Dancing the Death Drill

by Fred Khumalo

  ‘Tell me how you’ve been,’ he asked.

  A night bird called out. The Somme murmured.

  ‘It has been tense, as you can imagine. I’ve been interrogated numerous times by your military police. They’re convinced I am hiding you somewhere.’

  ‘Very perceptive, aren’t they?’

  ‘The one who has been persistent to the point of being a nuisance is the one with the red beard, Officer Haig. He’s been at my door countless times, cajoling me, badgering me, threatening me with arrest if I didn’t tell him your whereabouts. It got to a point where I had to remind him who my brother is, what kind of influence our family has, not only in Arques but in Paris as well.’ She paused. ‘That man is … how do you people select your soldiers back home? That man is always drunk, always. His demeanour and physique don’t say soldier to me. They shout vagabond.’

  Pitso wanted to tell her how he had considered leaving. It wouldn’t have been difficult – there were no guards at the house. But where would he go if he did decide to leave? Yes, he had looked at the map of the region he was in, Picardy. He’d looked at the map of France, of Europe. But he didn’t know how deep the rivers were. And the mountains and the valleys – were they penetrable? He felt torn about his reasons for leaving. He didn’t trust Bernard, but Marie-Thérèse had sacrificed so much for him, had risked her own skin in order to protect him. Did that not count for anything? He wasn’t sure.

  If he did escape and was caught, there was no doubt they would send him back to South Africa, where he would serve a long jail term. Or, worse still, they would simply kill him here, on European soil, to send a message: this is how we deal with traitors. He had been central to a murderous mutiny, after all. He had also deserted. The more he thought about escape, the worse he felt about himself, his own integrity. He was overwhelmed by shame. Hadn’t he joined up in order to fight?

  He admitted, ‘I thought you were never going to come for me. I really was getting scared. Knowing your family’s connections with the French authorities, I thought I’d been sold out to the military police.’

  She pushed him angrily away from her. ‘What do you take me for? What do you take my family for?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it. You know the mind of a desperate man is full of poisonous thoughts, always suspicious, always on the lookout for conspiracies. And it’s been almost two months since I last saw you,’ he explained with desperation in his voice.

  Her shoulders dropped. ‘I know, my dear. I had to defer my visit, seeing I was under strict surveillance. I did not want to lead them to you. Even coming up here I had to be extra careful. I took a train from Dieppe down to Rouen, where I spent two days with a friend.’

  They were walking along the banks of the river, carefully picking their way through rocks and undergrowth. A fish broke the surface, landing back in the water with a loud splash, startling both of them.

  ‘Anyway, after two days, I took a train back home, except I didn’t get off at Arques, or at Dieppe. I proceeded to Abbeville, spent the night, sneaked out of my hotel at dawn, and my chauffeur drove me all the way from there.’

  He laughed at her ingenuity.

  ‘Anyway, tell me your story,’ she said. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘I’ve been eating, eating, eating, in between long moments of missing my love. What else is there to say? I can’t leave the house, can’t do anything that normal people do. So, I sit here, eat, read, listen to some music, and eat again.’

  ‘That’s why your face is so pudgy and your shoulders so round,’ she laughed.

  ‘Don’t start with me,’ he said, squeezing her arm playfully.

  ‘My darling,’ she said, enjoying their back and forth, ‘I think we’d better get back inside. It’s getting rather chilly.’

  Before they turned in for the night, she said, ‘Your friend Portsmouth visited me once, to give me support. He was very nervous when he appeared at my house one night. He wanted to give me a letter for you. I wouldn’t accept it. Two days later, my sister Geneviève gave it to me. I was so angry with her – I told her, if we accept it, it only confirms that we know where Pitso is. Anyway, I brought it with me. If they visit me later and want to know what I did with the letter, I’ll simply deny knowledge of it. They can’t court-martial me, or do any of those crazy things they do to soldiers. I’ve heard some horrible things—’

  ‘May I see the letter?’ Pitso cut her off, eager to know what his friend had written.

