by Irma Joubert
Her heart was in her mouth.
“Your command of language is admirable, also the structure of the assignment and your referencing.”
Her blood seemed to flow slowly, heavily.
The professor looked at her. “The problem I have is with the conclusion you reach.”
Her blood no longer reached her brain. Her head ached.
“Pérsomi, our university endorses lofty Christian National principles. Our department has a specific culture, an ethos, of which we are proud.”
She licked her dry lips. “I don’t understand, professor,” she said.
He picked up the assignment and turned to the last two pages. “This conclusion,” he said and tapped on the words, “borders on the propagation of Communism. I won’t have it in my department.”
The professor took his time to remove his spectacles. At last he said, “I’ll give you the opportunity to change the conclusion. You can hand in your assignment at the end of the week, after which it will be graded.”
He put his spectacles back on his nose. The conversation was clearly at an end.
“Professor, what grade will you give me if I don’t change my conclusion?” She forced the words past her constricted throat.
He looked up, troubled. “Fifty percent. Fifty-five at most,” he said.
She felt the words pierce her body. Her throat closed up. “Then I won’t get a distinction,” she said. She would lose her scholarships.
“It’s your choice. I can’t accept the assignment as it is.” He removed his spectacles again. His smoky blue eyes seemed rimmed with gray. “You’re my top student, Pérsomi. You’ve passed every year with distinction. It would be a pity if you don’t graduate cum laude because of two pages of one assignment. I warned you at the outset to pick another law. I told you it’s a sensitive matter, but you insisted on having your way. We dare not underestimate the onslaught of Communism in our country.”
She remained silent for a long time before she said, “I know very little about Communism, professor, and it’s the last thing I was trying to propagate. What I do know is that I can’t change my conclusion. It is my honest opinion.”
“Then I can’t change your grade,” he said.
She thought for a moment. Then she lifted her chin. “When is the absolute deadline for the assignment?” she asked.
“The test series begins on Monday,” he said. “I can’t give you more than two weeks’ deferment.”
“I’ll hand in another assignment on a different law. In time,” she said.
She turned on her heel and walked out, gently closing the door behind her.
She left the assignment lying on his desk and didn’t mention it to anyone.
TEN
THE ENTIRE MONTH OF MAY 1948 STOOD IN THE LIGHT OF THE upcoming election, or maybe in its shadow. The United Party incumbent, Jan Smuts, who had been prime minister since 1939, was on the verge of being ousted. His accommodating positions on racial integration were increasingly unpopular among Afrikaners who feared the economic, religious, racial, and political repercussions of growing minority groups. The opposing Reunited National Party, also known as the HNP, quelled such anxieties with promises of total segregation.
“Is the election all you guys can talk about?” Pérsomi asked Reinier as they walked between classes.
He gave her a surprised look. “Gosh, Pérsomi, what else do you want to talk about? Surely not the approaching exam, or our respective love lives, or the drought in the bushveld?”
“Well, Christine and De Wet had a baby girl. That’s exciting news,” she challenged him.
“Oh, Pérsomi, that was last week.”
“Okay. And . . . er . . . what about . . . ?”
“The election,” he suggested cheerily. “The National Party’s chances are a lot better than in ’43.”
She sighed, shrugging. “And you think they’re going to win?”
“You must learn to say we, not they. Aren’t you going to vote for them?”
“I’m not sure I’m going to vote at all,” Pérsomi said.
“Of course you are. Pérsomi, have you seen where the United Party is heading? They pretend to reject integration, but at the same time they say total segregation is impossible. If they have their way, our cities will be black before long.”
“But segregation is impractical. If Blacks are no longer allowed to live in the cities, who’s going to work in the mines? Or the factories?”
“That’s why we have migrant workers,” Reinier said irritably. “They come in to work in the mines and industries, then they return to the reserves. It’s the logical solution.”
“Maybe. But I don’t know whether this new term apartheid is just another kind of discrimination.”
“Where would you get such an idea?” His tone was uncharacteristically annoyed. “Apartheid just means that the whites and the natives will live separately—we in our cities and towns, they on the reserves. And it’s not a new concept. Total segregation has been NP policy since 1934. They want to develop the reserves so that the natives can retain their tribal identity.”
“In other words, keep them unschooled and in their place?” she asked.
“Heavens, Pérsomi, their culture and traditional way of life are just as important to them as our culture is to us. Who are we to try and make them more like us?”
It sounded logical and fair, but it bothered her.
She received top marks on her second assignment, and kept that to herself as well.
On May 24, two days before the general election, Die Transvaler reported that the HNP was worried about the political cooperation of the minority groups.
Last Saturday, Black leaders met with their Indian and Coloured counterparts, and even a number of whites, demanding full franchise rights for all, after which they signed a Joint Declaration of Cooperation.
This development came shortly after Dr. A. B. Xuma, president of the ANC, had thanked the Indians for their part in the struggle against racial discrimination.
If the Nationalists come into power, they will have to take strict steps against the Indians who are trying to influence all non-white groups against the whites.
