The Colour of Gold

by Oliver T Spedding

  "The cars, yes." the Brigadier said. "The helicopter? I doubt it but it depends on the circumstances. I can't keep one on standby for you but, if you give a couple of hours notice, I can probably get one for you."

  "Thank you, sir." Tiaan said. "Two unmarked cars will be fine to start with. Then we can follow Zuma while he's walking and also when he gets picked up by an enemy vehicle."

  "And when you find the bastard's superiors, what are you planning to do? Ambush them?" van Tonder asked.

  "I don't know yet, sir." Tiaan replied. "Once we've identified Zuma's superiors we can begin planning how we're going to take them out."

  "What's happened with regard to the immorality charge against Vodnik?" the Brigadier asked.

  "I had a chat with the public prosecutor handling Vodnik's case and I explained to him our need to have Vodnik free to work with us." Tiaan said. "He was very understanding and agreed to suspend the charges against Vodnik pending the outcome of his work with us. If Vodnik proves his worth to us he's prepared to drop the charges altogether."

  "And what about the kaffir woman?" van Tonder asked.

  "My guys worked her over and they're satisfied that she's not working with Umkhonto weSizwe, sir." Tiaan said. "It took her some time to recover but when her trial was held she pleaded guilty and was sentenced to five years."

  "Excellent!" the Brigadier said. "We've got to show these kaffirs that we mean business. We can't allow interbreeding. We've got to keep our nation pure. If we don't do that, we're doomed. Apartheid is the only answer. We've got to keep the blacks separated. Any way, let me know when Vodnik gets a call from Zuma. I want to be there when we nail those bastards."

  ***

  Bogdan Vodnik lay on his back on his bed in the apartment in Hillbrow, staring up at the ceiling. All his plans were falling apart. Even though he'd been acquitted on the charge of immorality he knew that his days at the Deep Reef Gold Mine were numbered. The manager, Gavin Moore, may have said that the company maintained a policy of "innocent until proven guilty", and the case against him had been dropped, it was painfully obvious from Moore's attitude that he knew that the case against him had been dropped for political reasons. After all, his co-accused, Catherine, had been found guilty and sentenced to five years in jail while he, the other participant in the sexual incident, had been found not guilty. The verdict defied logic and Moore knew it. On top of this, Julia had now filed for a divorce and the deal with the Nigerian drug dealer had fallen through.

  What also worried Bogdan was the pact that he'd been forced to enter into with Captain Botha and the Security Police. He was totally at their mercy and now Botha had told him that if Isaiah Zuma asked for more detonators for his bombs he was to supply him with detonators provided by the police and not from his own supplier. Why? Obviously because the detonators would be faulty and the bombs that they were included in would fail to explode. And when the men from Umkhonto weSizwe realised that he had supplied them with faulty detonators they would put two and two together and realise that he was cheating them or working for the security forces.. And that would be the end of him. He would be branded a traitor and very likely assassinated.

  So, he wondered, which was the lesser of the two evils? If he betrayed Isaiah Zuma and Umkhonto weSizwe he would surely die, but would the Security Police take him out if he betrayed them and supplied Zuma with his own detonators and not the faulty ones supplied by Captain Botha? Probably. Now he began to understand the saying "between a rock and a hard place". But, what could he do? He couldn't skip the country. The Security Police had his passport. He shook his head; exasperated. He was trapped.

  Bogdan realised that he had to make a decision and it had to be soon. Should he join the freedom fighters who were fighting for their rights to freedom from oppression, the right to a proper education and an end to racial discrimination or should he go with the oppressors with their shameful discriminatory laws that were condemned by the free world? Who would win in the end? Undoubtedly freedom would prevail. His conscience told him to go with the former. How would he be able to face himself if he betrayed them? He felt his hatred for the white police Captain rise in his chest as he remembered how he'd been treated in the prison, his humiliation and degradation. He remembered the total lack of compassion and mercy that the man had displayed and at no time had the man made any attempt to justify what he was doing to Bogdan except to claim that he was fighting for his country. But the truth was that he was fighting for the shameful ideology of apartheid. He was murdering his fellow countrymen because they wanted what was rightfully theirs. No, Bogdan told himself. He had to throw in his lot with the people fighting for their freedom. Okay, they had blackmailed him, but could he blame them for that? They were using the hated discriminatory laws of their enemy to their advantage. What was wrong with that?