  ‘Of course. I have it here.’

  With unsteady hands, Pitso opened the sealed envelope, almost tearing the letter in two.

  CHAPTER 39

  My Dear Old Prune!

  I know your body and soul are still intact, which is why I’m not going to waste time asking you about your health. What I am going to ask is: are they feeding you well, wherever you are? And do you have a good doctor/nurse tending to your injuries? Pity you don’t have a strong witchdoctor to protect you from those who are hunting you down. As you know, Tlali’s own witchdoctor and charms did not protect him that day, and he is no longer with us.

  Things are not as they ought to be, and I write to you with a heavy heart. The Germans would laugh themselves silly if they were to learn about the blood that has been shed at our camps, about the mutinies and court martials. It makes my heart ache.

  It’s a good thing that you went there to do your job, to translate for your comrades during that hearing. A sign of good leadership. You see, leaders do not fall from the sky. Leaders come from families, from communities. Leaders embody the dreams of their people, but they also channel their people’s energies in the right direction. Leaders are the source of light, but they also are the fuel that keeps a communal body going. You are all that. Because of it, you are a living nightmare for the likes of Haig. Yes, he survived the bloody mutiny. The two officers who were there both died, as well as three of the guards. But Haig survived. And, for some reason, he has made it his life’s mission to hunt you down.

  I have faith in you. I am confident in your ability, once all this is over, to make a life for yourself among people from all walks of life. I have lived with top military men – my father being one of them. I have hobnobbed with titled people: earls, barons, counts, etc. Highly educated, well-travelled, refined people. But you have a depth of humanity I have rarely been exposed to.

  I know you must realise that the cards are currently stacked against you. Yes, we’re in a war right now, but there are men in our midst, men who have been distracted from the real war, and are expending their energies and time on hunting you down. It is as if we have transferred the racial war from South African to French soil. What is happening right now is ridiculous, and sad. Black men are being singled out for court martials. Men are being cut down for raising their voices in protest against bad food. They are labelled mutineers, getting shot as if they are antelope. Our camps are burdened with the smell of gunpowder, and the smell of our own men’s blood, when the gunpowder should, rightfully, be reserved for the enemy.

  Pitso, you fought your fight, and I know you still haven’t stopped fighting. Neither have I. When we were on the ship, and you kept telling me that you were going to fight in Europe, no matter what, I dismissed you as a delusional black man consumed by his own anger and impotence. How wrong I was: now I can see that fighting is such an all-encompassing concept. It’s not confined to the actual trenches, to the gun, the limpet mine, the bayonet.

  I don’t want to know where you are, but I hope and pray you are safe. Keep your head down. Don’t taint your good name by getting caught. You’re cleverer than that. I know we shall meet again once this is over. The end of the war is nigh, and, in Europe, you will be able to disappear with a new identity. You speak good French, and you have many skills: you can work on a ship or in the forestry industry, you can cook, you can play music, you can build things with your hands. You can teach people how to write – yes, there are many Frenchmen who can’t write their own names. You even have the apti
tude to go to university if you so choose. So you don’t have to worry too much about the future, old man.

  My parting shot: store up your anger, keep your head down. There’s a future waiting for you beyond the blood-drenched trenches that choke this country now.

  I remain, your friend.

  Pitso folded the letter, closed his eye.

  After a beat, Marie-Thérèse asked, ‘What is it?’

  He got up wordlessly and went to the liquor cabinet in the drawing room.

  Back in their bedroom, he sat down on the bed next to her, gave her her drink. They drank in silence for a few moments.

  Taking in a long breath, she touched his shoulder. ‘Are you going to tell me what the letter says?’

  He searched, in vain, for the appropriate French expression to convey what was on his mind. He shrugged, and said in English, ‘A curate’s egg.’

  Seeing her confusion, he tried to explain himself. ‘This real war is eluding me – I’m getting sidetracked by nonissues, sideshows.’

