Child of the River

by Irma Joubert

  “I suppose you . . . don’t feel good about it,” she said warily.

  “That’s putting it mildly. People are angry.”

  “I understand. Tell me exactly why?”

  “Many of our people have been in this country for generations, some longer than the people who are pushing these acts through parliament.”

  “It’s a good point, I’ll look into it,” she said, making a quick note.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” He began to light the Primus stove.

  He’s in a better mood now, she thought. “I’d love some, thanks,” she said, “And remember, don’t—”

  “I know about the milk and sugar,” he said.

  “How do you feel about the restricted land ownership?”

  “It’s the real reason why my people are so angry.” He slammed the kettle down on the Primus stove. “We Indians have never had complete freedom of movement in the Union, but now we’re being restricted even further in where we’re allowed to live and trade! Dr. Naicker calls it the Ghetto Act. It’s pure Hitler racism, Pérsomi—that’s what it is.”

  “Who’s Dr. Naicker?”

  “Dr. G. M. Naicker, one of our leaders. The other one is Dr. Yusuf Dadoo.”

  She wrote down the names. “Leaders in what?”

  “The Indians have a tradition of satyagraha, passive resistance, the heritage of Mahatma Gandhi. In 1913 he—”

  “I know his story.”

  “We have two political organizations, the Natal Indian Congress and the Transvaal Indian Congress,” Yusuf continued. “The membership numbers of the Natal Congress are rapidly increasing. Here in the Transvaal we don’t have any registered members, but our congress is also very active, especially among the students at Wits.”

  “How active, besides passive resistance?” she asked.

  “Very.”

  “How?”

  “Pérsomi!” he warned her.

  “Well, answer me,” she insisted.

  “Except for boycotting things, which you’d probably classify as passive, we also arrange meetings to inform people. Lots of people attend, not all of them Indian.”

  “Are you active as well?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course,” he said.

  “Just don’t get interned like Boelie,” she warned him, “or you’ll also have to wait four years before you can finish your studies.”

  “No,” he shook his head, “I’m more like De Wet. Active, but on the right side of the law.”

  “Better be careful,” she warned.

  “When the law was first introduced, thousands of people, I think more than fifteen thousand, held a march in Durban. A group pitched tents on a piece of land in the traditional Indian business district, now rezoned for whites. A group of white hooligans began to harass them every night, later by day as well, and quite a few Indians died, mostly of their injuries. The police did nothing.”

  “Impossible, Yusuf,” she said firmly. “The police wouldn’t stand by and watch while people were being killed.”

  “It didn’t happen under the noses of the policemen,” he said. “Dead people in the streets aren’t something the police can overlook, yet no one was prosecuted.”

  “Hmm,” she said, “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “I can give you the name of one of my friends, Benny Sischy. He was there. He was an eyewitness. I don’t know his address, but he’s at varsity with me. If you write a letter, I could give it to him.”

  “Yes, perhaps I should, thanks,” she said.

  “There’s also a cleric, Michael Scott,” Yusuf said. “He could give you a lot of inside information.”

  “You’ve been a great help, Yusuf,” she said, pleased. “What’s the story about certain Indians getting the vote?”

  “Only those who qualify will be able to vote for a few white representatives in parliament, not our own people,” he said.

  “But you’ve never had the vote, have you?”

  “Some Indians did. In the Cape, I think.”

  “I don’t know, I’ll make sure.” She made a note.

  “I believe it’s so, and they’re going to lose the right to vote now. The law is an insult to Indian people. We’ve sent representatives to India, England, and America to state our case. There’s more tea in the pot. Shall I pour you another cup?”

  From Mr. Ismail’s store Pérsomi dropped in to see De Wet at the De Vos law offices. He had suggested they might have work for her to do through the vacation.

  The carpet in the reception area was thick, and there were two leather armchairs and a table with books. A corseted lady with purplish gray hair sat behind the desk. To her left was a big window on which was written De Vos and De Vos, and in smaller letters underneath: Attorneys, Notaries, Conveyancers, Agents, Auctioneers.

