Mama Namibia: Based on True Events

by Mari Serebrov

  Further on, we stop at a large station where we’re to bed down for the night. After getting our fill of water and eating a little more rice, we head to the corrugated iron barracks. A few young marines worry about lions attacking in the night. They’re quickly hushed by the jeering that follows. While everyone else stretches out on the ground for a good night’s sleep, I tend to a man whose face is so blistered with sunburn he can barely see. Exhausted, I finally get to rest. Using my knapsack as a pillow and wrapped in my blanket, I lie on the hard ground and immediately drop into a deep sleep.

  I wake before dawn to whispered voices. “What if I don’t make it?” a youthful voice asks.

  “You’ll get home. Don’t worry about it,” another man responds.

  I drift off again, but this time it’s an uneasy sleep.

  We board the train again at noon to continue our trek through the savannah. The land seems more fertile, the long yellow grass more plentiful. Herds of strange animals and an occasional tree or bush disrupts the flatness. And there are more farms, all of them destroyed, with heaps of rocks marking fresh graves.

  We stop at another station for the night. This one is even bigger, and it’s been fortified. The windows have been walled up into slits just wide enough for a gun barrel; all the provisions have been hauled into two stout buildings under heavy guard. Sitting in the walled courtyard, we finally get a real meal, our first since we left the ship. Pea soup never tasted so good!

  WINDHÜK

  We arrive in Windhük the next afternoon. It’s a relief to leave the crowded gondola behind, even if it means marching through the hot sun and sand to the Alte Feste, a white fort at the top of a high hill. Weighed down by my knapsack, which seems much heavier than when I started out four days ago, I waste little effort glancing around at the meager town. All I can think about is water and clean clothes.

  As soon as we reach the walled fort, the men break rank and run toward the faucets in the middle of the courtyard, laughing and shouting and stripping off their filthy clothes as they go. I head toward the hospital unit to bathe in private. I don’t need to remind everyone of my circumcision.

  Clean at last, I tour the fort hospital with the other surgeons, getting a better idea of the conditions I’m about to face. Lieutenant Reiniger, the surgeon in charge at Windhük, paints a grim picture. The brutality of the enemy, coupled with the severity of the climate, is resulting in an unexpected number of casualties. And our medical supplies are barely adequate.

  “Politicians!” Reiniger mutters. “They’re all about waging war over a pitiful scrap of desert, so they’ll spend a small fortune on guns and ammunition. But just try to get money for medicines and surgical supplies.” He waves his hand toward the half-empty medicine closet.

  “It’s even worse for the mobile field units,” he says, giving us a pitying look. “Have you seen one yet?”

  “Only in pictures, sir,” I say.

  He laughs dryly. “Come on. I’ll show you the real thing.” He leads us out into the fortified courtyard.

  I’m surprised at the variety of people I see. The home guards – dressed in brown velvet coats, trousers, riding boots, and soft gray hats – patrol the grounds. Some of them are wounded or sick; the healthier ones will serve as our guides, Reiniger explains. These are German settlers, called out as militiamen. Most of them have been in South West Africa for years. Some of them stayed after their army service ended, many of the younger ones were born here.

  A group of women, Herero prisoners, are washing clothes for the soldiers. Some of the women are fully clothed in long cotton dresses, the others, covered from head to foot in some kind of reddish paste, are in what must be their traditional dress. Leather aprons hang from their waist in both the front and back. Except for an assortment of beads, their chests are bare. A few of them wear tall, three-pointed leather headdresses, adorned with iron beads, which add to their stature. Beaded hide bands or copper rings encase their wrists and ankles. Altogether, their dress is both regal and curious.

  Heston and a few of his friends mill around the younger women, flirting with them in signs, low Deutsch, and broken English. The women try to ignore the unwelcome advances. The older women, their faces wrinkled from years in the elements, sit passively, smoking short pipes.

  “They’re at your service,” Reiniger says, with a nod toward the women. “I know you’ve been on the boat for nearly a month. And it could be quite awhile before you see another female.”

