Whitethorn

by Bryce Courtenay

  But Frikkie Botha, the storm-trooper, was now in his element. His hour of glory had come and all his free time was spent training to fight with broomsticks, clubs and flickknives. He’d stand there and you’d think he had nothing in his hand, then all of a sudden there’s this pocketknife that flicks open and the blade is staring at you, inches from your stomach. Frikkie was now my enemy, not because of him becoming an OB, but because of the flag incident when Gawie stuck the pound note up his bum. Thank goodness this didn’t apply to Tinker, who was still Frikkie’s little rat trap and his all-time favourite dog.

  On Saturday, when we worked in the vegetable gardens and the orange grove, Frikkie Botha had taken to wearing his Stormjaer uniform and copying Meneer Prinsloo by giving us lectures. He listened to a radio in the staff quarters and he’d give us regular updates on what was happening in the war. Of course, he only reported the German victories. Here is a ‘for example’ of one of them.

  ‘Now they, the Germans, they in Poland, man, running all over the place. The Poles they came charging on horses with swords, like it’s the Boer War all over again, but there’s German tanks coming at them across the border and all of a sudden there’s mincemeat everywhere, pieces of horses flying up in the air, and suddenly no more Poland! Next it’s going to be the British, you wait and see, man! The British, they bayonet charging, while somebody plays the bagpipes, and what do they find? Only a wall of steel. Pow! Pow! Pow! Finish and klaar! All the British lying dead in their skirts with nothing underneath.’

  I could see that everyone was a bit puzzled. ‘Why are the British soldiers wearing skirts, and someone is playing with a pipe in a bag?’ Kaag Wolmarans asked.

  ‘Ag, man, they just do it,’ Frikkie said. But still no one was any the wiser.

  Then Gawie said, ‘They’re from Scotland and they’re Scotch. What they wear is kilts that is like a skirt that men wear and the bagpipes is a musical wind thing they play when they go to fight.’

  ‘Ja, that also,’ Frikkie said, pretending to know all the time and giving Gawie a nice look.

  Gawie and I had recently read Sir Walter Scott’s Rob Roy and we’d learned all about kilts and bagpipes.

  ‘Is England next to Poland, Meneer?’ Matai Marais asked.

  ‘Ja, I think it’s right next door, just you watch, their turn is coming any day now,’ Frikkie said darkly.

  ‘But first they got to cross the English Channel,’ Gawie piped up cheekily.

  ‘Ag, man, no problems,’ Frikkie Botha replied. ‘Those German tanks, they can go anywhere. Before you know it they there. A channel is nothing for a tank, they are over it and up the other side like lightning. They can dig a channel as deep as they like, for a German tank it’s no problem, in and out and the next thing you know the British are all lying dead.’

  Gawie didn’t dare point out that the English Channel was filled with water and was thirty miles wide and nobody knows how deep. And for once in my life I wasn’t stupid enough to say so either or to point out that Poland wasn’t anywhere near England.

  ‘Haven’t the British got tanks?’ someone asked.

  Frikkie Botha thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘Ja, but it’s hopeless for them. Let me tell you a story of how clever the Germans are.’ Frikkie took a deep breath while trying to contain his amusement. ‘In this one factory they build tanks and in another they make anti-tank weapons. Got it?’ We all nodded. ‘So now the general in charge of the tanks says to his factory, “Here’s a piece of steel that our tanks are made from and see this, it’s got a hole right through the middle. That’s where a bullet went right through from the anti-tank weapon factory next door. Magtig! Now I want you to make a tank so the anti-tank bullet can’t get through it, okay?” So that’s their next big problem.’ Frikkie chuckled to himself. ‘But then the general in charge of the anti-tank weapons says to his factory, “Hey, man, look at this!” and he shows them this piece of steel that’s only a got a small dent in it. “That’s the best bullets we got, man!” he shouts. “They won’t go through this steel from the tank factory next door! Shame on you! Your next big job is to make an anti-tank bullet that can go through this steel, you hear?” ’ Frikkie paused. ‘Wragtig! By the time those German tanks come out the other side of that channel Gawie Grobler is talking about and all of a sudden there’s British tanks facing them, it’s . . . Kapow! Zing! Kapow! Boom! Boom! Boom! Finish and klaar! What the British tanks are made of is only pots and pans they collected at the last moment from the British people! They up to shit, man!’ Frikkie Botha spread his hands. ‘For a German tank it’s like shooting through a paper bag and the British bullets coming back, it’s like they made of putty when they hit a German tank!’

