”
“How did you hear such a thing?” Pérsomi asked skeptically.
“I listen when my dad and his friends are talking,” said Reinier. “Dad’s a lawyer, didn’t you know? You pick up a lot of things if you keep your ears open.”
“Well, I think you should be careful what you repeat,” said Pérsomi.
“I’m only telling you,” said Reinier. “You’re not like other girls. You won’t gossip, I know that.”
“Oh,” said Pérsomi. Not like other girls?
“Anyway, he wrote out receipts under a variety of false names, and he gave himself any rank he felt like that particular day. Apparently he got his hands on seven hundred rifles to be used when they take over the government, see?”
“I see,” said Pérsomi. How was she not like other girls? “But I really think you should be careful who you talk to about these things.”
He smiled. “I’m telling you because I trust you. I won’t tell anyone else,” he said.
The week before the start of the June exams, Reinier whispered to her in class, “There was news about the OB on the radio last night. It didn’t sound good.”
“Why?” Pérsomi whispered back.
“The police are raiding the houses of OB members and arresting the residents.”
“Arresting?” she said, startled. She imagined Boelie being arrested at the Big House. “But isn’t it just a . . . cultural organization?”
“It’s not illegal, that’s what my dad says. But he also says some of their members are suspected of sabotage. They blow up railway lines and stuff, you know?”
Slowly her hands went to her mouth. She clearly remembered Boelie’s words: “We must sabotage things, like the telephone exchanges, the railway lines, troop trains, harbors—everything that’s needed to take our men up North.”
“And . . . will they go”—she hesitated to say the words—“to jail?”
“Shh, not so loud. My dad says they’re being sent to internment camps.”
“Bloody English!” she said.
“Don’t swear!” he said. “And lower your voice! My dad said last night that more than 3,700 people were sent to the camps last month.”
She shook her head, dismayed.
“It doesn’t look good, Pérsomi. I’m a bit worried about . . . my dad.”
“Why?” she asked. “Are you afraid he might blow up the station? Or the post office?”
He laughed softly. “No, man, he wouldn’t do that!”
“Well, is he an OB member?”
Reinier nodded. “Definitely, and he feels strongly about the cause. I’m afraid he’ll help the guys who get into trouble, the OB guys.”
“Help in what way?” she asked.
“Defend them, in court. And if you defend the wrong people, it can be very dangerous, says my mom.”
That evening she realized that she had never heard Reinier mention his mom before. He often spoke about his dad, but never his mom. She wondered why.
FIVE
PÉRSOMI STOOD WITH HER MA AND HANNAPAT IN FRONT OF the rundown outhouse. The hole of the longdrop had collapsed while Pérsomi was in school. The sides just caved in.
“Must be because of all the rain,” said her ma.
“And then a piece of the wall also fell.” Hannapat pointed. “And the door came off its hinges. See how it hangs?”
“We must fix the longdrop,” said Pérsomi, upset. “We can’t keep going behind the bushes!”
“Impossible,” said Hannapat.
“Then we’ll have to build a new one,” said Pérsomi. She sighed. Of course she didn’t know how. Welfare had taken Sissie somewhere that she could work, and although her stepbrother Piet had returned from Joburg, unemployed, he was unwilling to lift a finger.
“And who do you think is going to dig the hole?” asked Hannapat. “You know how hard the soil is. But you’ve probably forgotten, because you live in town now and it’s up to us to plant the pumpkins.”
“Piet must help,” said Pérsomi. “We must—”
“Do I look like an aardvark to you? Or a springhare, huh?” Hannapat objected. “I don’t dig holes, and neither will Piet.”
“But we must—”
“If you’re too hoity-toity to go behind a bush, why don’t you ask Mr. Fourie to send a farmhand?” said Hannapat and began to walk away. “It’s their job to dig holes.”
The last time the roof of the longdrop blew off, Gerbrand fixed it. Mr. Fourie gave them two sheets of metal and some nails, and Gerbrand took off his shirt and stood on top of the walls to fix the roof. He worked for three days, chopping new crossbeams and plastering the walls. She helped him. She carried the axe, mixed cement, passed the nails, and searched for a flat rock to use as
a hammer. He didn’t really speak to her, but when the roof was on and they stepped back to look, he said: “You worked hard, too, Pérsomi. Good.”
But now Gerbrand was gone.
“Heavens, Sis, what’s wrong?” her ma asked outside the kitchen door.