  Bogdan turned onto his side. His mind was made up. If and when Isaiah Zuma contacted him, he would ask to join their struggle.

  CHAPTER 12

  Bala Desai stood in the crowded compartment with his suitcase at his feet as the dusty brown train moved through the drab metropolis of Soweto. In the early evening twilight a vast pall of dirty grey smoke, the result of the thousands of fires that the inhabitants used for cooking and heating, hung over the sprawling city. The huge security lights that were scattered over the area were blurred by the thick smog and in the west the dull orange sun slowly sank below the horizon and darkness spread over the land. The heavy smell of unwashed bodies filled the compartment.

  When the train had slid out of Park Station in the Johannesburg city centre, it had been so crowded that many of the passengers could only find a place by hanging onto the outside of the carriages or travelling on the roof. These passengers were known as "staff riders" and just about every day at least one of them died as a result of being electrocuted by touching the overhead power lines or being swept off the train as it passed under the pedestrian bridges and through the various tunnels under the roadways. Some were also killed by leaning too far out and being struck by the pylons at the side of the track that supported the power lines.

  But as the train left the various stations on its journey through Soweto the congestion in the carriages became less and less until Bala was able to find a seat on the hard wooden benches that the third class passengers were provided with. The Lenz station where Bala would disembark was the first station after the train had passed through Soweto and by then the train's carriages would be almost empty. At least, when he travelled to the city in the mornings, he was assured of a seat as it was only as the train entered Soweto that it became overcrowded.

  No sooner had Bala sat down with his suitcase of mended and altered clothing in it than the door between the carriage and the one behind it swung open and a small group of six black children, ranging in age from about ten to sixteen sauntered into the compartment. Bala could sense the fear that these children instilled in the passengers around him. All conversation stopped abruptly and everyone avoided eye contact with the children, some staring fixedly out of the windows and other staring resolutely at the floor in front of them.

  "Tsotsis!" the man sitting next to Bala whispered. "Don't look at them. They're killers. If you make eye contact with them you'll attract their attention and they'll very likely confront you and possibly stab you to death with their knives."

  Bala stared at the paper-littered floor in front of him, frightened by what he had just heard. In his periphery vision he could just make out the dirty running shoes of the young thugs as they stood presumably contemplating which of the passengers to harass. Then, to his horror, Bala saw the shoes of the leader move towards where he was sitting and stop directly in front of him.

  "What's in the suitcase, Indian?" he heard the boy ask.

  The other children began to snigger and move closer to where Bala sat. He continued to stare at the carriage floor, too terrified to respond and desperately wishing that something would happen to make the young thugs go away. Nothing happened and Bal
a saw the young thug's foot move forward and kick the suitcase with his toe.

  "I asked you what's in the suitcase, Indian." the boy asked. "You'd better answer me. I don't like being ignored and if you continue to do so I may have to hurt you."

  The other children giggled and sniggered and Bala saw them move still closer. Without looking up Bala cleared his throat nervously and swallowed.

  "Clothes that I've repaired and altered for my customers." he said, his voice shaking with terror.

  "Clothes!" the boy exclaimed. "Did you hear that, guys? This Indian's got a whole suitcase full of nice clothes! Just what we're looking for! Is there anything in the suitcase that will fit us children, Indian?"

  "No." Bala replied. "They're all clothes for adults."

  "I don't believe you, Indian." the boy said. "Open the suitcase and show us what clothes you've got."

  "Please leave me alone!" Bala pleaded in desperation. "There's nothing in there that will fit any of you. Please believe me!"