  I must say I hadn’t built up a lot of sympathy for the British and it certainly looked as if Adolf Hitler was well in control. But I couldn’t see things improving for me when he won the war, which could be as early as next week, if you listened to what people were saying. Already being English wasn’t easy, now all of a sudden with Hitler winning the war and giving South Africa back to the Boere my future didn’t look too bright. So Gawie and me had one of our discussions at the library rock.

  ‘What’s going to happen to the English in South Africa when Hitler wins the war?’ I asked him.

  Gawie, looking down at his hands, didn’t answer right off. Finally, he said, ‘Unfortunately, concentration camps.’ He paused and looked up at me. ‘Just like you did to us, Voetsek.’

  ‘All the English here, we going to die then?’

  ‘Not all. Those that don’t die we going to send to Madagascar.’

  ‘Madagascar! What’s in Madagascar?’

  ‘It’s just a place to send people you don’t want,’ he replied. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after Tinker for you.’

  ‘Why can’t she come with me?’ I was deeply shocked.

  ‘No dogs allowed,’ Gawie said firmly. ‘Those boats are too full, you can’t even fit a mouse in them.’

  ‘I could hold her on my lap,’ I said defiantly.

  ‘No food, man! You all going to come out walking skeletons, some people will just be a heap of bones and a bit of skin and hair that’s left behind in the Union Castle boat that takes you there.’

  ‘But . . . but you are my friend, Gawie. Wouldn’t you help me?’

  ‘Can’t!’ He looked at me sympathetically. ‘Honest, Voetsek, I would, but it’s against the law. Besides, I’ll be too busy running a goldmine.’

  ‘But you’re only eleven, that’s too young to own a goldmine,’ I said, relieved that all this was just a big pretend and he was pulling my leg. But I’d momentarily forgotten that Afrikaners are very serious people and don’t go in for a lot of leg-pulling.

  ‘No, I won’t be!’ Gawie protested. ‘You forget, you first going to have to go to the concentration camps where you have to starve to death for a long time like we did and maybe also die. Only what’s leftover goes to Madagascar. By that time I will be old enough to have a goldmine.’

  ‘I don’t think they just going to give you a goldmine,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘Yeah, there’s plenty, man! I’ll have one that a Jew used to have, but because he’s dead, it will be mine.’ He looked at me. ‘I told you already. When I grow up I have to be rich.’

  ‘But we’re already rich,’ I replied. ‘We’ve still got our ten bob.’

  ‘More, much more, a hundred pounds at least,’ Gawie said.

  ‘A hundred pounds!’ I couldn’t believe my ears.

  ‘Ag, man, to a Jew a hundred pounds is nothing if you got a goldmine.’ Gawie looked at me, smiling kindly. ‘I tell you what, Voetsek. When you go to the concentration camp you can give me your ten shillings and I’ll buy some gold for you or maybe a diamond. A diamond you can hide easily as anything, if you have to, you can stick it up your bum. That’s what the Jews did when they were running away from Germany.’

  ‘They stick diamonds up their bum?’

  ‘Not always, sometimes it’s gold i
n their teeth. That’s another way you can spot a Jew, when he smiles it’s all gold, every tooth is made of pure gold.’

  This was certainly a better way of recognising a Jew than long curly black hair that could be anyone who hadn’t got his hair cut, a golden smile you couldn’t mistake. I’d never seen a Boer with gold for his teeth. I must say it did seem a bit impractical sticking diamonds up your bum. A diamond is a very small thing and can easily get lost. What’s more, gold, I’d read somewhere, is very heavy. With a mouthful of gold maybe you couldn’t even chew stuff because it’s so heavy. I really was beginning to have serious doubts about Gawie’s Madagascan theory.

  ‘With the diamonds, what happens when you go for a shit?’

  ‘Ag, you take it out first, man. Like I would if I had to with that ten-shilling note that turned into a pound.’

