by Irma Joubert
“Mr. Ismail, it’s very important that Yusuf is present when we discuss the hearing. I realize he’s busy but he still hasn’t spoken to me. Ask him when he can attend a meeting, then phone Ms. Steyn for an appointment. It must be this week, okay?”
“Okay, Miss Pérsomi,” they said, nodding. “Thank you, Miss Pérsomi.”
De Wet knocked on Pérsomi’s office door one morning when he returned from the hospital.
“Mr. De Vos is very weak. He told me he’d like to see you. I suggest you go as soon as possible. I think he might want to . . . Well, I don’t know.” It wasn’t often that De Wet was at a loss for words. “He’s looking for forgiveness, Pérsomi. Go at once, please. Be kind.”
“You . . . know?” she asked cautiously.
He shrugged. “I suspected it for years. When he made you partner, I knew for sure.”
She turned and picked up her handbag. “Do you think . . . Annabel knows?”
“Yes, she’s known for years. When you were still a student, she once made a remark that I didn’t understand at the time. But yes, she definitely knows.”
She didn’t ask what Annabel had said. It wasn’t important.
Pérsomi drove to the hospital in silence.
The man in the white hospital bed was hardly recognizable.
Reinier and his mother were there.
“Pa, here’s Pérsomi,” Reinier said, getting to his feet. He took his mother’s elbow and said, “Let’s go for coffee. We’ll be back in about twenty minutes.”
Pérsomi approached uncertainly. “Good morning, Mr. De Vos.” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
He stirred slightly, gave a slight nod.
She waited. He lay motionless. Was he asleep? “De Wet says you want to see me.”
“I asked you to come . . .” His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. With difficulty he opened his eyes. His bony hand moved slightly.
She did not take his hand.
“. . . I wanted to say . . . I’m proud of you . . . that you’re my . . . daughter.”
The words hit her much harder than she could have expected.
“I . . .” He seemed too exhausted to continue.
Pérsomi felt trapped. How could she forgive him if he never apologized for what he did to her and her ma?
“I appreciate the help you’ve given me over the years,” she said, “and especially . . . my share in De Vos and De Vos.”
Her words seemed to have a calming effect on him.
She reached out and gently laid her hand on his. “Mr. De Vos, can I give my ma a message from you?”
He lay motionless for so long that she thought he hadn’t heard. Then he mumbled, “Tell your ma . . . she made a wonderful success of raising you.”
She licked her dry lips. “Is that all?” she asked.
His eyelids fluttered slightly, closed again. “Yes, that’s all,” he whispered.
Slowly she withdrew her hand and left the room.
“I told you Mr. De Vos was very ill, didn’t I?” she asked her ma that evening. They were in the sitting room, having coffee.
Her ma nervously touched her hair. “Yes?”
“Ma, he died late this afternoon.”
Her ma’s hands flew to her face. “Oh heavens, Pérsomi.”
“It had to come, Ma. And it’s for the best. He was in a lot of pain toward the end.”
Her ma looked at her with dull eyes as she wrung a gray handkerchief in her hands.
“He told me to tell you . . . that you made a wonderful success of raising me,” she said.
Her ma closed her eyes and sat motionless for a long time. Then she opened her eyes and asked, “Is that all he said?”
Pérsomi hesitated. She looked at her ma’s anxious face. “He was very weak, Ma.” She swallowed. “He might have wanted to say more, but he was too weak.”
Her ma nodded slowly. “He loved me a lot,” she said. “He really loved me a lot.”
It was a big funeral, and the church was packed. Pérsomi sat with the office staff.
At exactly three o’clock the bells began to peal, loud enough for the entire town to hear. Then the family entered. Reinier and Annabel flanked their mother, followed by Irene and Boelie. Irene was holding Nelius’s hand. Boelie had Lientjie in his arms. They took their seats in the first pew.
