I wake up when I hear Mama and Tate talking late in the night. I lie still so they won’t know I’m awake.
“We can’t stay here much longer,” Mama says quietly. “The water is almost gone. And it’s a long time before the rainy season comes again.”
“It’s too dangerous to go home,” Tate whispers. “Especially after today. I’m afraid this is just the beginning.”
“But we’re not fighting. They have no reason to hurt us,” Mama says.
“To the Germans, one Herero is like another. They don’t know that we want peace,” Tate reminds her.
“It’s not just the water,” Mama says. “We’re also running out of food. We’ve picked all the berries up here and dug up all the uintjes. And you and your brothers have hunted most of the rabbits. All we have left are our cattle. And they’re not giving milk.”
They are quiet. I think they’ve gone to sleep. Then Tate speaks again. “We’ll wait a few days, and then we’ll go down to the waterhole at the bottom of the mountain. The women can look for berries and roots while the men fill the waterskins.”
“What about the children?” Mama asks.
“Ramata will stay with the cattle. The rest of the children will remain here with Uajoroka. That way she won’t have to climb the mountain again.” Tate laughs as he mimics Mama Uajoroka huffing and puffing as she came up the mountain.
“Shush,” Mama tells him. She isn’t laughing. “You’ll wake Jahohora and Karemarama.”
THE WATER TRIP
Once again, Tate is sitting at the edge of the mountain when I get up. I must have been tired because I didn’t hear him leave the hut. I sit beside him, listening to the morning sounds. The birds are singing, and there’s no rumble of boom sticks. “Is it over?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s quiet today. But I think you should keep the children close to the huts. Don’t go searching for berries down the mountain.”
We walk back to the huts where the women are watching the children play. Tate repeats his warning. “Karemarama, do you hear me?” he calls to my brother, who’s running off to play stone echo. “You keep those long legs close to the huts. And no hiding. Stay where Mama or Jahohora can see you.”
Karemarama throws a stone on the ground and turns around. He isn’t happy. He hates to be with women all day.
“But what about food?” Mama Uajoroka asks. “We were going to look for more berries. We could all stay together.”
Tate shakes his head. “We’ll have to make do with what we have. And drink as little water as possible. We must make it last a few more days.”
Uncle Kozondanda and Ramata come up the mountain before the sun rises too high in the sky. Tate takes them to the mountain edge. I start to follow, but Mama calls me back. I watch the men talk. Tate is telling them about the blinking lights and the lightning and booms. Uncle Kozondanda and Ramata are nodding their heads. Then Uncle Kozondanda talks. Tate looks worried. And sad.
Their talk over, the men join us again. It’s Tate’s turn to help watch the cattle. Uncle Kozondanda and Ramata will stay here. Tate tells me goodbye. “I’ll be back in a few days,” he promises.
The next few days are very long. My belly is hungry, but there’s nothing to eat. My mouth feels like I’ve eaten dirt. And my throat sticks together. We stay inside so the sun doesn’t make us thirstier. No one talks much, so I tell myself stories. I can hear Karikuta cry. His cry is weak and raspy because he’s hungry. Tuaekua Ehi can’t make good milk when she doesn’t eat.
When the sun goes down, we sit outside. Mama Uajoroka holds Karikuta. She sings to him, trying to stop his crying. Mama silently gives the last of the berries to the children and Tuaekua Ehi. Mama doesn’t keep any berries for herself, and she doesn’t give any to the other women or me. Tuaekua Ehi tries to share her berries with us, but we won’t take them. “You must eat them so you can feed my grandson,” Mama Uajoroka says.
Even though my belly begs for food, I’m happy. Mama is treating me like a woman. Herero women always put the children first.
The next day we wake to a surprise. Uncle Kozondanda and Ramata had set traps during the night. Now we have three rock rabbits to eat. It’s like a feast as we fill our bellies for the first time in days. But we’re still thirsty. The water is gone.
Uncle Kozondanda shows us how to dig up roots that hold water. We chew on the roots, squeezing the water out. I dig up a lot of roots before my thirst is gone.