  Was it possible she might work in an office like this next year? De Wet introduced her. “Ms. Steyn is our secretary. She says she has plenty of filing you can help with if you wish?”

  The secretary nodded. Behind her hung a large painting of impala drinking from a muddy pool. On the desk stood a vase with fresh flowers.

  “Yes, I’d like to,” Pérsomi said. “Thanks.”

  “Have you met Mr. De Vos?” De Wet asked.

  “I know what he looks like. I’ve seen him with Reinier and Annabel, but I’ve never met him in person,” said Pérsomi. “But surely there’s no need, De Wet?”

  “I think he’d like to meet you,” De Wet said easily. “Come along.”

  She followed him down a short passage, also carpeted. On the walls was a collection of old photographs, including one of Reinier’s grandfather, the town’s first lawyer.

  At the end of the passage De Wet tapped on a door before opening it.

  Half the space was taken up by a large desk made of dark wood. The polished top glistened in the overhead light. Mr. De Vos sat behind the desk. He was a big man with a ruddy complexion and a bald head. He peered at them over his spectacles. He didn’t seem very pleased by the interruption.

  “Oom Bartel,” said De Wet, “this is Pérsomi. I told you about her. She’s come to help us over the vacation.”

  Mr. De Vos rose halfway to his feet. He was not only broad but tall as well. And he was frowning. “Yes, I believe she was at school with Reinier,” he said.

  “That’s right,” said De Wet. “She’s studying law at Tukkies.”

  Mr. De Vos lowered himself back onto his chair.

  When De Wet closed the door again, he said apologetically, “He must be very busy. Usually he’s much friendlier.”

  Pérsomi was glad Reinier didn’t take after his father, but Annabel’s personality now made more sense.

  Klara insisted Pérsomi attend Irene’s coming-of-age party. She meant well but didn’t understand. Because while Pérsomi and Reinier mingled with guests in the decked-out barn, Auntie Sis and Ma were in the kitchen in their Cinderella outfits, washing the dishes. And Annabel was on the dance floor, glued to Boelie, wearing an incredible emerald gown that would no doubt end up in the welfare pile next year.

  “Come on,” Reinier said, “you can’t hang around the food all night, it’s time for dancing.”

  She held back. “You know I don’t really dance.”

  “Well, it’s your choice,” said Reinier. “Either you come willingly, or we make a scene.”

  “That’s not a fair choice!”

  “Who said life is fair?” He took her firmly by the hand and led her to the dance floor, where he gave her a playful twirl. He laughed and began to move in time with the music.

  Because it was a waltz, the only dance she had mastered, she stayed.

  “Stop being so unwilling. It’s quite nice, don’t you agree?” Reinier persisted.

  He didn’t understand either. After all these years Pérsomi still didn’t belong here. But she noticed that no one gave her strange looks. Everyone kept right on dancing as if she did belong. Maybe it was her own fault that she still felt like a barefoot chil
d among real people.

  But as they danced past Boelie and Annabel, she felt Annabel’s ice-cold, critical gaze on her. The fighter in Pérsomi came to the fore, and she returned the stare. She knew she looked good in Annabel’s cast-off dress.

  She couldn’t look at Boelie, however. It was hard for her to see how comfortable Annabel seemed in Boelie’s arms, how they moved as one in the dance.

  Someone put a new record on the grammophone, and everyone gathered in a circle. “Tango!” they cried. “Where’s Annabel?”

  A laughing Annabel floated into the circle. “Come, Boelie, no excuses, I’ve shown you how,” she said coyly.

  Boelie laughed and stepped into the circle. Smiling, he held out his hand to Annabel.

  They danced the tango. The way it should be danced.

  The other guests clapped to the beat of the music.