The evening before election day, a group of seniors was sitting in the lounge listening to a special broadcast. Dr. Malan, candidate of the Reunited National Party, was first to speak. “Bring together what belongs together,” he said. “The future of the white population lies in the cities and towns and on the farms, where we carry the economy of the country. The future of the natives lies in the reserves. They must develop at their own pace in their own areas. We recognize the threat of the endless flood of natives entering the cities. We will undertake to protect the white character of our cities.”
His voice droned on over the airwaves. “We intend to put a stop to mixed marriages, there will be no natives in parliament, job reservation will be applied more strictly, Indian immigration will be stopped, Indians will be repatriated . . .”
Quietly Pérsomi got up and left the lounge. The other girls sat listening, captivated.
Everyone gathered at Boelie’s place to listen to results come in over the wireless. Boelie was writing down the results in a notebook when Pérsomi arrived. He called over his shoulder, “You’ll find the Primus and the kettle over there. Why don’t you make some coffee? And there are rusks in the tin.”
“It doesn’t look good for the National Party, does it, Boelie?” said Pérsomi, studying the results he had written down.
“Just you wait, our results are still coming,” he replied.
Reinier joined them after completing a test, and Annabel arrived shortly after.
“Do I hear my brother’s voice?” Annabel said chirpily.
“We’ve just got another seat!” Reinier reported, putting his hands around her waist.
Annabel laughed. “Every little bit helps, doesn’t it? Wait, Reinier, let me say hello to Boelie.”
She floated across the room to where Boelie was
standing at the window, snuggled up against him, and raised her face. “Hello, Boelie.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “This is a surprise,” he said. “Have you come all the way from Joburg?”
“It’s not that far,” she laughed. Only then did she turn to Pérsomi. “Oh, you’re here too? Hello, Pérsomi.”
“Good afternoon, Annabel.”
“You take the pen, Pérsomi,” Boelie instructed as another series of beeps came over the wireless. He handed the notebook to her. She felt the weight and quality of the pen in her hands. “I have news,” he announced.
“News?” Pérsomi asked.
“Yes, I . . .” Boelie hesitated, then looked at her. “I won’t be here much longer. I resigned at the Department of Agriculture, Pers, I’m going back to the farm at the end of June. Permanently.”
Annabel drew a sharp breath. “Resigned?” she cried. “Are you mad?”
“No, I’ve given it a great deal of thought.” He reached out and took her hand.
Pérsomi nodded slowly. “Will you be farming with your dad?”
“Surely you can’t waste your qualifications on farming!” said Annabel, withdrawing her hand from his.
Boelie ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m going to try,” he said. “I hope it works.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Reinier asked.
He shrugged. “The bottom line is that the farm belongs to me, no matter how unfair it may seem.”
The wireless interrupted their conversation.
“Write!” said Boelie and turned up the volume slightly.
“Here is the result of the constituency of Losberg, Transvaal.”
“The Transvaal rural areas. Now things will get moving,” Reinier said.
“It’s Louis Botha’s former seat,” Annabel warned, linking arms with Boelie, “and the UP has put up a strong candidate there, Bailey Bekker. I don’t know . . .”
She knows so much more than me, Pérsomi thought briefly. No wonder Boelie—
“G. P. Brits, Reunited National Party . . .”
“We’ve got it!” Reinier roared.
“Quiet!” Pérsomi scolded. “I can’t hear.”
“We’ve got it! We’ve got it!” Reinier rejoiced. He grabbed Pérsomi by the waist and spun her round and round.
“We’ve bloody well got it!” Boelie said, amazed.
“One swallow doesn’t make a summer,” Annabel said, taking over Pérsomi’s seat and pen. “Pérsomi, make some fresh coffee, I’ll write. Or do you have something stronger, Boelie?”
“Yes, I think there’s a bottle of wine. Look in the bottom of the cupboard, Pers.” He crossed the room and opened the window.
Pérsomi filled the kettle and found the bottle of wine in the cupboard. “So, you chose the farm?” she asked, handing the wine and corkscrew to Boelie.
He nodded. “Yes, I’m thirty, I want to settle.”
“Thirty?” Reinier cried, shocked. “Boelie, that’s old! You’d better drag my sister to the altar soon or you’ll both be left on the shelf!”
Pérsomi felt the words pierce her heart.
Annabel’s laugh was bright. “Steady, brother,” she said, “I don’t think I’m quite ready to tie the knot.”
“You’re an old maid, Annabel,” said Reinier.
Annabel raised her brows. “That’s your opinion. I see myself as a successful career woman.” She took a glass of dark red wine from Boelie and snuggled against him. “I’ll tell you what. If I get that job as foreign correspondent in London, you’ll have to wait another year or so to be a groomsman. If not, wedding bells might chime sooner than you think.”
“Mom and Dad won’t be very excited if you get the job,” Reinier said earnestly and took a sip of wine. “What do you think, Boelie?”
Boelie shrugged. “I suppose she can make up her own mind.”
“She’s been doing exactly as she pleases since she was seven,” Reinier said. “No one could ever tell my sis what to do.”