“It’s better to get the roots at night,” Uncle Kozondanda says. “They hold more water then. That’s why so many animals eat at night.”
It’s early the next morning when Tate returns. He calls us to the holy fire as the sun begins to peep over the distant mountains. “The guns have been quiet for many days,” he says. “It should be safe for us to go down the mountain to get water and food.”
Karemarama lets out a loud whoop. He wants to explore.
“Not you, son,” Tate says. “Only the men and women will go. Mama Uajoroka will stay here with the children. And you will do what she tells you to.” Tate looks right at Karemarama.
We laugh.
“Now I want all of you children to listen closely to what I say.” Tate looks at each of the cousins and then at me. “You heard the boom sticks. You know what they sound like?”
We all nod.
“If you hear a boom stick close by the mountain, you must run as fast as you can from here.” Tate looks at Mama Uajoroka and the smallest children. “If you can’t run, you must hide. And you must be very, very quiet so no one finds you. Whether you run or hide, you must do it alone. It’s easier for the soldiers to find you if you’re together. Do you understand?”
Again, we all nod.
“When can we stop hiding?” I ask.
“You must be very still and wait a long time after the boom sticks are silent. Listen to make sure there are no voices or footsteps. Listen to the animals and birds. You know the warning cries they make. When you’re sure it’s safe, leave this place. Make sure you leave no tracks. And remember, you must go alone.”
Tate makes us repeat what we must do. Then he looks at the men and women. “You’re to do the same if you hear the guns.”
“But where should we run?” Mama asks. “Back to our village?”
“No,” Tate says. He stares at the ground. “There’s no village to go back to. It’s been burned.”
There’s silence. No one looks at each other. Mama Uajoroka is the first to speak. “How do you know?”
Uncle Kozondanda kicks at a rock. He’s not happy. “The last time I was with the cattle, I went to the waterhole,” he says. “I met a Herero who was wandering in the veld. He told me the German soldiers burned all the villages back that way.”
“What about my mother and aunties?” Mama whispers.
No one answers.
Mama wipes tears from her eyes. She puts her arms around Karemarama and me and holds us close. “So if we must run, where do we run?” she asks again.
“To Maharero,” Tate says. He points to where the sun starts the day. “There’s no other place. You must find the uncles and aunties who are with him.” Tate turns to the holy fire and tells the ancestors what we’re doing. He asks them to keep all of us safe.
I help Mama and the aunties gather the waterskins and calabashes. “Am I coming with you, Mama?”
“No, I want you to stay with the children.”
“But I’m almost a woman,” I say.
“I know. That’s why I want you to stay here. Mama Uajoroka will need another woman to help with the children. Tuaekua Ehi will stay here, too, so she can take care of Karikuta.”
We all walk with Mama and Tate and the others to where the path begins.
“How long will you be gone?” Karemarama asks Tate.
“If we’re not back in three days, you’ll have to leave the mountain to look for food and water. But don’t take this path. Go to the waterhole on the other side of the mountain,” Tate says. �
��Then run to Maharero. Look for the rest of our family.”
“What about you? Will you go to Maharero, too?” Karemarama asks.
Mama and Tate look at each other. It’s a look I can’t read.
“We’ll find each other,” Tate says. Then he turns to Ramata. “I know you’ll be watching the cattle. If you hear the boom sticks, leave the cattle and run. The ancestors will understand.” I don’t like Tate’s words. They fill me with fear.
It’s my turn. “Don’t forget to keep the holy fire burning,” Tate says as he hugs me. I nod and hug Mama. I don’t want to let her go. But if I’m to be treated like a woman, I must act like one. I hold back my tears as I watch Mama and Tate disappear down the path with my aunties and uncles.
I play games with the children so I won’t think about Mama and Tate. I know they’ll be safe. Tate said so. But all day long, I worry. That evening as I put more wood on the holy fire, I wonder if they’ve reached the waterhole yet.
Mama Uajoroka and Tuaekua Ehi join me at the fire after the children are asleep. Mama Uajoroka must see the worry on my face. “They’ll be back soon,” she tells me. “And then we’ll have plenty to eat and drink again.”
