I have been warned the police patrol here at night to protect the rich whites from the threat of the black savage, now even more so after what happened in Soweto. It is said that the whites sleep uneasily in their big beds, even behind their high walls in their mansions, knowing that the blacks rose up in protest on soil that lies a mere thirty kilometers from their utopia. It appears they feel safer knowing that men with guns can protect them from the enemy outside the gate, but I wonder how they feel about the enemy within.
What about the maids and the gardeners and the cooks and the nannies? What about all the black people they so desperately need to keep their big houses clean and their fancy cars polished? What about their staff who sleep on their properties in tiny servants’ rooms? Do they think that bad pay, ill treatment and scraps of yesterday’s food buy their loyalty? Even a mampara of the lowest intelligence knows that if a man starves and beats his dog, the beast will one day turn on its master.
As I make my way down the street with its perfectly manicured lawns and carefully tended gardens, I hope that the uniform I am wearing will help me look like I have every right to be there. I borrowed it from a friend of Lindiwe’s. Over several layers of jerseys and stockings, I have donned the pale blue dress that buttons down in the front and have paired it with a white apron and doek. I am grateful that Nomsa cannot see me now.
The streetlights start to come on as the whites make their way home in their shiny cars. I pass a few men who look like gardeners and greet them each in the customary way. “Molo. Unjani?” One man starts a conversation and says he is not fortunate enough to live on his employer’s property and so he is making his way home to Soweto. I wish him a safe journey. “Hamba kakuhle.”
When I am about two hundred meters from my destination, I hear the squeal of tires from a car that is traveling too fast. It is a menacing sound, like the high-pitched hunting cry of a bird of prey. I turn around and feel my breath catch in my throat; it is the dreaded yellow vehicle, the kwela-kwela van I have been warned of, the one police use for their passbook roundups. I do not have permission from the police to be out of the Bantu homeland of the Transkei. I am in Johannesburg illegally without papers. If they catch me, they will arrest me.
The van comes to a halt beside the gardener I have just greeted. A policeman jumps out of the van, a slinking black dog following behind him, and he shines a bright torch in the gardener’s eyes. His voice echoes down the street, but I cannot make out his exact words. I do not have to; I know that he is demanding the man’s passbook.
I quicken my pace. I hope that my unfortunate comrade will keep them busy long enough so that I will have time to get to the gate and slip through before the van can reach me, but then the doors slam and the engine begins accelerating. The man must have quickly shown a valid passbook; they are making their way to me. I will be the unfortunate comrade tonight.
I want to run, the gate so near and yet just out of reach. I am still ten meters short of it when the van screeches to a stop next to me and the doors open once again. The pain in my chest that has eased these past few days suddenly awakens.
“You, stop. Where is your passbook?” The order is issued in Afrikaans, which I understand, but I stop and turn around slowly. I raise my hands in the air and pretend that I do not speak the language.
A torch is shoved into my face and I wince from the bright light. The policeman switches over to English and repeats the question, and I shrug, once again feigning ignorance. The man calls out to the van, and the back door opens, this time releasing a black policeman to join us.
I have heard of these men, black men who wear the despised uniform of the oppressor and who work for the police. Men who brandish batons but whose real weapons are far more dangerous than even guns: words that are uttered in our own language, turned against us and used in order to oppress and humiliate us. Traitors who get housing and good pay in return for selling their souls to the white devil. I heard that on the day of the uprising some of the policemen firing into the crowd were black; it turns my stomach to think of such treachery.
The dog follows the black policeman out of the van; it starts growling as it nears me, and I glance down at it against my better judgment. The sight of its large white teeth bared in a snarl takes me back to the day of the conflict in Soweto, and I have to rein in my impulse to turn and run. I force myself to look away from the dog and back at the black policeman.
“Where is your passbook?” he asks in Sotho. When I do not answer, he asks the question again in Xhosa.
I want to spit in his face, but I am too afraid. Being arrested would mean I could be of no help to Nomsa. Instead, I look him in the eye and quietly ask, “Is your mother proud of you?”
I then turn and address the white policeman in English. “I work at this house, right here, baas, and I forgot my passbook in my room.”
The policeman looks surprised, but before he can comment, the black policeman, angry at my disrespect, speaks first. “You know you must keep your passbook on you at all times.”
“I was just quickly going to the shop. I did not think I would need it.”
“You are lying. Where is your shopping now, sisi, if you went to the shop? Where are your bags?”
“I am not your sister, Judas, and I did not find what I was looking for so I did not buy anything.”
The white policeman starts to speak but is cut off when the gate near us suddenly swings open. My blood turns cold. The charade is now up. I was hoping to be allowed onto the property while the police waited for me to return with my passbook, and my plan was to then try to escape by another route. But whoever is coming out will now confirm that I do not work for them.
A black security guard steps out and he greets the police officers with great humility. The sight of the dog frightens him, especially once it starts barking, but he smiles and addresses the white policeman who appears to be in charge.
“Good evening, baas. Is there a problem that I can help with?”
