“And we can hold concerts where we sing and dance like Elvis.”
We were both quiet for a moment as we tried to come up with more ideas.
“I wish we could get a job,” Cat sighed. “Then we could give her money.”
“So let’s try and get one!”
“How?”
“Well, we saw her type up her résumé thingy on the typewriter she keeps under the bed. You need one of those to get a job so we’ll make up one for me.”
“What about me?”
“People can’t hire an imaginary person, dummy.”
“They can if it’s an imaginary job.”
“You try and go to the shop and pay for stuff with imaginary money.”
“Okay, sorry. You’re right. That won’t work. Do you think getting a job will really help?”
I thought about it. All of Edith’s depression and drinking stemmed from the fact that she couldn’t get a job. If we could get a job and help pay for stuff, she’d stop the drinking and she’d cheer up and all our problems would be solved.
“Yes,” I said. “Definitely!”
Twenty-four
BEAUTY
23 JULY 1976
Houghton, Johannesburg, South Africa
The late-afternoon sun streams through the window and dust motes swirl in the gentle breeze. My bedroom in the freestanding cottage at the back of Maggie’s property is larger than my entire hut in the Transkei; it is larger even than the classroom in which I taught thirty children. I have never in my life seen such luxury as this.
The room has an en suite bathroom with a bath that could hold four people. Filling it does not take dozens of trips to a stream with buckets that then have to be carried back for miles. No fire needs to be made to heat the water. All you have to do is turn the tap and wait a few minutes for the tub to fill. No wonder white people are always so clean. If I lived like this, I would take at least two baths a day.
The bedroom itself is furnished with four chairs, a dressing table, a writing desk and built-in cupboards. The queen-size bed in which I lie at night, adrift all by myself in its vastness, could hold my entire family. The room is decorated with wallpaper and paintings, and a plush white carpet tickles my feet as I walk. Rows of jacaranda trees line the street outside the window. I wish they were in bloom so that I could see the purple flowers floating like lavender clouds above the wall.
I sit now and bask in the sun’s warmth like a lizard on a rock as I read Dr. Martin Luther King’s Why We Can’t Wait. Maggie’s collection of banned works is extensive, and it has been a privilege to absorb the philosophy and literature the apartheid government does not want me to read.
Dr. King’s words move me exactly because they are a more eloquent expression of my own feelings: “We did not hesitate to call our movement an army. But it was a special army, with no supplies but its sincerity, no uniform but its determination, no arsenal except its faith, no currency but its conscience.”
I know that if Nomsa were here and I showed her this passage that underscores my own belief in nonviolent resistance, she would point out that it was a bullet that killed Dr. King eight years ago—less than a year before he could celebrate his fortieth birthday—and that the bullet came from a white man’s gun. I can even hear her voice saying, “Maybe if he had picked up a gun and fired first, he would still be alive to fight another day.”
Our imaginary conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door. Kgomotso, a young man who works for Maggie in some mysterious capacity, tells me that there has been word of Nomsa. He says that Maggie has just arrived home from work and would like to see me in her office. After almost three weeks of being a part of her “invisible household,” I know that Maggie does not mean the large, street-facing office they keep on the ground floor, the one with the walls covered in expensive Pierneef paintings of Highveld landscapes. That office is purely for show and has been stripped of any materials that might cause suspicion. It has also been equipped with a minibar stocked with the exact brands of imported brandy, cane, rum and whiskey that the local police officials prefer.
Instead, I make my way to the secret office at the back of the house on the second floor—the one that can only be reached through a door disguised as one of the bookshelf panels in the library—and slip into the room. Maggie has not yet arrived and I use the time alone to compose myself. The only thing I dread more than hearing what Maggie has learned is not having that knowledge at all.
The room is tiny in comparison to the other rooms in the house, about the size of a long but very narrow bathroom. There are no windows to let in natural light, but the room is made bright with three ceiling light fixtures. A desk takes up most of the floor space and the walls are lined with bookshelves waist high and, above them, dozens of framed photographs.
Instead of sitting down, I try to slow my breathing by studying the images. My favorite photographs grab my attention first. In one, a much younger Maggie sits next to the exiled African singer-songwriter Miriam Makeba. Both women are wearing glittering evening dresses and Miriam’s head is thrown back, her mouth wide with laughter. Mama Africa’s one hand rests on Maggie’s leg in a gesture of affection and friendship that I have never seen a black woman so casually display towards a white one. In another photo, Andrew stands next to Miriam’s musician husband, Hugh Masekela. Andrew has a hat rakishly perched on his head and holds a drink in one hand, his other arm flung around Hugh’s shoulders.
As I move farther along the wall, I skim past dozens of photographs that, if discovered by the police, would incriminate my hosts to such an extent that no trial would ever be required to send them both to prison. I keep scanning until I notice a photo I have never seen before. Again, Maggie is much younger in it and she is standing next to a tall, handsome black man who looks to be in his thirties or forties. His hair is cropped close to his skull, and he has a neat trimmed beard that accentuates his pleasant features. He looks familiar but I cannot place him, and I assume that he is an American actor or politician.
