by Dave Boling
“Here. . . .” I scooped up armfuls of heavy blankets, leaving just one for the children. Within minutes I had shaken them and spread them on the closest fence, exposing them to the soft wind. It would take hours, but better than leaving them inside.
Women stared at me as I walked back to the Van Zyls.
“Where are they?” Ouma van Zyl asked.
“Drying on the fence.”
“Will the guards punish me?”
“No . . . you had nothing to do with it. I can say they’re mine.”
I gestured to the children. “How will they make it through without dry blankets? Maybe you should get them to the hospital.”
“The Death Tent?” she whispered.
“At least it might be dry there,” I said, but I could not force her, and the children were sick enough that I knew it would be unfair to ask Moeder and the Huiseveldts to pull in tighter and allow them to stay with us.
“I’ll go keep watch over your things in case a guard sees them. At least we can leave them out there until then. . . . It will be something.”
“You should be wearing shoes, child,” she yelled.
“The mud stole the one,” I replied on my way out.
“You’ll freeze.”
“Too late.”
It took an hour for a guard walking rounds to see the blankets and demand answers. If somebody had to discover them, I had hoped that it would be Maples. I could have reasoned with him. Perhaps he could have done something, overlooked it for a while. But it was a guard I had not seen. I could only hope it was not one alerted to our status with the commandant.
“I put them there,” I volunteered when he approached. “Sick children need dry blankets.”
“You know the rules—get them down.”
“It’s against the rules to dry wet blankets?”
“On the fence, it is—you know it is. The rules are posted everywhere.”
“I can’t read.”
“You were told when you got here.”
“I was sick with fever and could not hear when we got here.”
“Get them down. . . . Can you hear that?”
“They’re wet. . . . Where else can we get them out of the mud?”
“Your problem.”
Ignorance didn’t work; defiance was next.
“And if I don’t?”
“You’ll go into confinement. We have that here, too, you know. Or is that another of the things you don’t know?”
“I’m already confined.”
“I said ‘confinement’ . . . something for special offenders.”
“Can’t be much worse,” I said.
“You’ll be able to judge for yourself. Let us know what you think after a few days.”
“Are you trying to frighten me?”
“Just warning you.”
“I would welcome isolation. Isolation would be a holiday from the woman in our tent.”
“Oh, without access to the latrine?”
I laughed. “This whole camp is a latrine.”
“We can arrange punishments beyond that,” he said, deepening his tone. “Afraid now?”
“I fear God.” I stood as tall as possible until I realized that it made my bare foot visible. I had been numb long enough that they had stopped throbbing.
“You fear more than that.”
“Well, yes, I do; I fear my oupa at times . . . but not the British. Not you, not your soldiers.”
“Do you want to tell that to the commandant?”
That was an option I did not want to hear. But it made it clear the guard did not know of our “relationship” with the commandant.
“Do you want to tell him that you’re putting a child in confinement because you can’t scare her well enough?”
“He doesn’t care. Trust me, he does not care.”
“Good, then take me to the commandant’s tent,” I said, risking a bluff. “And I’ll tell him that three sick children are about to die because they were not allowed to dry their blankets . . . and you were to blame.”
“Fine.”
“I want to see him . . . to look in his eyes. I want him to personally decide to put me in jail for the offense of drying wet blankets for sick children. I want to look at his desk, to see how big it is, to make sure I’ll have room to lay out three dead children on it.”
The guard looked me over.
“Insolent girl . . . what are you . . . twelve?”
“Are you mad? I’m fourteen . . . will be fifteen on my next birthday.”
“You’re small.”
“So is the tsetse.”
He had the nerve to smile. He looked at the fence, looked back at me again, and scanned the fence line. No other guards were in sight.
“All right . . . just this afternoon. I’ll be back around in a couple hours and they’ll have to be gone.”
Within half an hour, a dozen more blankets were drying on the wire, with more families bringing out their bedding.
Moeder stood when I finally entered the sagging tent. She handed me a pair of black boots, shiny from what appeared to be a fresh dubbin treatment.
“Try these,” she said.
I held the sole of one up to my mud-blackened foot. It was too large by several inches, but they showed very little wear.
“Where did you get these?”
“Ouma van Zyl. . . . She brought them over. . . . They were her daughter’s. She said she’s been saving them and wanted you to have them.”
I padded them with rags and laced them tight; I spent the rest of my days in camp walking in a dead woman’s boots.
28
September 1901, Concentration Camp
A distant whistle sounded, the first of the night. I scanned the dark rows to look for my uncle answering its grim call. I thought of the images he must carry from these nights when he was hailed by the whistle. And I wondered why so many seemed to die at night. Did they feel their day was done and it was time to let go? Having gone another day without relief, perhaps they found it easier to accept death as if it were just falling off to sleep. Could they not face the idea of another sunrise, another day?