“Man, mind your own business unless you also want to be arrested.”
“Baas, please, this lady works here. She is a maid for my madam who sent her to the shop.”
My hopes lift. The guard must have been listening in on our conversation from behind the gate and he understands what I am trying to do.
“Where is her passbook then, hey? Your madam should know that blacks can’t be on the streets without their passbooks.”
Before the guard can reply, we are all lit up in the beams of approaching headlights, and a car slows before it turns into the driveway. The guard raises his hand in greeting and takes a step towards the car, but the police dog starts growling again so he stays where he is. I can feel the dog’s hot breath on my hand and wonder how often it has tasted human flesh.
The car window winds down; there are two people inside. An old white man is driving and a blond woman sits in the passenger seat. She leans forward to speak, but the man puts his hand on her knee, and she seems to understand this as an instruction to be silent.
“Good evening, Officers. Throwing a party in our driveway? How wonderful. Are we invited?” His tone is jovial; it sounds like he is joking with a friend. “How can we help our men in blue this evening?”
The man is distinguished-looking and speaks in a refined English accent that sounds foreign. He is smiling and his friendliness has the effect of relaxing the white police officer who hunches over with an arm resting on the roof of the car to make eye contact with the driver.
“Good evening, sir. Sorry for the problems, but your maid doesn’t have her passbook and we should actually arrest her.” His voice is stripped of all menace. The policeman obviously views this man as a superior who he does not want to upset.
The old man turns to look at me and I worry again that I will be identified as a stranger. Instead, he smiles and shakes his head ruefully as he turns back to the policeman. “Ah yes, Dora
’s not very bright, I’m afraid. You know what these people are like.”
The policeman laughs at that and nods in agreement.
The old man speaks again, giving me a meaningful look. “Dora, go to your room, please. You’ve created enough fuss for one evening.” He then turns to the policeman, “Why don’t you come inside for a moment, Officer? I feel terrible that we’ve inconvenienced you, and I’m sure that we can offer you something to make it up to you.”
The guard takes my arm and steers me through the gates. The policeman smiles and doffs his cap at the old man before turning to the black officer, instructing him to wait in the van until he comes back.
When I am later properly introduced to Maggie—the White Angel—and her husband, Andrew, they will tell me how an imported bottle of brandy from France and a carton of Texan Plain cigarettes paid for my freedom.
I am now in the lion’s den, living in the home of white people. I am in the heart of enemy territory, and yet, I feel safe.
Twenty-three
ROBIN
1 THROUGH 22 JULY 1976
Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa
Edith took a week off after my parents died, and once that week was up, she took another to try to figure things out. It seemed that no matter how many times she went over the variables, the figures still added up to her having one more child than she’d had before, and a career that frowned upon loose ends.
Holidays had begun and so I wasn’t missing any more classes for the time being. I’d realized by then that I would be starting at a new school a few blocks from my new home, and though my palms got clammy when I thought about the change, I didn’t say anything given Edith’s own increasing levels of anxiety.
She resigned on the first of July, and for a few days afterwards, friends from the airline called to sympathize and offer encouragement. Edith sounded cheery on the phone, assuring them that she’d be fine and was looking forward to a “normal” job for a change. She must’ve fooled them because most of the calls died off. She even almost fooled me. The first sign that things weren’t all “fine and dandy” as Edith insisted was after another call she received.
“Hello?” Edith answered in her usual bright voice, which softened when she heard who the caller was. “Oh, Michael. It’s you. Can you hold on for a moment?” Edith covered the mouthpiece with her hand and whispered, “Robs, come here.”
Elvis was perched on my shoulder, nibbling at the whorl of my ear as I walked over to her.
Edith nodded at her purse, which lay on a side table. “Why don’t you make yourself useful? Take some money and go get us some milk and bread.”
“By myself?” I still hadn’t ventured out into the city streets alone.
“It’s perfectly safe. It’s just a few steps down the road.”
“Can Elvis come with?”
“No, you know the rules. He’s not allowed outside.”
I held two of my fingers up to Elvis and he stepped off onto them. His claws closed tightly around me in a rough embrace that was oddly reassuring, and I ferried him down to the armrest of the couch.
I didn’t have to tell Cat that I’d need her on the first errand Edith had ever sent me out on. She was already waiting at the door as I took some coins from Edith’s purse. When we returned ten minutes later, charged with adrenaline but proud of managing the task on our own, Edith had changed into a pretty blue minidress, swept her hair up into a kind of beehive and reapplied her makeup. Elvis had also been returned to his cage where he was squawking loudly. “Elvis has left the building. Elvis has left the building.”
Edith lit a cigarette and bent low to blow a smoke ring at him.
“Devil in disguise,” Elvis squawked.
“Oh shush, stop being so dramatic.”
“Don’t be cruel. Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true,” Elvis said.
“These cigarettes are imported from France, you know,” Edith said, holding up her box of Gauloises. “They’re very expensive. You should thank me for sharing them.”
“Devil in disguise.”