Karikuta cries. He is trying to drink from Tuaekua Ehi, but she doesn’t have enough milk to fill him. Auntie takes him from his mother and rocks him in her arms. I see for the first time how skinny he is.
“He doesn’t look well,” I blurt out.
“He isn’t,” Tuaekua Ehi says. She looks down at the ground. “I haven’t had good milk for a long time. And I can’t get him to eat anything else. He’s got the teeth for it, but when I put food in his mouth, he just spits it out.”
“It’s not your fault.” Mama Uajoroka pats her daughter’s arm. “Look how skinny you are. Eating berries and uintjes with a bit of rabbit or bird now and then may take the hunger away, but it doesn’t help you make milk for a baby. You need fresh milk and omaere.”
I look closely at Tuaekua Ehi. I’m surprised I haven’t noticed before how thin she’s become. “We’ve got to make you fat again,” I tell her. “Tate will know what to do when he gets back.”
Tuaekua Ehi smiles weakly at me.
I yawn. “I’d better go to sleep,” I say. “I’m getting up early so I can hunt for berries. I think I know where I can find some.”
Mama Uajoroka nods. “We’ll need food for the children tomorrow.”
I go into our hut. It seems empty with only Karemarama and me. Karemarama rolls over. “Are you asleep?” I ask softly.
“Not quite,” he mumbles.
“I’m going berry hunting in the morning. Do you want to come with me?”
“That’s women’s work,” he says.
“You like picking berries,” I remind him.
“I like eating berries.”
I lie awake trying to think of something to keep Karemarama busy tomorrow. I don’t want him troubling Mama Uajoroka. “Karemarama?”
“Hmmm?”
“Do you know how to make the traps Ramata and Uncle Kozondanda used to catch the rabbits?”
“Of course I do,” he says.
“Instead of berry picking, you need to make some of those traps tomorrow. We’re going to need more food before Mama and Tate get back.”
“All right.” He rolls over again. “Can I go to sleep now?”
I get up early the next morning to put more wood on the holy fire. Tuaekua Ehi and a few of the cousins are waiting for me. “We’re going with you,” Tuaekua Ehi says.
“You can’t,” I tell them. “The path is too steep.” I look at the younger cousins. “Your legs are too short for the climb.”
“Mine aren’t,” Tuaekua Ehi says.
“But you’re not strong enough. You must stay here and rest. Karikuta needs a strong mama.”
She starts to argue. I shake my head. “Come with me to the path. You can see how steep it is. And you’ll know where I’ve gone so you can watch for me.”
Tuaekua Ehi and I walk arm-in-arm around the edge of the mountaintop – just like we did when we were little girls. But there are no giggles or shrieks of childish laughter. Only silence.
I unhook my arm when I see the path I plan to take. Tuaekua Ehi looks down and shakes her head. The path is very steep and covered with loose rocks. “Be careful,” she tells me as I start to climb down it. “There are probably snakes.”
“I shouldn’t have to go too far.” I look up at her and smile. Her face is the last thing I see before I disappear over the mountainside. I walk slowly, looking both ways for berry bushes and glancing down at the ground for snakes. I have to go a little farther than I had planned, but at last I find bushes loaded with fruit.
I start to eat a few berries. But then I remember that Tuaekua Ehi, Mama Uajoroka, and the others are just as hungry as I am. I will eat when they do. I pick and pick and pick until the sun is high in the sky. My hands and arms are stained with juice and the skin pouches I brought are filled with berries. I tie the pouches around my neck and begin the steep climb to the top of the mountain.
The thunder of boom sticks and screams echo against the mountain. I drop to the ground, clinging to the mountainside. I quickly look for a hiding place. I crawl to a long narrow crack between two rocks. I hide the pouches of berries in a pile of rocks on the ground. Then I squeeze into the narrow crack and wait. The rocks shade me, but it is still hot. I want water. I want to sit. I want to check on the others. But I stand still, hidden between the rocks.
I think I hear footsteps, then more thunder and screams. Some seem to come from below, others from above. They’re all around me. I hear rocks falling. And distant thuds, like something falling on the boulders.