Dominee Pieter spoke, the congregation sang, and the eulogies followed. Then the long procession drove slowly to the cemetery, a traffic officer on his motorbike up ahead, followed by the black hearse and the cars with their bright headlights. The Indian community lined up in front of their stores in a show of silent respect, as they always did when there was a funeral in town.
The coffin was slowly lowered into the open grave. Boelie’s arm was around Annabel’s shoulders as she sobbed against his chest. Pérsomi turned away.
Then she felt a small, cold hand in hers. Her heart contracted and she bent down. “Lientjie, go to your daddy,” she told the little girl softly.
“I want to hold your hand,” the child said.
“I want to hold your hand, too,” Pérsomi said, “but you must go to Daddy now. Put your hand in his, and he’ll pick you up. Will you do that for me?”
The child looked at her with big brown eyes. “Okay,” she said.
Pérsomi took in the skinny legs in the oversize navy-blue dress. The child walked to her father. Pérsomi saw Boelie’s expression soften as he looked down, picked up the little girl, and hugged her to his chest.
She turned and walked through the cemetery gate to her car.
The Tuesday of the hearing arrived clear and cloudless. “Think of me today, Ma, it’s the hearing,” Pérsomi said at breakfast.
“Oh, I didn’t know,” her ma said. “We’re out of maize flour. You must buy some this afternoon.”
“Okay, Ma,” said Pérsomi.
“And hair dye, Aunt Duifie must touch up my roots.”
“Okay,” said Pérsomi. “I’m going now.”
The magistrate’s court was a large building built of gray cement blocks, with bulky pillars in front and two weather-beaten flagpoles overhead. The Union flag hung limply from one, pale and faded in the scorching bushveld sun. The second flagpole was empty—the Union Jack was no longer hoisted.
Slowly Pérsomi walked up the wide, worn stone steps. There was a knot in her stomach.
“If Jakobus Lourens is the prosecutor, you have a problem,” De Wet had told her the day before. “His research will be faultless, which isn’t a bad thing. But he plays dirty.”
I must relax, she told herself. I’m not afraid of Jakobus Lourens. But she was emotionally involved in the case.
Mr. Ismail, Mr. Ravat, Mr. Moosa, and Yusuf were waiting in the narrow passage for nonwhites. “Everything okay?” she asked.
“We’re ready,” Mr. Ismail answered quietly. Yusuf nodded. He looked pale and tense. A muscle jumped in his cheek.
“Well, let’s go in.” She smiled and fell into step beside Yusuf. “I think we’ll finish in one day, Yusuf. I know you’re in a hurry to get back to your surgery.”
“If I still have a surgery after today,” he said.
“It’s going to be fine,” she assured him despite the tension she felt building inside her.
When they walked through the big doors of the courtroom, the men in their snow-white robes stopped somewhat uncertainly. “Here, you sit over here,” Pérsomi said, indicating the place where Lewies Pieterse had sat almost twenty years before. She put her briefcase on the table and hastened to the restroom to wash her hands.
“Good morning, Miss Pieterse,” a voice said behind her in the passage.
She closed her eyes for a moment. Dear Lord, give me strength. Calmly she turned. “Good morning, Mr. Lourens.”
Jakobus Lourens was a big man with a rugged complexion and a large, reddish nose. He had a booming voice, emanating from his enormous chest. “A pro Deo legal aid case, Miss Pieterse?” he asked congenially.
“No,
Mr. Lourens.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not telling me you’re serious with this case, are you?” he asked, nudging Pérsomi’s arm in a familiar gesture.
She gave him an icy stare. “Are you insinuating, Mr. Lourens, that I took the case for financial reasons only?”
“Get off your high horse, doll. I’m as fond of a joke as the next man, but we’ll see who laughs last.”
Pérsomi turned and led the way into the courtroom, her shoulders straight.
The room was filled to capacity, the atmosphere loaded with anticipation.
An unfamiliar magistrate from Pretoria entered. His gray hair contrasted sharply with his black gown. The spectators fell silent. The defendants stood. The clerk of the court read the charge sheet—the defendants were being charged with contravening the Group Areas Act.