  Bala saw the boy reach down and grab the handle of the suitcase. Instinctively he tried to push the hand away.

  "How dare you touch me, you filthy Indian!" the boy shouted and Bala saw the boys hand release the handle of the suitcase and disappear. Above the sound of the train moving over the rails he heard a distinctive metallic click and as he looked up at the thug standing in front of him he eyes fell on the wicked switchblade knife in the boy's hand. The child waved the shiny blade slowly back and forth in front of him. The other children moved even closer, giggling and sniggering loudly.

  "Kill him, Frances." one of them said. "Kill the filthy Indian."

  Bala sat rigid with fear, mesmerised by the wicked steel blade in front of him. Even though he tried not to, he looked up at the deadly unemotional eyes of the boy killer. With his foot he pushed the suitcase towards his adversary.

  "Take whatever you want!" he said in desperation. "Just please leave me alone! I've done you no harm!"

  "But you have!" the boy replied. "You fucking Indians came to our country and stole the work that my people should be doing! You have harmed us! You've stolen from us!"

  Without thinking, and overwhelmed with fear, Bala stood up from where he'd been sitting, his only thought being to get away from the horror that confronted him. The black boy must have thought that Bala was about to attack him. He lunged forward and drove the slim steel blade into Bala's stomach and then quickly withdrew it. A woman screamed as Bala clutched his stomach, pain radiating out from the wound. More women began screaming and some men began shouting for help. Through the mist of his pain Bala saw the boy fold the knife closed, pocket it, and turn away.

  "Let's get out of here, guys." he heard the boy say. "The bastard Indian will be dead soon. We're coming into a station. Let's go!"

  Dimly Bala saw the gang of thugs turn and leave the compartment through the interconnecting door. Slowly he sank back onto his seat, the pain in his stomach excruciating. His vision blurred as he saw people begin to gather around him.

  "Tell the conductor to hold the train while we get him off!" he heard someone shout. He felt strong hands grip his arms and lift him from his seat. He felt himself being carried to the door of the carriage and carefully lifted down onto the platform.

  "Please bring my suitcase!" he pleaded, his voice tight with pain and fear.

  "Don't worry." a man's voice said. "Your suitcase is right here but we must get you to Baragwanath Hospital quickly."

  In a haze of pain Bala felt himself being carried across the platform and out of the station premises through the gateway in the security fence that surrounded the station.

  "How are we going to get him to Bara?" someone asked.

  "There's a taxi over there." another man replied. "Ask the driver to help us."

  Bala felt himself being carried towards the stationary taxi.

  "You must help this man!" one of the men carrying Bala appealed to the taxi driver. "He's been stabbed in the stomach and if he doesn't get medical treatment soon he'll die. We must get him to Baragwanath as quickly as possible!"

  Bala saw the taxi driver turn towards the passengers already inside his vehicle but before he could say anything they began climbing out of the vehicle.

  "Take the man to Bara." one of the passengers said. "We'll find another way to get home."

  "But what about the fares that you've already paid me?" the taxi driver asked. "Can you wait until tomorrow for me to give you your money back?"

  "Of course." the passengers replied. "Just get the man to hospital as quickly as possible."

  Bala felt himself being lifted into the empty vehicle, a feeling of immense gratitude overcoming him as he realised that these people were putting their own lives in danger for him. By walking home in the dark they risked being murdered by the gangs of child psychopaths that roamed the streets of Soweto at night, killing anything that moved.

  Bala began to shiver uncontrollably as the shock of what had happened to him filtered into his mind. He saw a man take off his coat and drape it over him.

  "He's going into shock." the man said. "We must get him to hospital quickly."

  Bala heard the taxi driver start the vehicle's engine and the two men who had accompanied him from the station climbed in beside him. The side door slammed closed and the vehicle drove away along the rutted dirt road.