“I knew it,” Auntie Sis panted, dabbing at her face with a gray handkerchief. “Sunday afternoon I was walking round the back, to the outhouse . . . Man, what’s wrong with your outhouse?”
“What did you know?” asked Pérsomi’s ma.
“Can I have a sip of coffee? I have heart palpitations from the long walk.”
Pérsomi went inside and shoved a log into the mouth of the stove. Piet sat at the table, scraping dirt from his fingernails. He got up and went outside. The wisps of smoke trickling through the broken oven door made her eyes water and filled the entire room.
She added a little water to the coffee pot. The grounds had been used over and over. They were gray as dishwater, but the coffee tin was empty.
She heard Auntie Sis sigh deeply outside. “I saw a vision . . . oh man alive!”
They waited. She sighed again and said, “I saw coffins piled one on top of the other, piles of coffins. And people with the coffins, but behind bars.”
Breathless silence.
“That’s all,” said Auntie Sis.
“Lewies?” Pérsomi’s ma whispered.
“Man, I couldn’t make out any faces, you know how the visions work. But this morning when I got the news, I knew.”
“Who, Auntie Sis?” Hannapat asked impatiently.
“It’s Boelie,” Auntie Sis gasped, still short of breath, “it’s Boelie and De Wet!”
Alarmed, Pérsomi went to stand in the doorway.
“Oh heavens!” said Pérsomi’s ma. “Has there been a death?”
“Man, what are you saying! Worse, worse, I’m telling you! Piet, bring me a chair. My back won’t last on this bench.”
“Worse than death?” Ma sank down on the old car seat at the back door.
Auntie Sis kept wiping her face with her big hankie. “You’re telling me,” she said. “It’s police business!”
“Police!” Ma and Hannapat said simultaneously.
“Put that chair over there, Piet,” said Auntie Sis. “What happened to your longdrop?”
“What . . . what about the police?” Ma asked.
“Man, don’t ask!” sighed Auntie Sis, lowering herself onto the straight-backed kitchen chair. “The police raided their room in Pretoria—at the university where they’re studying!”
“The police raided their room?” her ma repeated.
“Listen to what I’m saying: The police raided their room, I’m telling you.”
“But . . . why?” her ma asked, dismayed.
“They must have been looking for stolen goods,” said Piet.
“Man, I didn’t want to say it, because I don’t talk behind people’s backs, but that’s what I thought, too, and so did Attie,” sighed Auntie Sis. “And to crown it all, your longdrop is falling to pieces.”
“Stolen goods!” her ma said, shocked.
Pérsomi poured the coffee, knowing that wasn’t why. But she didn’t try to explain the police raids on members of the OB.
“And the coffins?” asked Hannapat.
“What coffins?” their ma asked, startled.
“The ones Auntie Sis saw.”
“Oh, that? No, that’s probably still coming.” Auntie Sis gave another deep sigh. “But death is waiting, it’s waiting.”
Pérsomi gave Auntie Sis and her ma their coffee. Then she turned and walked away. She managed to walk away calmly, not to break into a run. But the moment she found herself behind the first hill, the running just happened. It came into her legs like a release and took over her entire body.
She stopped only when the burning in her chest became worse than her fear for Boelie. What if they caught him and put him behind barbed wire in a concentration camp?
She had to speak to Boelie herself, hear from him what was going on.
This bloody, bloody war.
When Mr. Fourie saw the state of their longdrop at the end of the week, he was furious. “When did this happen?” he asked. “Please don’t tell me you’re going in the veld!”
“Oh heavens, it’s the rain, Mr. Fourie,” said her ma, frightened. “I’m sorry.”
“But why haven’t you done anything about it, Jemima?” he scolded as he walked around the longdrop. “My goodness, you could have told me! I can’t smell it if something is wrong down here!” Then he stopped. “I believe Piet is here.”
Silence.
“Where’s Piet?” he asked.
Pérsomi could see the trouble coming.
“He’s feeling a bit out of sorts this morning,” said her ma, crumpling her hankie.
“Where is he?”
Silence.
“He’s . . . inside,” Hannapat said.
“Still asleep at this hour?” roared Mr. Fourie, and he strode toward the house.
“O Lord, help us,” said Ma.
Mr. Fourie entered their home. Moments later Piet came stumbling through the back door, his neck drawn down between his shoulder blades, his arms covering his head. Mr. Fourie was right behind him.