  Pérsomi stood at the outer edge of the circle. It was clear there was an established bond between the man and the woman on the dance floor.

  She turned away.

  For the rest of the evening she stood in the shadows. She saw Oom Freddie dance with one woman after another. She saw Old Anne’s neck stiffen and her mouth turn into a thin, straight line. She saw the eyes of all the young men following Annabel in her revealing dress and noticed that Boelie did not stray from her side all night. She saw Reinier dance with Irene. She saw Mrs. De Vos, Reinier and Annabel’s mother, down one glass of brandy and Coke after another.

  Close to midnight Pérsomi began to gather dishes from the tables to carry them to the kitchen. Someone touched her arm and spoke softly into her ear.

  “My turn.” Boelie steered her toward the dance floor.

  “Boelie,” she said anxiously, “I really don’t dance well. Actually I can only waltz. This is certainly not a waltz.”

  He didn’t answer, just gripped her arm more firmly.

  “Boelie, please!”

  “Just follow my lead,” he said. On the dance floor he put his arm around her waist. She felt his hand rest lightly on her back, his other hand folding around her own. Slowly, without speaking, he began to dance. Her body was tense as she tried to follow his movements.

  “Relax, Pers,” he said softly.

  She made a deliberate effort to relax, as she had learned to do on the track. She allowed the lilting music to sweep her along, she followed where he led, she was acutely aware of his proximity.

  “It’s not so hard after all, is it?” he spoke into her hair.

  She nodded, too afraid to say anything.

  In the morning she was in the barn before daybreak to finish cleaning. She prayed that Boelie wouldn’t be there to help. The barn looked like it had been struck by a tornado. She pushed the empty trash can to the door and began to fill it.

  Her thoughts turned to her assignment. There were so many facts she wanted to include, so many loose threads to be tied up before it was due in a few weeks. She had finished the letter to Benny Sischy. She would give it to Yusuf when she and De Vos went to town this morning. And she’d write to Michael Scott. She just wasn’t sure where to get hold of his address.

  Two empty wine bottles landed in the can with a clang.

  She would have to search in the university library for old newspapers, maybe—

  “Gosh, you’re an early bird!”

  Boelie’s voice at the door made her jump. Her heart was in her throat.

  He laughed.

  “Jumpy?” he asked as he entered the barn. “What were you thinking about?”

  “My . . . assignment.” Her voice sounded strange. She swallowed. It was only Boelie.

  But her heart didn’t listen.

  He began to pull the straw bales away from the wall. “You don’t have to help clean.”

  “I promised your mother I would,” she said.

  “Can you believe it? There’s a whole nest of glasses behind this bale. Bring the basket,” he said. “What’s your assignment?”

  “It’s about the Asiatic Land Tenure Act,” she said, passing him the basket.

  “Yes, I know about it,” he said. The glasses clinked as he put them in.

  “I had a very interesting conversation with Yusuf Ismail last Monday.”

  “You didn’t have to talk to him. You could just read about the repercussions in the papers,” he said.

  “I did that too,” she said. “The Indians are up in arms, and I think they have a valid point. Careful, you’re going to break those glasses.”

  “Valid point?” he asked skeptically. “You’re wrong there. The Indians ought to know their place in this country. They should behave, or they should return to India. They shouldn’t try to act like whites.”

  Carefully she put the basket with the dirty glasses on a chair. “Boelie, if the traders are restricted in where they’re allowed to trade, or the doctors and lawyers are told where they may practice, how can they run their businesses properly?”

  “In this country,” Boelie said emphatically, “we must look after ourselves, Pérsomi. The interests of the whites, specifically the Afrikaners, come first. Do you realize how many clients the General Dealer and the Farmers’ Co-op have lost because Ismail sells his inferior products at a cheaper price? For once, the Khaki government is acting strictly, and it’s a good thing. Lawyers and doctors and teachers and traders, the whole caboodle, are being arrested and chucked into jail, hundreds of them, if not thousands.”