“How does the first defendant plead?” asked the magistrate.
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” said Mr. Ismail.
“How does the second defendant plead?” asked the magistrate.
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” said Mr. Moosa.
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” echoed Mr. Ravat and Dr. Yusuf Ismail.
“The state may proceed with its case,” said the magistrate, leaning back.
Jakobus Lourens eyed Pérsomi, a derisive smile on his lips. Then he got to his feet. “It is my intention to prove to the court that the four defendants deliberately contravened the law, Your Honor.”
“You may begin, Mr. Lourens,” said the magistrate, looking slightly impatient.
“The Group Areas Act of 1950 is very clear: if an area has been rezoned for use by a particular racial group and the authorities have created the necessary facilities to relocate any other racial group living in the area, the law compels the other racial group to move. If they refuse to move, it is a criminal offense, and the state must act accordingly. That, in a nutshell, is what this case is about, Your Honor.”
He sniffed and continued, “As a result of the self-evident nature of this case and the fact that it is a plain and simple contravention of a specific act, I won’t waste the court’s time. I therefore call my only witness, Mr. Carel Thompson.”
Carel Thompson was a tall, pasty fellow with sparse hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. He was sworn in and took his place on the witness stand.
“Mr. Thompson,” Jakobus Lourens began, “you are employed by the municipality, is that right?”
“Yes, I’m the town clerk,” Thompson answered, clearing his throat.
“Do you know the defendants present in this court?”
“Yes, they are the Indian shopkeepers who do business in the main street,” he answered, “and the Indian doctor. They can no longer operate their businesses from there.”
“Can you tell the court why not?” Jakobus Lourens sounded bored.
“Their stores are in a white area. They are nonwhite.”
“You would therefore say they are acting in contravention of the stipulations of the Group Areas Act?”
“Yes,” said the town clerk, “and they refuse to move their businesses to the area at Modderkuil that has been zoned for Indians.”
“And the necessary facilities have been created for them at Modderkuil?”
“The town council has met all the legal requirements, yes.”
The prosecutor gave a satisfied nod and turned his gaze on the four defendants. “I see,” he said. Then he turned back to the town clerk. “Mr. Thompson, are you aware that the defendants present here in court today applied for a special permit to continue to ply their trade in the area?”
“Yes, I know they did. The town council denied their request.”
“Why?”
“The town council didn’t think a special permit was necessary,” the clerk answered. “Another area has been allocated to them from where they can operate their businesses.”
“And did they, after the permit was denied, still refuse to move?” the prosecutor asked.
“They did.”
The prosecutor turned to the magistrate. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
“Miss Pieterse?” the magistrate asked.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Pérsomi got up and turned to the man on the witness stand. “Mr. Thompson, you’re an experienced town clerk, are you not?” she asked.
“I have filled the position for years, yes.”
“And I understand you have a thorough knowledge of the legal aspects pertaining to your position?”
“I know the laws that pertain to my job, yes,” the town clerk said.
“That’s what I was told,” Pérsomi said, nodding. “Mr. Thompson, would you agree that the present Indian business district in our town is a segregated area of about six acres, where the Indian community’s places of trade and their mosque are confined to one specific area?”
“In the white town center, yes,” the town clerk replied.
“Are you aware that the stands on which they are currently trading were given to them in 1884 by President Paul Kruger in lieu of payment for goods supplied by them during the war against the Sekukuni in 1879?”
“Yes, I know this.”
“Do you know that their right to the land was upheld in 1908, in terms of the Townships Amendment Act, number 34 of the Transvaal Colony, which allowed Indians to reside and trade in a preallocated area?” asked Pérsomi.
“I don’t have knowledge of archaic laws,” the town clerk answered.