  ‘You must count yourself lucky. The war is actually at your doorstep, but of course you won’t see it. You are safe and protected where you are.’

  ‘The sound of shells is so distant I wonder why Bernard insists I sleep in the bunker.’

  ‘When the war started back in 1914, this town was under brief German occupation,’ she explained.

  ‘Really?’ he said.

  ‘They took some men prisoner. They ransacked some of the businesses. But they pulled back because the British were pressing in …’

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘Ask Bernard.’

  ‘Who is this Bernard, anyway? Why is he so reticent, so evasive?’

  ‘Bernard is my uncle, my father’s half-brother. Biologically he is Austrian, you might say German—’

  ‘I’m living with a German?’

  ‘My grandfather adopted him from an orphanage when he was ten, and raised him as his own son. He trained and worked as a doctor for a very long time. Now that he is retired, he is very much involved in the family businesses. Sadly, he’s still very conscious of his Austrian roots, hence his discomfort in the presence of strangers.’

  ‘But can I trust him?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, he is the one who suggested we create a new identity for you. I have spoken to my brother in Paris, who says he can help.’

  CHAPTER 40

  Nothing could have prepared Pitso for what he saw on arriving in Paris on 15 March 1918. He had been expecting a smouldering, broken city – rickety buildings tottering to the side or completely on their knees, their walls blackened by shellfire, windows like the hollow sockets of a sun-bleached human skull. But when he got there, the wide boulevards opened their arms to him. The city was truly alive, and it was like nothing he had ever seen before. There were massive libraries everywhere, museums and art galleries too. The cobbled avenues smiled indulgently at him and offered to share their million secrets with him – the very secrets they had whispered to Voltaire, Rousseau, Balzac, Zola, Flaubert and other dreamers. Notre Dame, the Champs-Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower – all tributes to human innovation and commitment to liberté, égalité, fraternité – stood defiantly, proclaiming the indefatigability of the human spirit.

  While the buildings were still standing, however, the city’s inhabitants had been touched most profoundly by the war – psychologically and emotionally. The deserted streets and shut-up businesses spoke of fear and uncertainty. Behind the curtains, behind the shutters, men and women lurked about – a loaf of bread in exchange for cash at this shop; across the road, at the butcher’s shop, a pound of horsemeat proffered to grateful hands. Further down the street, a man might push a door open and shut it behind him, taking off his gloves, rubbing his hands together. The men inside would look suspiciously at the new arrival. He would order something to drink. One by one, the others would go back to their glasses, drinking beer, knocking back absinthe. Life had to go on. In the evening, the city became livelier as the bars filled up with men and soldiers of all nationalities.

  Pitso observed these things gradually, over the weeks. He still maintained his anonymity – bulky in winter clothes, refusing to surrender his cap and greatcoat whenever he entered an eating or drinking establishment. Under no circumstances would he ever take off his cap, which had large external flaps for his ears and a visor that stuck out like a hard tongue, casting a long, dark shadow over the top part of his face. Looking at himself in the mirror, he’d realised that his new incarnation looked more European than African. The curly locks of hair cascading down his neck, the beard, the moustache, a nose which had assumed a curious red hue – all this combined to give him a satisfyingly rebarbative look. No one would be inclined to give him a second glance.

  When he’d arrived in Paris, Pitso was accompanied by Bernard, the two of them sitting in the back of a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. Bernard had then escorted him to a small but distinguished house on Boulevard Raspail, owned by Marie-Thérèse’s family. This was going to be his home until further notice.

  ‘Marie-Thérèse told me you’re an artist,’ said Bernard. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘That’s putting it rather strongly. I just do a bit of sketching, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I hope you won’t be disappointed,’ Bernard said, leading him to one of the rooms in the house. The room contained an easel and a generous supply of sketching pads, a forest of pens and pencils, palettes, and other art-related paraphernalia Pitso had never had the pleasure of touching. One corner of the room was dominated by an upright piano. This, Pitso realised, was Bernard’s own acknowledgement of the long hours the soldier used to spend on the piano back in Amiens.