“Start digging!” shouted Mr. Fourie. He picked up the shovel next to the back door. “Take this. Go dig the hole higher up. We’ll have to move the entire outhouse. And you two girls, go sweep that kitchen and clean up the place. It looks like a pigsty. And before the vacation is over you plaster that floor with dung. Do you hear me?”
Red-hot shame flooded Pérsomi’s body.
Mr. Fourie strode away, stiff with anger. “When I come back this afternoon, that hole had better be halfway done and the house spotless, is that clear?” he said over his shoulder.
As soon as Mr. Fourie could no longer be seen, Piet threw down the shovel, fuming. “Who does he think he is, talking to me like that?” He spat on the ground beside him.
“Mr. Fourie treats us well,” Pérsomi said firmly. “What use are we to him? It wouldn’t take much for him to chase us away!”
“O Lord, help us,” groaned her ma.
“No one speaks to Piet Pieterse like that!” Piet panted, his face bright red. “I’m not a laborer who digs holes! I don’t know why I ever came back here. With Pa gone, you women are pathetic. You can’t even keep the house clean. Pigs! Ma, give me back my pound. I’m leaving. I’m going back to Joburg.”
“Oh heavens, Piet,” her ma tried to protest, “I thought you said—”
“Give me back my pound or I’ll beat the living daylights out of the lot of you. You’re asking for it.”
“Give him his pound, Ma,” said Pérsomi. “The sooner he leaves, the better.” She turned to Piet. “Do us all a favor and stay in Joburg forever.”
“Oh heavens above,” groaned her ma.
“You can clean the house,” said Hannapat, plonking herself down in the winter sun with her back against the wall. “I’m always doing it while you live like a lady at school.”
When Mr. Fourie returned that afternoon, he was even angrier. “That lazy lout,” he said when he learned Piet had gone. He ran his hand over his face and shook his head. “I’ll send someone on Monday to fix the outhouse.” He turned and began to walk away.
“Mr. Fourie?” Pérsomi called.
He stopped and turned, his face a thundercloud.
She looked him in the eye. “Thank you, Mr. Fourie,” she said. “You’re good to us, even if we can’t help you on the farm anymore.”
He looked at her steadily.
“Thank you,” she said again.
“It’s okay,” he said and turned to go.
But for a moment, just before he turned his back on her, she thought she saw a strange expression in his eyes.
The vacation was almost at an end before Pérsomi got a chance to speak to Boelie. She happened to see him walk slowly up the mountain. He had his rifle in his hand but didn’t look a
s if he was planning to hunt.
She took a shortcut around the back of the baboon cliffs and reached the wild fig before him. She sank down onto the flat rocks and stretched out her legs. From up here she could see the road leading to the town, to the world where Irene lived in a room that looked the same as hers and ate the same food that Pérsomi did.
She watched as Boelie approached slowly, raising his hand in a kind of greeting. He sank down beside her. Carefully he laid his rifle on the rocky ledge between them.
“Hello, Boelie.”
They sat quietly, gazing into the distance. His rifle lay next to her.
“You can see almost all the way to town from up here,” she said.
“Hmm,” said Boelie. He sounded tired. Or maybe he just didn’t feel like talking.
Maybe she should go, it was no good trying to talk to him if he didn’t want to. And she didn’t want him to think her a nuisance. But it was her last chance to speak to him before she must go back to school.
“Are you looking forward to going back?” he asked, as if she had spoken aloud.
“Yes. I like school, but I do miss the farm sometimes, and the mountain.”
“Yes,” he said.
Silence.
“And you?” she asked. “Are you looking forward to going back to Pretoria?”
“I don’t know, Pérsomi,” he said. Then he shook his head slowly. “No, I’m not.”
“I hear the OB is more active nowadays, especially around Pretoria,” she began.
“Hmm,” he said.
She licked her lips. “I hear they’re blowing up stuff. And sometimes they get caught.”
“You shouldn’t listen to stories.”
“Almost four thousand have been arrested and sent to camps, Boelie,” she continued. “They’re not just stories.”
He made no reply.
“Almost every day I read about more people being arrested. Two students from the university just before the vacation, and an Afrikaans school principal from Helderberg, and a composer or something. I read it in the newspaper, Boelie.”
“Heidelberg. The principal is from Heidelberg,” he said, gazing into the distance. “Yes, Pérsomi, you’re right.”