  Embarrassed by his implication, I look at a group of bearded Boers, crouching in the shade of one of the corner towers. The sun-beaten, leathered men are to serve as our wagoners. Reiniger leads us out the broad doors of Alte Feste toward a long line of sturdy, four-wheeled Cape wagons, covered with linen hoods, waiting on the dirt road just below the fort. “Over here,” he says, pointing to one of the smaller wagons.

  “This is a mobile field hospital,” he adds. He lifts a flap to show us the cramped space inside. I climb in, stooping to keep my head from hitting the rounded canvas hood. Reiniger recites the inventory, opening the chest of supplies that sits in the center of the wagon and showing us the folding operating table. He demonstrates how to extend the flaps on all sides of the wagon to provide some shelter for the sick and wounded.

  “It’s medicine at its roughest,” he tells us. “But the lessons you learn will be invaluable when you return to the luxury of a hospital back home. That is, if you survive.”

  In the evening, we’re divided into companies and given our marching orders. I’m introduced to Arnold, a quiet orderly who looks like he’s hardly old enough to shave. Since no surgeons are in the field yet and the need for emergency medical care is growing, Arnold and I are part of the medical staff assigned to the company that’s leaving first thing tomorrow; the others will follow in a few days. The plan is for the various units to form a giant arc around the Herero so they can’t escape into the neighboring territory, which is controlled by the English.

  Before turning in, I add another letter to the stack I have ready to post to Hanna and Papa and take them all to the fort dispatch. The young clerk smiles at me as I hand him the pile of letters.

  “You must be with the division heading out tomorrow,” he says casually.

  I nod.

  “These will be the last you’ll be sending in quite awhile then. Good luck, sir. From what I hear, you’ll be needing it.” He salutes me.

  As I lie on the ground that night, I try to shut my mind to what tomorrow may bring, but I can’t stop the echo of Reiniger’s and the young clerk’s words. What if I don’t survive? What if I never get to meet my son? Or hold Hanna again? What if this desert becomes my grave?

  BOOK 3

  Jahohora

  ALONE ON THE MOUNTAIN

  I wake up early the next morning. My body hurts all over. But I can’t remember why. I stare up at the rock ledge just above my head. Where am I? Then it all comes back to me. The screams. The thundering of the boom sticks. The hiding place in the crack between the rocks. It wasn’t a bad dream. It really happened.

  I lie there quietly, listening to the sounds of the day waking up. I hear the birdsong and the skitter of a rabbit. But there are no people sounds. No baby cries. No children laughing. No footsteps. No clang, clang from Mama Uajoroka’s bangles.

  I slide out from under the ledge. I start to open a pouch of berries. No, I should save these. I go back to the bushes and pick my fill of fresh berries as I think about what I must do. I know Tate said to run far from here if we heard the thunder of the boom sticks. But I want to go to the mountaintop to make sure everyone is all right. I don’t want Tuaekua Ehi and the others to go hungry just because I was too scared to bring them food.

  I pick a few more berries and then search for the path to the top of the mountain. It’s so steep I must crawl on my hands and knees. It isn’t easy with the pouches of berries hanging from my neck. About halfway up, I stop to rest. I’m about to start again when I hear footsteps. And voic
es speaking strange words. They come from above.

  I press myself against the rocky side of the mountain. I must think quickly. I can’t go to the top. And the path I’m on is too close to the one Tate and Mama took. I must find another way down. I remember a path Tate showed me on the steepest side of the mountain. Only the rains and wild animals go that way, he told me. Today, I must be a wild animal. But first I must get to that path. It’s on the other side of the mountain.

  I look at the rocks on either side of me. The paths all run down the mountain, not around it. I must make my own way. It isn’t going to be easy. I hug the mountain, scrambling over the rocks to the left of me. I try to move quietly. But my foot hits a loose rock, sending it tumbling down the mountainside. I hear a shout from above. I lie against the mountain, barely breathing. Two voices on the mountaintop make strange words. A boom stick thunders. Something whistles over my head. It hits a rock below me. And breaks the rock. If it can break a rock, what could it do to me? I don’t move. I wait and wait, trying to make myself unseeable. A fly buzzes in my ear. I want to shoo it away. Or shake my head. But I force myself to lie still against the mountain.