  ‘And gold teeth? Gold is heavy, if you’ve got only gold teeth how can you chew food?’

  Gawie thought for a moment, then went ‘Tsk!’ and shook his head from side to side. ‘You know, Voetsek, sometimes I think you don’t listen. You starving, man! Remember? There’s nothing to eat so you don’t need to open your mouth because you not allowed to talk.’

  The flaws in this argument were too obvious for me to pursue. Gawie was my friend and I didn’t want to trap him, especially if I was going to need his help in a week or so when Hitler arrived and gave the whole country back to the Afrikaners. I couldn’t resist one more question.

  ‘Who told you all this stuff?’ I asked.

  ‘My uncle in Pretoria,’ he replied with his usual degree of finality.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I don’t believe you’ve got an uncle in Pretoria,’ I said, my heart thumping like billyo.

  ‘I have so!’ he protested. ‘Oom Piet.’

  ‘Oom Piet?’ I had a surge of courage. If I was headed for a concentration camp and then, after starving to death, was being sent to Madagascar, I might as well clear up my serious doubts about Gawie’s uncle in Pretoria once and for all. This was the first time he’d mentioned his uncle by name, a fact that caused me to hesitate. An actual name is different to just having an anonymous ‘my uncle in Pretoria’. Stupidly I decided to press on. ‘Hens got no teeth, okay, this I understand. A man burning to death while snoring away with the fire brigade watching, this too because when you a little kid you can be told things like that, maybe by an uncle in Pretoria. But, Gawie, you now eleven, man! You’ve been here at The Boys Farm since you were five years old and not once have you seen your uncle in Pretoria. So where is your Oom Piet?’

  ‘He told me before I came here!’ Gawie persisted, raising his voice for emphasis. ‘I got a good memory, man!’ I could see he’d gone all red in the face.

  ‘Gawie, Jews were not running away all over the place with golden teeth and diamonds up their bums from Germany when you were five,’ I said accusingly. ‘It’s only happening now that Hitler has said, “Finish and klaar, no more Jews in Germany!” ’ I was wrong, of course, Jews had been leaving Germany long before either of us were five, but neither of us knew this then.

  ‘My Oom Piet writes me letters,’ Gawie said, digging himself in deeper. That was the trouble with Gawie, in some things he was very, very smart, the cleverest of all of us, and in others, like, for instance, him owning a goldmine from a dead Jew, he was even more dumb than me. Even I wouldn’t think something like that could happen. We also both knew nobody got letters at The Boys Farm. If one should arrive a lot of fuss was made over it and it would be handed to the boy after supper, but only after Meneer Prinsloo had read it first and told us all what was in it. The parcels from Miss Phillips were always sent to the school headmaster, Meneer Van Niekerk, who then gave them to me after looking to see that the book she’d sent was alright for me to read.

  ‘Show me one of these letters,’ I demanded.

  ‘I can’t, I have to tear them up in little pieces and throw them away because they got war secrets in them.’ He gave me a nervous smile. ‘It’s a good thing I’ve got a good memory, hey?’

  Sometimes things come out of your mouth that shouldn’t come out of your mind. ‘That’s bullshit and you know it!’ I said, raising my voice.

  We were sitting on top of the library rock and Gawie suddenly jumped up. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Voetsek?’ Before I could answer, he shouted, ‘You a fucking rooinek, you hear! I’m not your friend any more and I’m going to tell Meneer Prinsloo about the feathers!’ He turned and ran down the side of the rock and away towards the creek.

  Talk about the deep shit! This time I was a goner for sure! Why had I opened my big mouth? When are you going to learn you in enemy territory, Voetsek? I asked myself despairingly.

  Tinker, who was there all the time, could see I was upset, and she came onto my lap and licked my hand and then the tears off my face. This time nothing helped. I’d just lost the best friend I’d ever had after Mattress. As a matter of fact, the only friend I’d ever had who was still a boy. Now look what was going to happen to me.

