by Irma Joubert
“I think God loves me,” she said without hesitation.
“Then you don’t have to fear the fire,” said her daddy.
After supper that evening her father said, “Grietjie, tonight I’m going to read from the book of Malachi, from the third chapter. You must listen carefully.”
She nodded and listened attentively to her father’s deep voice. “ ‘He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver; he will purify the Levites and refine them like gold and silver. Then the Lord will have men who will bring offerings in righteousness.’ ”
He closed the big Bible and explained. To purify silver, in other words to clean it, the silversmith has to hold it at the center of the fire, where the flames are hottest, so that the fire can burn away every trace of impurity. But the silversmith has to sit beside the fire and hold on to the silver. He has to keep his eyes on the silver all the time, for if it remains in the fire a moment too long, it will be destroyed.
“How does the silversmith know when the silver has been burned clean?” she asked.
He smiled at her. “When he can see his own image reflected in the silver.”
“It’s a nice story.” She smiled back at him.
“It’s not just a story, Grietjie, it’s the truth. Just remember, when you suffer and feel the heat of the flames, that’s when God is there. He watches carefully, until He can see His own image in you. He’ll never leave you in the flames too long.”
At Christmastime, when schools closed for the summer vacation, Grandpa John came to stay with them. He and Kobus planned to sleep at the old homestead.
After supper Grandpa John told Gretl he had something to show her. From behind his back he produced a flat parcel. She tore it open carefully and gasped—it was an Advent calendar he had ordered from Germany. She touched the beautiful calendar. She couldn’t believe the Advent calendar had come all that way.
It was already the sixth of December, so she opened the first six windows. Everyone watched and exclaimed each time they saw the beautiful picture behind the little flap. On the twenty-fourth there would be a picture of Mary and Joseph and the Christ Child in the Weihnachtskrippe, she knew. But they would all have to wait until Heiligabend to see it.
Grandpa John had also brought Weihnachtsstollen and Lebkuchen he had bought at a German shop in Johannesburg. The family ate these with their coffee.
Two days before Christmas Gretl and her mommy decorated the Weihnachtsbaum. A Tannenbaum didn’t grow in the bushveld, because it was too hot and dry, but Kobus chopped a wild plum from the mountain and planted it in a tin. Her mommy took out the pretty balls and shiny stars from the tissue paper they were wrapped in, and Gretl hung them on the tree. Grandpa John and Kobus helped hang the decorations on the topmost branches. Finally they added the candles, and the tree was lovely. She couldn’t wait for Christmas.
On the morning of Christmas Eve her mommy and Grandpa John put the presents under the tree. Grandpa John had brought a bag full of gifts, almost like Father Christmas. But there was to be no Father Christmas, because her father said it was the celebration of Christ’s birth, not a circus.
The sun kept shining and wouldn’t go down. They had to wait for darkness to light the candles. They read from the Bible and sang “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,” and only then did they get their presents.
Gretl didn’t even know what the others got, because she was too excited about her own presents. Her mother and father bought her two gifts: a book of true stories in Afrikaans and a soft woolen bear to sleep with at night. Kobus gave her hairpins and ribbons. She suspected their mommy had bought them, because Kobus knew nothing about girly things.
The best, best present came from Grandpa John. It was a wrist-watch! A real watch she had to wind every morning and take off when she went swimming. She held out her arm and he clasped it around her wrist.
“Thank you, thank you, Grandpa John!” she said.
When everyone was asleep, she went outside. She couldn’t help it, her heart was aching. The quiet bushveld lay stretched out around her, and the dogs rubbed sleepily against her legs. She wasn’t afraid, because the veld was asleep. This has to be what Bethlehem’s open fields had looked like, when the shepherds heard the angels sing and the Drei Heilige Könige saw the star, she thought.
The moon was almost full, and the garden path and the grass and the yellow flowers of the sweet-thorn trees were bathed in its soft light. Since she had first looked in the early evening, the moon had traveled a long way through the starry sky.
Her memory chose its own painful path—to where the fields were covered with snow and the moon cast its soft glow over a world that was entirely white. To red and white hair ribbons. To a cathedral full of candles. To a walk home in the moonlight.
She knew she should think about something else, but she didn’t want to.
When she walked up the steps of the old homestead’s veranda that night, Grandpa John opened his arms. She checked her new watch. It was almost eleven. He sat down on the wicker chair, and she sat in his lap with her arms around his neck. His face was wet from crying for a long time. She understood. Ouma Susan, whom she resembled, had still been here last Christmas. She stroked his gray hair, and he stroked and stroked her curls. They didn’t speak; there was no need.
When the school reopened in 1949, the principal declared Gretl too advanced for standard four and suggested that they promote her to standard five. At first her father refused, because he thought she was too young. But her mother thought it was a good idea, and so did she, and so she ended up in standard five. Standard four and standard five shared a classroom and did the same history, geography, and nature studies anyway. Only the arithmetic was different. She found the standard five sums easy, because Jakób had already taught her most of the work.
She had nearly forgotten what Jakób looked like.