I wait and wait. I hear the birds and the buzzing of flies. But nothing else. I wait some more.
The sun is sinking behind the mountain when I step out of my hiding place. I stretch. My feet and legs hurt from standing still so long. I look around, but I don’t see anything.
It’s too dark to find my way off the mountain. I must wait until morning. I sit close to my hiding place and eat my fill of berries. I think sadly about the others. Of Karikuta’s hungry cry. Of Tuaekua Ehi’s growing weakness.All I can do is hope Karemarama caught a rabbit. Hope they’re all right. Hope Mama and Tate will make it back up the mountain.
Hope. It’s all I have.
Before the darkness settles, I find a rock ledge. I pick up a stick and poke it under the ledge to check for snakes. Knowing it’s safe, I crawl under the ledge to sleep. I will need my rest. Tomorrow, I must run to Maharero like Tate said. I must find Uapiruka and Uncle Horere and all the others who joined Maharero. And I must do it alone.
Kov
IN KIEL
Once in Kiel, I throw myself into my work, trying to stave off my loneliness and forget my worries about Hanna and Papa. We’ve all been given our assignments, so there’s a lot to do. The few doctors with family connections or years of distinguished service will work out of the main German hospital in Windhük. As part of Major von Glasenapp’s first and fourth seebatallions, I’ll be one of eight surgeons with the Marine Infantry Company. We’ve been assigned to mobile field hospitals, which are basically glorified ox carts. Even a few weeks in South West Africa will not be easy under these conditions.
In between gathering supplies for the field hospital, I have to attend training sessions taught by a weathered old German who has literally operated on the front lines of battle under heavy artillery fire. In reviewing standard field procedures, he’s rather dismissive of what we’ll face – a few broken bones, perhaps some cuts and contusions, and mild cases of dehydration and dysentery. Like many of the officers, he thinks the skirmish will be over before we get there. He refuses to call it a war as war implies we’re facing an enemy somewhat our equal.
“It’s good that it’s not a real war,” he tells us derisively. “You upstarts would never make it. You have been spoiled by city hospitals, and you’re so afraid of germs. If you were in a real battle, y
ou would know there’s a lot more to fear than invisible bugs.”
In addition to preparing for my billet, I have to examine the naval troops who have volunteered to serve as infantry in South West Africa to make sure they’re fit for the tropics. Most of them are country boys eager to see a little more of the world. I’d be as excited as they are if it didn’t mean leaving my family.
I sometimes have to hide a smile when I see these fresh-faced boys marching along the streets in their high yellow boots and blue woolen tunics. It’s easy to spot the ones heading to Africa. They swagger about town, greeting everyone and bowing to each other with an exaggerated solemnity not shared by the ones who’ll be staying here at home. To hear them talk, I’d think these boys were seasoned sailors who have been around the world a time or two.
A sense of celebration fills the town as we prepare to leave. Generally, the citizens keep to themselves, but now they’re stopping all of us, even me, to congratulate us on our upcoming adventure. Those who have retired from the sea regale us with their tales of heroism and danger. Others wish us a safe journey. It’s a camaraderie built on patriotism and the vicarious prospects of facing the unknown.
Tonight I’m to take the train, with all the Kiel volunteers, to the North Sea naval base at Wilhelmshaven for the first leg of our travels. Many of the troops are reuniting with family for one last outing. All along Holsten Street, the young sailors are surrounded by parents, brothers and sisters, wives, or sweethearts. Walking by myself, I feel conspicuous – and very much alone.
I duck into a restaurant for a good meal, but I realize my mistake as soon as I enter. The place is crowded with families and young couples, clinging to their last hours together. I sit in a corner, trying to look nonchalant as I eat my sauerkraut and roast beef. I can’t help but eavesdrop on some of the conversations – mothers worrying about the dangers of war and malaria, young children asking about the wild animals, and fathers trying to be experts on the situation in Africa. “Not much of an enemy,” one father says. “Just a bunch of naked savages using spears and clubs.”
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 14