  Early the next day, Pitso was visited by Marie-Thérèse’s brother Sebastien. Big-boned, and as tall as Pitso himself, Sebastien was a congenial fellow with an easy laugh, speaking English with a fruity accent that reminded Pitso of the white captain who had addressed the group of recruits gathered at that hall in Bloemfontein back in 1916. Sebastien invited Pitso to join him for breakfast at a bistro just a block away from the apartment.

  ‘How do you like your new house, then?’ asked Sebastien.

  ‘Can’t express in words my sense of gratitude for what you and your family have done for me so far.’

  ‘Marie-Thérèse says you’re a good human being, and she is the best judge of character I’ve ever known in my life. And she loves you to bits. I’ll do anything and everything to keep her happy. You break her heart, I will not hesitate to break you, tear you to pieces. Understood?’ Smiling insincerely, he’d looked across the table at Pitso as he tucked into his breakfast of coffee and croissants.

  After breakfast they’d gone to the offices of Sebastien’s law firm. He showed Pitso around and introduced him to some of the senior staff. Then he led him to a small office next to his.

  ‘This is your new office. I can offer you work as a filing clerk, if that’s acceptable to you.’

  ‘What?’ Pitso asked, overcome with gratitude.

  ‘Isn’t that what you wanted? Something to keep you busy?’

  Later that day, Sebastien, accompanied by one of his business associates, came to Pitso’s office.

  ‘Pitso,’ Sebastien said, ‘we know that you are likely to start encountering problems with our immigration officials.’

  ‘I’d appreciate any help from you, sir. I am a stateless individual, an alien.’

  ‘Bernard told me as much. Which is why I’ve brought my friend and colleague Charles to see how he can help you. Great lawyer, Charles. Was my intellectual sparring partner at Cambridge, where we both read law. A very flexible Englishman, for a change. Right, Charles?’

  ‘You don’t have to patronise me, you old frog-muncher!’

  They laughed, clearly used to throwing friendly gibes at each other. Sebastien turned back to Pitso, ‘Look, I’ve got other business to attend to. Why don’t the two of you sit down and talk about this, and see what comes ou
t.’

  At the end of the interview, Charles asked Pitso to carefully think about his preferred new identity. Without hesitation, Pitso said, ‘My first name is Jean-Jacques.’

  ‘After Rousseau, I suppose. But, hey, give it some more thought. You have plenty of time.’

  It came to pass, then, that after a visit to the immigration offices, accompanied by Charles, who had helped ‘smooth things out’, Pitso came back bearing a new identity: Jean-Jacques Eugene Henri, born 20 January 1901, in Tangiers. Brought over to France as a child of ten, raised in Lyons, where his parents worked as labourers for a wealthy French family. When he came of age, he also worked for the French family, but stayed behind when his parents went back home. Adopted by that same family after his parents and one known sibling were killed during the Algerian War.

  It was May now. The city had thawed completely, physically and psychologically. With the streets devoid of snow, more people emerged from their houses – initially nervous, tentative, not unlike hedgehogs emerging from their burrows, sniffing the air for threats, adjusting their eyes to sudden brightness.

  Then there were automobiles. Hundreds of them crawling up and down the streets. Unbelievable. Tlali would have loved this, Pitso thought. Ah, Tlali. Ah, Ngqavini. His heart ached for his friends who had lost their lives in such senseless ways.

  On Sundays, Pitso would wake up to the ringing of church bells. This was it. He was at the heart of civilisation, not somewhere on the fringe. There was so much to do and see, that he drew up a strict schedule for himself. He visited museums and galleries, spent time drawing and practising the piano, attended morning mass at Notre Dame. Pitso Motaung in Paris, who would have thought? The lion was finally out of its cage. The lion tore thick chunks off its freedom and swallowed greedily. Yes, the lion knew that there were stalkers in the shadows, hunters with hateful eyes, devilish members of the military police. But that was the reality of a lion. It thrived on adrenaline. Expectation, not fear.