“You’re right, brother,” said Annabel, “you’re quite right. Pérsomi, are you actually having coffee? What a little goody two-shoes you are!”
At quarter to ten that evening the HNP’s victory was official. Smuts was out. D. L. Malan would be South Africa’s next prime minister. And by half past seven the next morning, the HNP and Afrikaner Party had taken a majority of seats in the House of Assembly, paving the way for apartheid to become more than an idea.
In the last days of her exam, a fresher came to call her. “Miss Pérsomi, there’s someone at the front door for you.”
“Someone?”
She noticed the girl’s inquisitive expression. “Yes, miss. He says he’s your father.”
Pérsomi was stunned by the possibility. But the next moment she realized it could only be Lewies Pieterse.
She felt herself turn cold. It was early evening. There would be students in the foyer, the garden would be full of dating couples.
She knew what Lewies Pieterse would look like, act like, at this time of day. She had to get rid of him as quickly as possible.
She hurried down the stairs. He’d want money. It was the only reason he would come to see her. But if she gave him any, how would she ever get rid of him again?
He was standing in the middle of the foyer, even drunker than she had expected.
Many eyes were watching.
“Come outside,” she said brusquely and led the way to the garden, her back stiff. She walked some distance, to a point far from the gate.
“Don’t you say hello to your pa?” he asked when she turned to face him.
“What do you want?”
“Pérsomi, Pa’s little girlie, I wanted to come and see for myself how you are,” he lisped. “I just—”
“I’m fine. Go, before I call the police.”
A sly look flitted across his face. He shook his head. “Lewies Pieterse doesn’t fall for your bluff.” He took a step closer. He smelled of old sweat and his breath was sour. “I’m a free man, I’ve done my parole. The cops can’t touch me, because I’m toeing the line. Lewies Pieterse knows his rights. I’ve come to visit my daughter, what’s—”
“It definitely isn’t love that brought you here, because there’s no love lost between us. None, do you hear me?” She kept her voice very low and looked him in the eye. “And I’m not your daughter, you know that as well as I do. So leave.” She turned back toward the res.
He caught her arm in a painful grip. She tried to free herself, but he held on. “I won’t go before you give me money,” he said loudly.
She turned, facing him again. Her entire being radiated scorn. “I don’t have any money.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He lurched, then found his feet again. He raised his voice. “I’m not going. Go find money.”
She was overcome by despair. He’d make a scene.
“Stay here,” she said. “Don’t move. I’ll see if I can borrow money. If you move, I won’t give you a cent.”
He shot her a sly look. “I’ll wait five minutes, then I’m coming in to look for you. And no one will stop Lewies Pieterse, not one of these girls.” He hooked his thumbs in his braces and stepped back, full of bravado, pleased with himself.
Pérsomi went back inside and took the stairs two at a time. She couldn’t borrow money. She couldn’t give him money. She couldn’t phone the police either; he hadn’t done anything wrong.
She yanked open her bedroom door. He would certainly come inside.
She pressed her palms to her flushed face. Dear Lord, help! she prayed. I don’t know what to do.
Her hands took a tickey from her purse. Her feet walked to the phone booth. Her fingers found the right numbers. Her voice spoke without her having thought about what she would say.
“Boelie, please come and help me. Lewies Pieterse is here at res, in the garden.”
She was trembling from head to toe.
A dark eternity later there was a soft knock on the door. “Miss Pérso
mi, there’s someone at the front door for you.”
It was long after visiting hours.
“Are you all right, miss?” The fresher sounded anxious.
Slowly Pérsomi came out from under the blanket. “Yes,” she said. Her voice sounded strange, hoarse.
“Miss, the man says his name is Boelie Fourie. He says you must come quickly, he won’t be long.”
Boelie. Her oasis in the wilderness. Her anchor in a stormy sea.
She went downstairs.
“Who was the man who was here earlier?” the fresher asked.
“Just a no-good bywoner from the farm where I live,” Pérsomi answered.
“He said he was your father.”
“He was drunk,” Pérsomi said. “He’s no more my father than the man in the moon.”
“Oh, that’s what we thought.”
In the foyer Pérsomi said, “You can go to your room. I’ll lock up.”
She waited until the girl had left, then stepped outside. Boelie was standing just below the veranda, in the path leading to the gate. “Are you okay, Pers?” he asked.
She nodded, then her head began to shake involuntarily.
He opened his arms.
She walked into his embrace.
His arms folded around her. Tight. Hard as steel.
Safe.
She was trembling all over.
He clasped her firmly to his chest while his other hand stroked her hair. “All right, Pers, he’s gone now.”
She stood motionless in his embrace. “Where is he?” she whispered almost inaudibly.
“Gone,” he said. “He won’t be back.”
She felt his calmness, his strength, gradually enter her being.
“I was so . . . afraid,” she murmured.
He held her more tightly. She felt his heart beat against her chest, heard him breathe in her ear. “I don’t want you ever to be afraid again.” His hand kept stroking her hair, her neck. “Never again.”
She stood electrified, petrified. His hand slid down her neck, her back, pressed her more tightly to him.
His lips were on her hair.
She felt his wild heartbeat.