  The voices are quiet. There are no footsteps coming down the path. I begin climbing again – to the left and downward. This time, I’m more careful. I move my left foot slowly, making sure I don’t hit any loose rocks. I reach out with my left hand, grabbing onto a rock ledge. Then I move the other side of my body. One step at a time, one handhold at a time, I slowly slide around the mountain. The rocks cut my hands and feet. The sun burns my back. I try not to think about the pain or the heat. The hunger in my belly. Or the thirst in my mouth. I don’t let myself think about Tate and Mama. Or the rest of my family. I must get off this mountain. That is the only thought I can have.

  The sun is sinking toward the earth when I reach the path on the other side of the mountain. It’s not much of a path. And it’s very steep. Too steep to walk down. Especially in the dark. I look around for somewhere to hide during the night. But there is no place I can lie down. No place where I won’t fall if I sleep. My belly is shouting with hunger. My hands and feet are bleeding. I’m so tired I can barely move. But I have no choice. I must keep going. At least a little farther.

  I crawl down the path, my back to the ground. I’m thankful for the moon and the light it gives. But I wish it had some of the heat of the sun. It’s cold. A cold that burns through me. I shiver. And keep moving. I go slowly, feeling my way with my bruised hands and feet. My foot touches a pile of loose rocks and sends them down the mountain. The sound echoes in the darkness. I lie still against the mountain, holding tightly to the rocky ground as I wait for the boom stick to thunder again. I hear only the bark of the wild dogs and the whistle of the duiker.

  I’m about to move on when I see a shadow crouching by a rock. It’s the wrong kind of shadow for a man. Without thinking, I move my leg. I feel my skin skirt brush against it. And I remember. It’s the skin from the cow the leopard killed. On this mountain. I stare at the shadow. It could be a leopard.

  I take a long, quiet breath. I lie as still as a rock. I watch the shadow, waiting for it to move. But it remains crouched. My heart beats loud and fast. I must stay calm. And I must be patient. I wait and wait and wait. I don’t take my eyes off the leopard-shadow. It doesn’t move. Not even a muscle twitch.

  The moon slips behind a thin cloud. Suddenly, the leopard-shadow moves toward me. I shut my eyes. I don’t want to see my death. But nothing happens. I slowly open my eyes. The cloud has passed over the moon. And the shadow is back in its place. I stop myself from laughing as I begin crawling down the path again, past the shadow of a “crouching” rock.

  I’m so happy the shadow is a rock and not a leopard that I move too quickly. In the half light of the moon, I don’t see that the path drops from beneath me. Suddenly, my feet slide into air. I try to grab onto the mountain with my hands. But I can find no handhold in the loose dirt and the rock smoothed by the rains. As I fall, I bend my head forward, covering it with my arms.

  I land in a small grassy clearing. Every part of me hurts. But the pain tells me I’m still alive. I lie on the ground, staring up at the steep ledge from where I fell. It’s as high above me as a tree. I’m happy it wasn’t higher. I move my legs and arms. I make myself stand up and take a few steps. Nothing is broken. But I’m too sore to walk much farther.

  Even though I haven’t eaten all day, I don’t think about food. I just want to lie down and sleep. Maybe then the pain will go away. And I can wake up from this bad dream. I see a hiding place under a rock ledge. I walk over to it. Slowly. I bend down to check for snakes. The pain makes me want to cry. I put the skin string of one of my pouches in my mouth and bite down to keep from crying out as I crawl under the ledge. I lie there, listening to dry branches snapping in the cold night air as I wait for sleep to find me.

  A loud cry wakes me. I quickly sit up, hitting my head on the rock. I try to ignore the pain as I lie back down. My body hurts all over, but I make myself crawl out from under the ledge. It’s still dark. I open my ears and listen hard, hoping to hear the cry again. All I hear are the night sounds I have known since childhood. Then it comes again, softly echoing against the mountain. Karikuta! is my first thought. Remembering the strange voices I heard this morning, I stop myself from shouting the name.

  The cry echoes once more. It’s not Karikuta. It’s a brown hyena. I crawl back under the ledge. I wipe the tears from my eyes.