“Then allow me to enlighten you,” Pérsomi said calmly. “The trading licenses of the defendants were reconfirmed by the local government—in other words the town council at the time—in compliance with the Transvaal Dealers Control Ordinance 11 of 1925. Furthermore, the Transvaal Asiatic Land Tenure Amendment Act 35 of 1932, directly applicable to the defendants present in court, makes provision not only for statutory segregation, but allows the Indians legally to reside in the specified areas. Do you agree, Mr. Thompson?”
“I can’t express an opinion on laws I don’t know,” the town clerk protested.
“Then it’s a good thing the prosecutor and the honorable magistrate know the laws,” said Pérsomi. “They will know that the Feetham Commission allocated certain areas to the Asians in 1937, which, admittedly, did not include the area where the defendants have their businesses at present. But in 1941 certain Asians in the Transvaal with old, established businesses in areas outside those earmarked in 1937 were exempted from the law. The defendants fall in this category.”
Jakobus Lourens got to his feet. “Your Honor,” he said, sounding somewhat bored, “I really think the counsel for the defense is wasting the court’s time, quoting laws dating from the ark. We are here to review the Group Areas Act, not to listen to a history lesson.”
The magistrate gave him an impassive look. “Miss Pieterse, is this line of questioning leading anywhere?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Honor. My submission, Your Honor and Mr. Thompson, is that for more than seventy years the defendants have been legally plying their trade in a segregated and restricted area, namely the premises they currently occupy. From the very beginning there has been no logical reason to relocate them.”
She stopped for a moment to take a sip of water. “But that’s not all, Your Honor,” she said and picked up a hefty document. “This is a copy of the Group Areas Act. It states, among other things, that if a local government wants to move a racial group from a specific area they must”—she put on her spectacles and read from the document—“provide suitable living conditions.” She removed her spectacles and turned her gaze on the town clerk. “You are aware of this requirement?”
“Of course I am,” the town clerk said, sounding annoyed.
“And you think the town council has met this requirement?” asked Pérsomi.
“Definitely, yes,” came the confident answer. “The new Indian area at Modderkuil has been provided with good roads, an adequate school building, and sporting facilities. And the stands are bigger than the ones they ha
d. That is why many Indian families have accepted the compensation offered to them and moved. The feedback we’re getting is that the people are happy there.”
“Yes, that’s the feedback I got as well,” Pérsomi said, nodding affably, “I was very glad to hear it.”
She looked down at the document in her hand. The town clerk leaned back, pleased.
Pérsomi looked up. “Mr. Thompson, do you think the amenities established by the council also guarantee suitable economic conditions? That the council has also provided suitable conditions under which the Indians can ply their trades?”
The town clerk frowned slightly. “I . . . don’t understand.”
There was silence in the courtroom. The magistrate was leaning slightly forward. “Explain the question, Miss Pieterse,” he said.
Pérsomi picked up a second document from the table and turned to the magistrate. “This survey shows there are eight Indian families, which include thirty-seven working men, Your Honor. Four of them are teachers at the local school, one is a doctor, one is a tailor, two are builders, and one is a spiritual leader. The remaining twenty-eight Indian working men in our town are traders in the six existing stores—five general dealers and one hardware store.
“That means,” she continued, “that a large majority of the people who have to relocate are traders dependent on the revenue from their stores. Do you agree, Mr. Thompson?”
“I didn’t see the survey,” he said cautiously.
She handed the document over and said, “Providing premises for stores and even buildings in the Modderkuil area is not enough. There must be buyers for their goods. It’s the most important aspect, after all. Don’t you agree that it’s only logical that the traders cannot move their businesses to the new residential area before a community has settled there and the necessity has arisen for maybe one general dealer? Definitely not five. Don’t you agree, Mr. Thompson?”
She continued without waiting for a reply. “Suitable living conditions within the bigger picture, Mr. Thompson, implies that people must be able to make an economically viable living in the area under discussion. Suitable living conditions should therefore include sufficient trading potential and the prospect of drawing customers to the area in the same numbers as before the relocation.” She turned to the magistrate. “Without that, Your Honor, the town council has not fulfilled the socioeconomic requirements as stipulated by the law. No further questions.”