The only subject she found really hard was English. “I could speak English to you if you want,” her mommy suggested.
“Okay, but only when we’re alone,” said Gretl. She knew that no one liked English, not even the teachers, who were forced by law to teach it to the children. “And I must read English books.”
“Once you discover English literature, a new world will be open to you,” said her mommy. She should know, Gretl thought. Mommy was always reading English books.
In May Gretl took part in her first eisteddfod. She recited a poem called “Amakeia.” It was the most beautiful poem she had ever heard, about a black housemaid murdered by her own people for protecting a white infant. When Gretl reached the part where the black warriors say, “Die, or give us the white child!” she put on a fierce expression and spoke in a booming voice. She spoke her favorite part clearly, with her chin raised: “ ‘Over my dead body,’ Amakeia answered proudly!” She was awarded a gold certificate, and the newspaper published a photo of the little German girl who had done so well in the Afrikaans eisteddfod. She also received a silver certificate for a duet she sang with a standard-four boy.
“We should have won the gold,” she told her mother and father, who had both been in the audience. “But he sang off-key on purpose, because he didn’t want to hold the basket with the plastic roses the teacher had brought!” She would never sing with a boy again, she fumed. They couldn’t be trusted.
“Mm,” said her father.
“Why, Daddy?”
He smiled. “Because I don’t blame him,” he said.
“Never mind,” her mother consoled her. “You’ve got your gold certificate. We’ll hang it on your wall. And just think how happy you’ve made the two who were placed first.”
“That’s true,” said Gretl. “They were pleased, weren’t they?”
Jakób would be proud of he
r if she could tell him, she thought before she fell asleep that night.
At the end of 1949, Gretl’s father fixed the old ox-wagon in the barn and put up a new white canvas tent, then he took the family to Pretoria to celebrate South Africa’s pioneers. They camped at the base of the new Voortrekker Monument with other Afrikaners. Everyone lived in tents and cooked on open fires, just like the old Voortrekkers. They sang Afrikaans songs, and the children played old-fashioned games and did volkspele.
Her father grew a beard, which was bristly when he kissed her and her mommy. They complained, but secretly Gretl liked it. Kobus wasn’t allowed to grow a beard, because he was still at school. “But I could if I wanted to!” he assured her, rubbing his chin.
Kobus had secretly packed a jar of Brylcreem for his hair, in case there was a pretty girl around. As it turned out, there were many pretty girls, and Gretl thought it looked as if a cow had licked his head. When their father noticed, he ordered Kobus to wash his hair and threw the Brylcreem away. Kobus was upset. Gretl thought he looked much better without the Brylcreem, but she felt it would be better not to say so.
Gretl and her mommy wore long gathered dresses with lace neckerchiefs and bonnets. They looked beautiful, Gretl thought. Her daddy and Kobus wore leather breeches and hats with the brims rolled up on one side. Daddy was the leader of the people from their district. She felt as if her heart would burst with pride.
As the people laughed and danced together, Daddy told Gretl she was his sweetheart.
I’m no longer a German orphan, Gretl thought. I have a home and a mommy and daddy who love me, and a birth certificate stating I was born in the bushveld. My certificate of baptism says I am Magrieta Katharina Neethling, baptized in the Nederduitsche Gereformeerde Kerk.
I stopped being Gretl Schmidt a long time ago, she realized. I’m Grietjie Neethling, Afrikaner, only daughter of big, strong Bernard Neethling and beautiful, gracious Kate Neethling, only sister of Kobus Neethling, headboy of the high school and captain of the first rugby team.
I am Grietjie Neethling, and I’m proud of it.
9
KATOWICE, POLAND, 1956
“Have supper with us on Saturday,” Haneczka said one cold winter’s evening toward the end of January. Jakób, Stan, and Haneczka were huddled around the stove in the apartment’s small kitchen. Stan’s three boys had gone to bed.
Jakób was immediately wary. In a country where three meals a day in the communal dining hall had more value than the cash the workers earned, Haneczka didn’t cook unless there was a reason.
“What are you planning?”
She gave him an innocent look. “Supper, Jakób, with soup, bread, cheese, and ham, if I can find some.”
“Who else will be coming?” he asked. He knew his sister-in-law too well.
She sighed. “Fine,” she admitted, “I’ve invited a doctor who started with us just after Christmas.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Just the four of us, if the kids behave. We might—”
“Does the doctor have a name?” He couldn’t help smiling. Her schemes were so transparent.
“Yes, Dr. Bòdis.”
He frowned slightly.”From Czechoslovakia?”
“Hungary.”
“I see.” He looked at Stan, but his brother was immersed in his paper, and no help would come from him. “Does the doctor have a first name?” he asked after a while.
“Of course she has a first name,” Haneczka said.
“Aha!” he said triumphantly. From the corner of his eye he saw Stan smile. “Are you part of this conspiracy?”
“I’m just reading the paper,” Stan said.
“Her name is Mischka. I’ve invited her because she doesn’t know anyone in Katowice,” Haneczka protested. “And if you and Stan could refrain from arguing about politics, we might have a pleasant evening. She’s a competent, intelligent woman.”