“I like that picture too,” Maggie says as she steps into the room. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“Who is he?”
She looks surprised that I do not know. “That’s Rolihlahla Mandela.”
I look at the picture again. “You mean Nelson Mandela?”
“Well, Nelson was never one of his given names, but yes.”
“His father did not name him Nelson?”
“No. Apparently a white teacher who couldn’t pronounce his Xhosa name gave him the English name of ‘Nelson’ when he was a child and it stuck. I just assumed that’s what happened with you as well.”
“No. My mother believed that no good could come of giving me an African name. She thought that the highest ambition I could ever hope to achieve was becoming a maid in an affluent white household. Naming me ‘Beauty’ was her way of making sure my future employers could pronounce my name, and that it would have positive connotations in their language.”
“How proud your mother must have been when you went on to attend university and become a teacher. You went to Fort Hare, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I graduated in 1953, just six years before they put a stop to proper tertiary education for blacks. My mother never knew. She died before then.” I turn back to the photograph. “The village where he grew up is very close to mine. I have heard so many tales about him, such great stories about such a great man, but I have never seen what he looks like.”
“Well, I suppose that’s to be expected with the ban on reproducing his image. That’s exactly what the government wants.”
I turn away from the picture and sit across from Maggie. “It is humbling to learn about my people’s hero from a white person.”
“It’s infuriating that you’re deprived of knowing more about him.”
“Do you know what ‘Rolihlahla’ means?”
&nbs
p; “No, and do you know, I never thought to ask him.”
“It means ‘troublemaker.’”
Maggie laughs. “Well, that he certainly is, so he was very well named. See? Now you’ve taught me something too.”
“When was that picture taken?”
Maggie’s eyes return to the photograph. “Years ago, long before the Rivonia Trial. I must have been about your age. I met him through Albertina Sisulu who is a friend of mine. He was such a charismatic man. Standing next to him was like being caught up in an electric storm. He was so passionate about liberating his people and so willing to make sacrifices. I can’t begin to tell you how much he inspired me.” She pulls her gaze away from the picture and looks back at me. “Everything Andrew and I do is aimed at securing his freedom one day. And yours.”
“I do not believe it will ever happen.”
“You must believe, Beauty, you absolutely must. Or else what is the alternative?”
“Tell me, Maggie, when we have this freedom you are fighting for, who will lead us? Who will stop us from behaving like children with a new toy so that we do not break it?”
Maggie’s blue eyes are shining. “Someone great, Beauty, someone like Nelson Mandela. We deserve to be led by a man like him.”
“He is not a young man anymore, and after he is gone, who then?”
“There will be other great men.”
I shake my head. “There are very few great men. That is exactly what makes the great ones great. And I worry what the power will do to us.”
“What do you mean?”
“What is that saying? ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ I do not believe in utopia. There is no such thing and I fear that chasing that dream will only lead to disappointment for us all.” And then I can put off hearing the news about Nomsa no longer. If it is bad, I will have to hear it now. “There has been news about Nomsa?”
By this time, I have learned just how extensive Maggie’s network is and how far it reaches. Her intelligence is made up of reports from spies, government officials, officers in the police force, social workers, members of the Black Sash, journalists and various other members of important organizations. Most of them use fake names and have never met face-to-face because of the risk involved. She says, though, that her best information comes from her invisible army—the black maids, gardeners and nannies who work for high-ranking individuals and who are able to gather intelligence because of the arrogance of their masters who do not believe their staff intelligent enough to comprehend or use the information they are privy to.
“Yes,” Maggie says. “That tip-off about the man in Mofolo proved to be useful. He goes by the nickname ‘Shakes’ and my sources tell me that Nomsa and Phumla are with him. They haven’t left the country just yet. It seems they’re hiding out in Venda until they can safely cross the border into Rhodesia.”
“That is wonderful news.” I had prepared myself for the worst. “And she is unharmed?”
“She was apparently injured during the uprising last month. A bad cut down the side of her face, but they managed to get it stitched up and treated. She’s in good health otherwise.”
“That is a relief.”
“Unfortunately, there’s worrying news as well.”
“What is it?”
“They say that once she crosses the border, she will be sent to the MK camps where she will be trained.”
“MK camps?”
“Sorry, I forget that you’re relatively new to all of this. ‘MK’ is the abbreviation for Umkhonto we Sizwe or the Spear of the Nation, as it’s also called. It’s the armed wing of the African National Congress, and they’ve set up military camps across a few African countries where they train their operatives.”
“Train them as what?”
“As soldiers. It seems that Nomsa and her friend have signed up. Apparently Shakes is a recruiter and that’s where he’s taking them, to the military training camps.”