I had reached the point where even I was bothered by all my questions. I hoped that someday my nature would allow me just to accept things as they happened, or spend less of my time sorting through the contents of my increasingly jumbled mind.
I kept my eyes turned upward even on the way back from the camp’s edge, pretending I could use the stars to navigate through the identical rows of identical tents, down the identical muddy passages. Most were dark by this time of the night, but the tents of the ill were lit with candles or paraffin lamps, and they glowed like muted canvas lanterns. And when the candles guttered, the distorted shadows of the people seemed to dance. I imagined them as the Shadow People, spirits connected to the real people, but happier, dancing above their still forms.
Down one row, women gathered around a small fire, stirring a pot. The smell was of a warming poultice or the vile teas used to treat the sick. I kept a respectful distance as I passed, but then I came upon another cluster of women gathered at the next tent that glowed from within.
It was the aasvoëls, as Moeder called them, the vultures. They would pitch up without announcement or invitation, even in the deep night. Drawn by scent or evil instinct, they formed a loose black coven and pulled themselves in tighter near the tent door. They absorbed light, rendered heat, and served as death’s relentless scouting party.
I slowed and circled, trying to study their faces so that I could give them scornful looks if I ever saw them during the day. But their black kappies hooded their faces, and only harsh sounds escaped from the faceless pack.
“Vultures,” I shouted, but none turned, all focused on the tent door.
“Measles. . . . The mother should have made the little one drink goat-dung tea,” one said.
“But where to get goat dung now? And wormword? Not in this camp.”
“Why is there no blind o
ver that child’s eyes? The eyes burn with the measles.”
“The strangling angel took a whole family last week,” one said. “Throats swollen shut.”
“Strangling angel?”
“Ja . . . bad.”
“Better than some.”
“Ja . . . praise God.”
“Praise God.
“And a better deathbed.”
Others harmonized assent, heads bobbing like black-feathered hens.
“Like the last child,” another said. “God’s gift.”
More nodding and mumbles.
“Such a beautiful deathbed.”
“The mother was so strong she hardly cried.”
“True mother’s love.”
“But she cried enough,” another said.
They passed judgment on the quality of the handling of the ill, on the death, and on the proportional grief of the family.
These women had gone mad.
Dear Lettie,
Yes, lice are everywhere. We have a large tank on this side just for boiling clothes and bedding to rid them of the vermin. I’m so happy to hear your brother and sister are well. Cee-Cee looks up to you so. Truly pleased about your reading and writing. I believe you have greatness in you, Lettie. You’ll find it.
I have asked around as I might but have heard nothing about those who would question your “desirability.” But I know they do watch. The only thing I heard about was a thing or two about our messenger that I can’t write for obvious reasons. I will continue research. I love you, dear. Best to your brother, and kiss your little lamb of a sister.
Love,
Tante Hannah
I’d been foolish not taking Cee-Cee on walks with me. No, in truth, I’d been selfish. That had been my time to read, to clear my mind . . . to see Maples. It would be slower walking with Cee-Cee, but better, meaningful. In the tent we had the distraction of the Huiseveldts, and I had allowed us to lose much of the closeness we’d shared at home after the men had gone.
It would be good for her to get out when the weather allowed. We could have the time to walk alone together, I thought. I immediately wrote down that phrase: alone together. It would be time for us, the two of us, just as when Schalk had taken me for rides on outings, forging a closeness I’d never forget. There were only special people with whom you could feel alone together. I wanted to be sure Cee-Cee felt that way about me.
“Ceec . . . do you want to go with me?” I asked, heading out one afternoon.
“I’m still too small to carry water.”
“No . . . just to walk . . . the two of us. . . . Is it all right, Ma?”
“Not far.”
It was a clear afternoon, although brisk.
“Look at the sky, Ceec,” I said. “So vivid.”
“Looks like home,” she said.
“You’re right . . . same sky.”
Some women who passed could not help stopping and petting her curly hair, which had darkened a shade in the past year or so, as Moeder predicted it would.
She wanted to talk about home and Vader and Schalk, so we did, but I wasn’t sure it was good for either of us. She said she could not remember much of home.
“Miss them?” she asked.
“Of course . . . very much . . . Schalk especially.”
“Me, too.”
I held one of her hands; she held her doll, Lollie, with the other.
“You worry about them?” she asked.
Hmmm. What to say?
“Ja, sometimes . . . but they’re strong and brave.”
She looked at other little girls we neared, wanting to approach them but not comfortable.
“We’ll bring Rachel next time,” she said.
I did not want to bring Rachel. “Yes . . . maybe.”
“She’s sad since Klaas left,” she said.
“Yes, we all are,” I said.
“She misses him.”
“We all do.”
“What’s that?” She pointed to a fire burning a short distance outside the fence.
I could see only the rising smoke.
But up ahead were Maples and another guard. I usually walked past him when he was not alone. I could not tell whether he saw me. If he came this way by himself, I would introduce Cee-Cee to him. It would be good for her to see that the British aren’t all hateful, destructive savages.