“Bun, spectacles, stethoscope, white coat?” Jakób played along. His sister-in-law usually got her way with him and Stan, he had to admit.
“Totally.” She nodded earnestly.
“I see,” said Jakób and drank the last of his coffee. “Han, when are you going to accept the fact that I’m a confirmed bachelor?”
“At thirty-three no one doubts it anymore.” She got up to rinse out the coffee cups. “Forget that she’s a woman. Treat her like one of the guys. It worked with me.” She hung the dishcloth on the hook. “And now you must go home, please. It’s past our bedtime.”
When Jakób arrived at his brother’s apartment the next Saturday evening and Haneczka introduced him to the new doctor, he instantly knew it wouldn’t be possible to treat her like one of the guys. She was attractive, probably in her mid-thirties—tall, dark, and olive-skinned, with a straight nose, high cheekbones, and full lips. She looked at Jakób, her head tilted slightly, her dark eyes inscrutable, though not unfriendly.
“Good evening,” she said and held out her hand. She spoke Polish with a strange rounded accent, rolling the words in her mouth before uttering them.
“Good evening, Mischka,” Jakób answered. Her handshake was firm, her hands surprisingly soft.
Stan poured the wine Jakób had brought and a shot of vodka for himself. It was bitterly cold outside, so they gathered around the stove. The apartment was warm and cozy—so different from his own place in the single-men’s quarters, Jakób thought with a touch of envy.
When they sat down to eat, Mischka smiled, surprised. “You’ve made gulyashus,” she said. She was even more attractive when she smiled. Her face softened, and the sadness momentarily disappeared from her eyes. But her mouth still looked vulnerable.
“I tried to make goulash,” Haneczka said. “I’m certainly no chef!”
The conversation was halting at first as Jakób and Mischka took stock of one another. They discussed the icy weather, the food they were eating, and the widespread food shortages even now, eleven years after the end of the war.
“You can make goulash anytime, Han, it’s delicious,” Stan said.
“If I can get my hands on meat,” said Haneczka. “It’s ridiculous to have to stand in line for everything. People are unhappy! Poland is like a simmering pot; one of these days it’s going to boil over.”
“For centuries Poland fed its people without trouble,” Jakób said. “Then the Russians moved in.”
“The same thing is happening in Hungary,” said Mischka. “In the end it’s the people who suffer. I wonder if the government realizes how hard it is for them.”
“The government has no idea what the people want,” said Haneczka.
“There’s only one way forward,” Stan said firmly, “cooperation with Russia, but without Russia prescribing to us. Poland can’t stand alone.”
“You promised not to discuss politics!” Haneczka scolded her husband as she dished up second helpings for the men.
“Communism is the only thing that will work for industry and agriculture,” Stan continued, unruffled. “The time when a subsistence farmer could eke out a living on a small patch of land is over, worldwide. There are too many people who have to eat; listen to what I’m telling you.”
“You may be right,” Mischka said thoughtfully.
“The same goes for the industries. Production at the steelworks where Jakób and I work has dramatically increased since the plant was nationalized,” said Stan. “Ask Jakób.”
“I think the main purpose of increased industrialization is to bolster the Soviet army,” Jakób said. He looked at Haneczka. Her eyes clearly said she’d like to throttle the two of them.
“You can’t argue with the fact that Poland is doing better every year!” Stan challenged.
“Our industries may be thriving, but the ordinary man doesn’t have food on the table. No one can eat steel!”
Mischka gave a slight smile and looked from one brother to the other. “So the two of you don’t agree on how Poland should be governed?” she asked calmly.
“They’re like day and night,” Haneczka sighed, “and it’s no use arguing. They’ll never agree.”
Mischka turned to Jakób. “What do you think the solution is for Poland, Jakób?” His name sounded like poetry on her lips, he thought.
“Unbelievable!” Haneczka said and got to her feet. “I’ll put water on for coffee.”
“I think we should move away from Communism completely,” Jakób answered, “return to democracy, where our traditions and religion are respected.”
“Democracy won’t work here,” Stan said. He turned to Mischka. “In fact, Polish Communism wants to preserve our traditions, and it won’t interfere with the Catholic Church. It’s not a mindless imitation of the Russian model.”
Jakób felt his patience wear thin.
“I happened to read in yesterday’s paper,” Mischka said, “that there’s a name for people who share Stan’s sentiments: radishes. They’re red on the outside and white inside. True Communists are beets or tomatoes.”
“Then Jakób must be a potato, or a turnip, with absolutely no red anywhere,” Haneczka said, trying to keep the conversation light.
“What’s your contribution to this vegetable broth?” Jakób asked Mischka. He was eager to know.
She thought for a moment. “I don’t know enough about Polish politics to have an opinion.” She smiled. “And I really don’t want to end up in the soup so soon.”
“A smart answer,” Haneczka said.
Very smart, Jakób thought when they were each sitting with a steaming mug of coffee in their hands. He studied her discretely. She was beautiful.