“Come on,” Edith said, barely giving me enough time to put the milk and bread away before nudging me out the door. “I have an errand to run and Rachel said she’d watch you while I’m out.”
“Who’s Rachel?”
“Mrs. Goldman, Morrie’s mother.”
“But I want to come with you.”
“Well, you can’t. Not this time. Anyway, I’m sure you’d much prefer to spend the afternoon with Morrie. It sounded like the two of you hit it off the other day.”
“Okay. Come on, Cat,” I said, motioning for her to follow us.
“No, leave Cat behind. I’m sure she can keep herself entertained.”
“But—”
“No buts. It would be rude of you to be yakking away to an empty space while the Goldmans try to avoid sitting on your sister who is, by the way, really underfoot and needs to work on getting out of the way faster.” Edith pulled the door closed and called out, “Bye, Cat!” punctuating her parting shot with the key turning firmly in the lock.
A petite woman with curly dark hair answered our knock downstairs and welcomed us inside. She air-kissed Edith and cupped my chin. “Look at that face. Isn’t that just the saddest face you ever saw? Such tragedy.”
I didn’t know what to say to that so I just smiled.
“Look at how brave she is. Will you look at that? Smiling through the pain. Suffering in silence.” She released my face and straightened up. “Go sit with the boychick. I’ll head out with Edith now because I have a hairdresser’s appointment, but don’t worry. Mr. Goldman is here if you need anything while I’m out. Bye, you two.”
“Bye.” I sighed and went over to sit next to Morrie who was reading Treasure Island.
“Did you get that from the library?” I asked.
“No, my bubbe gave it to me.”
“Who?”
“My grandmother.”
“Oh.” I’d never much missed my grandparents until then when I realized how many presents I might have missed out on. “Do you have any Enid Blyton books?”
“No.”
“Do you have any books about orphans?”
“No, but I have five books from Willard Price’s Adventure series.” He pulled a book out from under the couch and handed it to me. “This one is my favorite.”
I looked at the lurid green cover showing two boys tied up to something. “Cannibal Adventure?” I skimmed over the blurb. “Headhunters and cannibals? Yuck. Boys’ books are revolting!”
“Feh!”
“Would you stop saying those stupid words?”
“What are you kvetching about now?”
“There you go again! Saying those words that aren’t even English.” In the world of children, there is very little power to be had so supremacy must be seized and lauded wherever possible. I figured Morrie was flinging out his mother’s Goldmanese every chance he got just to show off that he knew more than me.
“They’re not stupid words,” Morrie said. “They’re the language of my people.”
“The Goldman family needs their own language?”
“Not just my family. All of us,” Morrie said.
“All of who?”
“The Jews.”
“The juice?”
“Not ‘juice.’ Jews.” He spelled it out for me. “I am Jewish.”
I had no idea what that meant either, but he said it so somberly that I figured it had to be something really bad. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“That you’re Jewish.”
“Why?”
“It sounds really awful.”
He nodded. “It is. My people have been persecuted for centuries.”
“What does ‘persecuted’ mean?”
“I’m not
totally sure,” he said. “But I think it means no one invited us to parties.”
“Wow, that really is terrible.”
“I know. And we have to get circumcised.”
“What’s that?”
“A rabbi cuts our foreskins off.”
“What’s a foreskin?”
“It’s on our willies.”
That gave me a lot to think about. I’d have to come back to that once I’d processed it properly. “So, is that language with the funny words Jewish?”
“No, it’s Yiddish.”
I considered this for a bit. “So your people come from Yidland?”
“Yidland? How do you figure that?”
“Edith has been to almost every country in the world,” I said proudly. “She says the Finns speak Finnish and come from Finland. I think that’s how it works.”
He looked impressed by my knowledge. “I’ll ask my dad, but I’m pretty sure we come from South Africa.”
I was confused. If the Jews came from South Africa, did that mean I was Jewish too? I suddenly didn’t want to carry on with the discussion. I had a feeling that Morrie pretended to know a lot more than he actually did and that he mostly just listened in on his parents’ conversations, and then recited bits to make himself look important.
Morrie suddenly stood up and gave me his Treasure Island. “Here, you can read this. It doesn’t have as many cannibals in it. I want to take some pictures.”
I pretended to read but mostly just watched Morrie as he took photos of a dead beetle, a pair of scuffed shoes and a dismembered radio. There were much nicer things in the flat to take pictures of, and I put my book aside to get a better look at them. Every doorway had a strange but pretty rectangular ornament hung up at an angle, and I wondered if Mr. Goldman had got into trouble for putting them all up askew.
Ornate silver frames encasing enlarged black-and-white photos were scattered throughout the flat and I paused in front of each one. A few pictures were of Morrie while others showed old people who I assumed were his grandparents. There was a wedding picture of Morrie’s parents and, in it, Mr. Goldman was wearing a strange little hat no bigger than a pancake. The candlesticks then caught my attention and it was one of these that I dropped, bringing Mr. Goldman out from a bedroom.
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