But what if he said something and she repeated it to Moeder? I couldn’t risk it.
“Time to go back, Ceec,” I said. “Remember, Moeder didn’t want us to go far.”
She smiled. She looked tired from the walk, anyway.
MAPLES’S EYES SAGGED AT the edges and his smile produced no warmth. I had hoped he would lift my spirits, but he looked more grim than I felt. I did not need disappointment from him. I almost turned around or simply walked past him this time.
“Wait, Lettie . . . peace,” he said.
“Peace,” I answered. I had to stop.
“Have you talked to any Englishwomen?” he asked me.
Where would I talk to Englishwomen? “The nurses?”
“No . . . a visitor . . . Hobhouse,” he said. “Emily Hobhouse.”
“No.” I hadn’t heard the woman’s name. Surely he would hear about the visit of a British woman before I would.
“She’s from Cornwall, and she’s raising a stir back home,” Maples said. “Got my Betty in a fit.”
“How?”
“She’s been down here nosing around.”
“A British woman visiting the camps? Why?”
“Making trouble.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and unfolded several pages of a letter. I could see the feminine writing.
“Betty said this woman has been putting articles in the papers and giving speeches in Parliament about the conditions in the camps, and Betty now thinks I’m an animal,” he said. “Says the women aren’t refugees but prisoners.”
That point was beyond dispute. That was just now an item of news in England? “Have you told her nothing?”
“I never share much because she would worry or, worse, would tell Mum, and Mum would worry even more than she already does,” he said. “I usually complain about the weather and the food and tell her how much I miss her and all the things we will do when I get home.”
“But nothing about the war?”
“Don’t want her to know.”
“She doesn’t ask?”
“Not really . . . just asks after my health,” he said. “I don’t think she wants to know, either. But now . . . I would rather she heard it from me . . . to get our side of it.”
“What does this woman say?”
“Well, this Hobhouse has been to different camps. . . . Said some are run better than others, but most of them are bits of hell.”
“That’s what I heard from my friend Janetta. . . . Some are worse. . . . Some much worse.”
He read from the letter. “Here’s what Betty says: Disease, malnutrition, high fatality rates among children . . . starving, poor medical care . . . not getting soap for sanitary purposes.”
I had taken conditions for granted so long that they seemed normal, merely the way things were, and to get from day to day you stopped expecting things you knew you couldn’t have. I hated to think of it that way. But Moeder’s attitude had conditioned me. We dealt. We moved on. Strange that it took a woman from England to remind me.
“Betty is learning things about other camps that I don’t even know about . . . worse conditions . . . abuse.”
“This woman is telling other Brits about this?”
“Telling Parliament . . . telling the newspapers . . .”
“Good,” I said. “Maybe they’ll do something about it once they hear about it from one of their own.”
“She’s rounding up supporters . . . trying to raise political pressure to stop the war. Betty said one of the members of Parliament said we’ve been using ‘methods of barbarism’ and conducting a war against women and children.”
Yes, exactly.
“Also talks about farm burnings.”
The pages of the letter shook in his hands.
“They didn’t know about it before?” It had been more than a year.
He didn’t answer. Maybe this woman could help our cause. Maybe she was helping everyone’s cause.
“Wouldn’t the end of the war be a good thing for you?” I asked.
He looked wounded.
“Yes . . . of course,” he said. “But like this? I joined because Betty’s father thought I wasn’t good enough for her. I joined because I thought it would impress her. And now she thinks I’m some kind of animal.”
“You’re not an animal,” I said. He touched my shoulder, and I leaned into his touch.
I would ask about Miss Hobhouse. I hoped she would come to our camp. I would love to talk to her. She might have questions for me, but not as many as I would have for her. I would tell her everything. She would have to beg me to stop. I would go through my journal for her and tell her everything. Not about Maples, but everything else. She might want to print my journal, and I’d be famous in England. It would be my first book.
He folded the letter and turned away. He leaned the rifle on the fence and reached into his pack.
“Here, I have something for you.” He handed me a small package wrapped in brown paper with a twine string in a bowknot. I hoped it was another book, but it was a different shape. I looked at it and considered its weight. It was thick and heavy. I untied the twine and put it in my pocket to keep, then carefully unwound the paper.
It was a candle, one of the biggest I’d seen in a long time. My legs buckled.
“In case you want to sit up.”
I went dizzy, and my mind filled with possibilities.
He wanted to sit up with me. He had come to respect our ways and knew my parents would appreciate this as proof he wanted to be one of us. The flame would reflect off his red hair . . .
“Wait, there’s really no place for us to sit up in the tent,” I said. “No privacy for us.”
“What?” he said. “There are no boys here for you, anyway . . . are there?”
I realized that I’d said “us,” but he’d said “you.” Damn me as a foolish child, I thought. I tried to think of anything that might make my face not show disappointment. I knew I failed.