  She straightened and looked him in the eye. “Doesn’t that sound familiar to you?”

  He frowned, puzzled.

  “What did you fight for? Why were you and a whole caboodle of lawyers and doctors and teachers willing to be imprisoned behind barbed wire five years ago?” she asked earnestly.

  “For the God-given rights of the Afrikaner nation.”

  “For the rights of your people?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And if I had to choose again today, I’d choose the same route.”

  “And isn’t it the same route these people are also choosing? Aren’t they also standing up for what they believe are the rights of their people?”

  “For goodness’ sake, Pérsomi, this is not their country! They’re visitors, laborers. India is their fatherland! They should go back there.”

  “And if their fathers and their fathers’ fathers were born here? Our forefathers came from Europe. Why is the Union our fatherland but not theirs?”

  Boelie swore. “Don’t be so naive to believe the curried hogwash Yusuf Ismail feeds you. The whole lot are Communists, including Yusuf Ismail.”

  “Why do you say that, Boelie? Do you have proof?”

  “Heavens, woman, must you always have proof of everything?”

  “Don’t heavens, woman me!” she snapped.

  He looked up, a strange expression on his face. It passed swiftly.

  “When the National Party gets voted in, their attitude is one of the first rotten apples that must be got rid of.”

  “If the National Party gets voted in,” she said.

  “You’re trying my patience this morning,” he said. “I’d better leave.”

  He strode out of the shadowy barn into the bright sunlight. She followed him with her eyes as he strode toward the kraal, his broad shoulders stiff, his head high.

  A deep sadness grew inside her. She stood alone in the chaotic barn. Alone she took the burned-out lanterns from the wall hooks, alone she packed the last dirty glasses in the basket.

  Alone she folded one tablecloth after another.

  Her mother came through the barn door to help.

  “Pérsomi, you must stay away from boyfriends, you’re looking for trouble,” her ma said.

  “What?”

  But that was all her mother was willing to say.

  The Indians refer to this act as the Ghetto Act,

  Pérsomi wrote in the conclusion of her assignment.

  I doubt whether it’s possible to apply the law successfully. To date no Indian has agreed to serve on the Land Tenure Advisor
y Board.

  Furthermore, it is my opinion that the consequences of this law will be more far-reaching than the lawmakers could ever have foreseen.

  In the first instance, it has made people who were favorably disposed toward whites for decades turn against them. It deeply upset families who lost a brother or son in the recent war—relatives of young men who lost their lives serving the same government who now wants to restrict their parents’ opportunities to trade (see interviews and letters, addenda one and two).

  Furthermore, the Asiatic Land Tenure Act gave rise to closer cooperation between the various Indian Congresses, the ANC and the Coloured population’s African People’s Organisation (APO), as is clear from recent pronouncements by the President General of the ANC, A. B. Xuma, in the press (see addendum three).

  On their part, the Indians have developed sympathy with the black population, as was evident during the black miners’ strike of August 1946 (see reports in addendum four).

  The Indian people have won considerable support from the white population, culminating in the establishment of the Council for Asian Rights in Johannesburg (report and photographs, addendum five).

  The law also had international repercussions when India tabled the matter for discussion and action at the UN, and opposed South Africa’s application to incorporate Southwest Africa with the Union (see addendum six). If the application is denied, it could be considered a direct consequence of the act.

  In conclusion, I am of the opinion that the Asiatic Land Tenure Act has never been a viable proposition and is presently leading to anarchy rather than good order.

  When her assignment was returned a week later, there was no grade on it. Neither were there any comments. Only a message: Come and see me.

  She made her way to the professor’s office, her heart heavy. What could be wrong?

  The professor looked up when she entered, then back down at the documents on his desk.

  Gently she laid the assignment on the desk between them.

  He picked up the assignment and paged through it.

  She waited.

  “Your elucidation and analysis of the finer legal points, and your research, are excellent,” he said at last.