My heart feels as though the weight of the Drakensberg Mountains has come down upon it. The government has branded Umkhonto we Sizwe as a terrorist organization and members, if caught, are tortured for information before being assassinated. In the camps, Nomsa will be trained to kill civilians, which means she will be hunted like an animal every day of her life by the white government’s security police who will not rest until she is dead and can no longer pose a threat to them.
“We have to go get her. We have to save her before it is too late.”
“We can’t. There’s another problem, Beauty. A bigger one.”
“What?”
“I’ve received word from my police contact that someone tipped them off about us. The security police have been called in and surveillance will begin on the household soon. The only thing stopping them from swooping in and arresting us all immediately is Andrew’s position of power in the international community.”
“How much time do we have?”
“A day or two at most before the operation begins in earnest. We’ve come up with a plan for all the others and they’re being moved as we speak, but my contact hasn’t been able to get you documents like he has for the rest of them. He’s being watched and needs to be careful.”
“I do not care about papers. We need to find Nomsa before she crosses the border.”
“You won’t be able to find her if you’re detained and imprisoned along the way. We have to get you a legitimate passbook. It’s the only way for you to remain in Johannesburg while we try and get Nomsa back. I’ve got my feelers out to try and find you a position as a maid so you can get valid paperwork. In the meantime, we need to move you to a safe location until this all blows over.”
“I can go live with Andile in Soweto.”
“It’s too dangerous. The families of the march organizers are under surveillance in case they return. You’ll be a new face, which will make them suspicious.”
“Please, Maggie. Please tell me where my daughter is.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Beauty. Forgive me, but it wouldn’t be safe for you to travel at this time and I’d be putting you at risk, which I’m not prepared to do. My contacts are keeping an eye on her. She’s safe where she is, and if she’s moved, we’ll know about it. In the meantime—”
The light on the telephone on Maggie’s desk lights up to indicate an incoming call. There is no ringer on it; it has been removed so that no noise from within the room can betray its presence. The phone has a dedicated line and number that very few people have access to. Maggie snatches it up and listens for a few moments before returning the receiver to its cradle.
“It’s worse than we thought. They’re already on their way. You need to get out of here. Hurry!” Maggie calls for Kgomotso and he rushes into the room. She nods at him and he takes this as a sign. Whatever is happening, they have prepared for it and he knows what to do. Maggie is already dialing another number, and calls to me as Kgomotso pulls me from the room. “We’ll speak soon.”
All of a sudden, someone shouts from downstairs and there is banging at the front door.
“Damn it,” Maggie says, slamming the phone down again. “Both of you get back inside here. I’m going to lock you in. Don’t make a sound.”
As the door slams closed behind her, the thudding of my heart sounds like footsteps over a grave.
Twenty-five
ROBIN
23 JULY 1976
Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa
Cat and I pulled the typewriter (a baby-blue Olivetti with white keys) from under Edith’s bed while she slept, and lugged it to the dining room table where we hefted it up to put next to the huge dictionary Edith occasionally used as a doorstop.
We’d quickly dashed out and canvassed the neighborhood for job opportunities and two positions caught our attention. Mr. Papadopoulos at the fish-and-chips shop and the hairdresser
two blocks down both had signs up in their windows saying “Help Wanted” and we figured I’d be perfect for both jobs.
My first job application, after an hour’s effort, ended up like this:
Dear Mister Popadopalus Poopadopalis,
I heard you want help at the fish and chips shop. I know besides fish you make russiens that are not really russien people but vienas. Edith says russiens say nyet and drink vodka and dress like pimps.
I will be good at the job because:
1. My father took me to the vaal dam and I caught a carp with a stick and some pap because I did not like touching the worms. I will fish for you every day and no worms will be killed.
2. I like chips.
3. I can miss school because my twin sister Cat can pretend she is me.
4. If you do not have money you can pay me in food and wine and nail varnish and lip stick.
5. I am a hard worker and will not hide up a tree and fall out and bleed like I did that time with ballet class.
6. I can speak Greek because Edith taught me. I can say fila mou te kola. I am not sure if I spelled it right because the words are not in her dictionary. They may be bad words because she laughed when she said them.
Please give me the job. We do not want them to take us away because we are poor and have nowhere to live.
Thank you and have a good life,
Robin Conrad
We were impressed with our handiwork and considered retyping it to remove the mistakes, but agreed that it would take too much time. We began the second one instead.
Dear nice lady at the hairdressing place,
You are looking for a hairdresser and I like hair. We are like John and Paul of the Beatles. We are meant to be.
My dad cut a lot of hair so I know how it is done. I also know how to use a bowl to make sure the fringe is straight. I will show you how.
I hope you can explain the tale of the tortoise and the hair to me because it does not make sense that hair can run faster than a tortoise because hair does not have legs. Maybe it was magical hair.
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