  When I wake again, it’s morning. I lie under the ledge, listening to the sounds of the mountain. My belly growls for food. I slowly crawl out and look around. The rock walls of the mountain rise steeply behind me. In front of me is the small clearing. The path, cut long ago by the rains, slopes gently downward through bunches of yellow grass.

  Sitting with my back against the mountain, I take my fill of the berries I picked two days ago. They’re smashed together in my skin pouches. But they’re food. And the juice wets my throat.

  With my belly a little happier, I explore the clearing. I move slowly. My feet and legs are too sore to walk fast. Seeing no signs of man, I become a little braver as I search for food. I dig up roots to chew on for water and find more berries to fill my pouches. I crawl to the edge of the clearing and look down. The path is wider and not so steep. And the bottom of the mountain is closer than I had thought. I will rest in the clearing today. When the sun sleeps, I will leave the mountain. Maybe then I will feel better.

  As soon as darkness falls, I follow the path down the last part of the mountain. It’s not as steep as the top part of the path. It would be an easy walk if I didn’t have so much pain. Because the path is more even, I don’t have to think about where I put my feet. So all the thoughts – all the questions – I’ve put away for the past few days fill my mind. And a loneliness so big it makes me want to cry.

  But I keep walking. As I come to the bottom of the mountain, I listen for people voices. All I hear are the animals of the night. Keeping in the shadow of the mountain, I walk into the veld. I’m scared walking alone in the darkness. Not of the animals I hear. But of the things I don’t see. Of what I don’t know. I shake my head. I can’t let myself be frightened. Even though I’m alone. I must think about finding water. The roots helped, but I need much more water than they hold. My mouth tastes like sand. I look to the stars for direction. I find the Otjikoroise Tjovaeve and look for the bright star above the dim one. The one Tate told me to follow to where the sun wakes. I start toward the first waterhole he pointed out to me. It shouldn’t be too far.

  A giant tree grows out of the morning twilight. Its dead limbs stretch high above the earth. What looks like the skin of a huge ox covers many of the branches. When I get closer, I see that it’s not a skin. It’s many, many bird nests woven together. As I walk by the tree, the weavers sing loudly.

  “Shhhhh,” I tell them. I look around, hoping no one hears the birds’ warning. A movement in the tree catches my eye. A big, black snake moves slowly
from the nest. It hisses, moving its head back and forth. I move away as quickly as I can.

  A little farther, I see the trees that grow by the waterhole. I must reach the water before the sun fully rises. I wish I could run. But I’m too tired. And my body is too sore. I walk slowly forward. I see something move near the waterhole. I hide behind a tree and listen. At first I hear only the tree branches creaking. Then a low moan rises softly. I know that sound. It’s the cry of a cow. There’s another sound, even softer. I open my ears and listen hard. A woman sings. She sings the song Mama sang to Karemarama when he was a baby. She is Herero.

  I’m so happy to meet another Herero, I want to run to the woman. But I hold back, walking slowly from behind the tree. I stop quickly. A black cow lies on its side, its legs sticking stiffly out. It moans again. Its nose twitches as it takes its last breath.

  Beyond the cow lie many Herero. At first, I think they’re sleeping. I look closer. A young woman stares open-eyed into the sky. Dark sticky blood covers her big belly. A man lies nearby. His face is to the ground – as if he fell. His back is red with blood. The bodies of Herero men and women, of children and tjikuus lie next to the carcasses of goats and cattle. The smell of death makes my belly rise to my mouth. I’m going to be sick.

  Trying not to see the bodies, I look for the woman I heard singing. She’s sitting near the waterhole. She rocks gently. Back and forth. Back and forth. I move toward her, trying to walk around the dead people and animals lying in my path. Tears blind my eyes. I wipe them away. I don’t want to look down. But I must if I don’t want to walk on the bodies. My bare foot touches a body. I want to scream. I cry quietly.

  I stand near the woman who sings. She holds a baby to her breast, trying to get him to eat. “Mama,” I call to her softly.

  She looks toward me. But her eyes don’t see me. They look through me as if I’m not there. Maybe I’m not. Maybe this is another bad dream. I wish it were. But it’s too real. I sit next to the woman. I wonder at the stillness of the baby. I watch him closely. He is dead.