  The pain in Bala's stomach was now so intense that he had trouble coping with it. He whimpered and clutched at the wound, feeling his blood trickling out of the injury. He felt someone take hold of his arms and pull his hands away. He tried to talk to the men sitting beside him; to tell them how to get hold of Fatima and Salona, but the effort was too much for him. He drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain throbbing through his whole body.

  The taxi bounced and rocked over the uneven surface of the road, its headlights exposing the tiny dark houses that it passed. Bala continued to think about his beloved Fatima and Salona and grew more and more desperate and frustrated at his inability to speak. But the pain was too great and the effort exhausted him. He knew how worried they would be when he failed to arrive home at his usual time.

  "Do you have family?" one of the men in the taxi asked.

  Bala nodded.

  "Do they live in Lenasia?"

  Again Bala nodded.

  "We'll get their details when we get to the hospital and then we'll try to contact them." the man said. "There's nothing that we can do now, so just relax. I can see how worried you are. Our first priority is to get medical help for you."

  For Bala, the trip to Baragwanath Hospital seemed to go on forever and every time the taxi lurched into a deep rut or bounced over a hump the pain was so intense that he couldn't help crying out in protest. Eventually he felt the taxi leave the rutted uneven road and begin to drive along what must be a tarred road.

  "Hang in there, my man." the man next to him said. "We're almost there. Just relax. You're going to be okay."

  Bala felt a deep sense of depression come over him. Was he going to die? What would happen to Fatima and Salona if he did? How could they possibly cope without him? And what if he survived but was incapable of providing for them? He couldn't bear the thought of being permanently dependent on others. He shuddered to think of himself as being a burden to his beloved family. And if he did get better, how would he be able to recover from the setback that he was now going through? How would he be able to make up the financial loss that he was bound to suffer? He shook his head slowly, trying to dispel the images of him being incapacitated and having to rely on others for the rest of his life.

  "We're going through the hospital entrance now." the man next to Bala said. "Just take it easy. The doctor's will soon have you better."

  Bala felt the taxi come to a standstill. He heard the side door slide open. The vehicle rose slightly as the two men and the driver climbed out.

  "We've got a man here who's been stabbed in the stomach!" Bala heard one of the men shout. "We need a doctor urgently!"

/>   After several minutes Bala saw a white man in a white coat and a stethoscope draped around his neck loom over him. He felt the man take his pulse and then fir the stethoscope to his ears and begin probing his body. He lay quietly on the taxi's seat as the doctor worked. He felt his trouser belt being loosened and his shirt being unbuttoned. He watched the doctor study the wound and saw him shake his head before disappearing from view.

  "He's in a bad way." Bala heard the doctor tell the men waiting at the side of the taxi. "Stomach wounds can be very dangerous. All we can do at the moment is stabilise the patient and wait. Unfortunately all the operating theatres are fully booked. The hospital is understaffed and under equipped. He'll have to stay here in the taxi. I've got nearly fifty patients sleeping on the floors of the wards. There just aren't enough beds. This hospital cannot cope at the moment. I'll get a nurse to set up an I.V. drip and we'll stabilise him with sedatives. We'll also clean the wound and sterilise it. I'm sorry but at the moment that's all that we can do. As soon as a theatre becomes available we'll come and fetch him. In the mean time you must register the man at the reception counter. Do you have his I.D.?"

  "His I.D.'s in his shirt pocket and his wallet's in his back trouser pocket." Bala heard one of the men say.

  "Okay, take them to the reception and get him admitted." the doctor said.

  Bala heard the doctor hurry away. One of the men who had accompanied Bala from Soweto appeared in his vision.

  "You're going to be okay." the man said. "We're going to take your I.D. and get you admitted but you'll have to stay here in the taxi until there's an operating theatre available. The doctor and a nurse will be here shortly to attend to you. Just hang in their, my friend. You're going to be okay."

  The smell of stale body odours and perfume from the passengers who had been in the taxi earlier wafted over Bala together with the smell of petrol and old oil. Every time he moved, even slightly, the pain was so intense that he had to bite his lip so as not to scream.