  I thought that hopefully Hitler might win before Meneer Prinsloo saw to it that I joined Fonnie du Preez in the Boys Reformatory or they sent me to Pretoria Prison. Then I could go to the concentration camp and starve to death and maybe eventually get to Madagascar, which would be a lot better than hanging by the neck until you were stone dead. When you’re alive you’ve still got a chance, even without a diamond up your bum or gold teeth. But Meneer Prinsloo didn’t call me up about Piet Retief’s tail feathers so that was the first piece of survival-hope, that Gawie hadn’t told him.

  You’re probably wondering how Gawie and me knew about the English Channel and Poland as well as other war things that Frikkie left out of his updates, when there weren’t any newspapers and we couldn’t listen to the wireless. How we learned stuff about what was going on in the war was another example of Gawie being the cleverest of all of us.

  Every week from somewhere, I think from the Government, would come this big bunch of newspapers to The Boys Farm that had to be cut up into squares for the lavatories. They were old ones nobody wanted or they’d already been read. It was one of the duties you got if you were in the small boys dormitory. Then one day at half-jack, Mevrou held up this square of newspaper that was for wiping your bum.

  ‘See!’ she exclaimed. ‘Perfect! It’s just perfect!’ You could see she was very pleased. She held up another and put it behind the first one. ‘See how it fits, hey?’ Then four more, all fitted exactly with none of them sticking out at the edges. ‘This is the work of a very talented boy, you hear?’ We all waited to hear who it was and I knew for sure it wasn’t me. My squares were all over the place, some of them were even triangles, and once I’d got four of the best for the hopeless job I’d done.

  ‘Gawie Grobler, step out from your bed,’ Mevrou said in a fond voice, which was a nice change. Gawie did as he was told. ‘If only the rest of you could do it like this, maybe we could learn some good hygiene lessons,’ Mevrou scolded. ‘Now everyone give a big clap!’ So we all clapped Gawie for his perfect square shit paper.

  All of a sudden we stopped having to tear up newspapers for the lavatory as a regular duty. This was because Gawie went to Mevrou and asked if he could have the job on a permanent basis. Gawie later told me how Mevrou was very impressed with his offer. This was because nobody ever volunteered to do anything around the place and she agreed that he was just perfect for the job. He was a boy who liked to do things properly so that they were just so and always exact, and the pieces he made also fitted very nicely in a person’s hand so you didn’t need two pieces of paper.

  I’ve already told you how clever Gawie was, but this was the perfect example. Now Gawie didn’t have to collect wood or water the oranges and avocado trees or any of the other dirty jobs around the place, like cleaning out the chicken run. All he did was sit on his bum tearing up bits of newspaper as the official shit-paper maker. How clever is that, hey? Okay, now you know that part. Here at last comes a miracle.

 
I’m busy sitting on the toilet having a you-know-what and I reach out for the paper hanging on the wire hook and there right in front of my very eyes is this:

  POLITIEK KOMENTEER

  VAN OOM PIET

  Die Jude Krisis

  Political Commentary from Oom Piet. The Jewish Crisis.

  Dr T.E. Donges, Minister for Finance, declared in Parliament on 4 November 1936 that ‘The Jew is an insoluble element in every national life.’ Well said, Doctor, I couldn’t agree more. I can remember how after the First World War the Palestine question arose over a homeland for the Jews and there was a proposal put forward to give them Madagascar as their Promised Land. While this big island off the East Coast is alarmingly close to South Africa, at least it would have been some sort of a solution to the Jewish problem.

  But as usual the British bowed to the demands of Jewish imperialism and American Jews who said they would only settle for Palestine and then only as a token. The Jews have no intention of moving out of the cosy countries they live in and where they have a privileged existence and control the financial markets. For example, the great Wall Street crash of 1929 was manipulated by the American Jews causing the Great Depression and as a consequence millions of non-Jewish people around the globe suffered terrible hardship.

  It is to our everlasting shame that since 1933 and up until 1936, when Jewish migration was finally restricted in South Africa by a government that had at last come to its senses, we accepted a total of 3605 Jews into the Union. While this is close to being a national tragedy, there is a small funny side. Not so very funny, more like amusing. I have it on good authority that many of the Jews who came here before they left Germany first had their teeth heavily capped with gold and they are said to have concealed diamonds in a certain bodily orifice that I leave to your imagination. Magtig! Here, where most of the world’s gold comes from, and also diamonds! And people say they are clever! It is my personal opin—