The Girl From the Train

by Irma Joubert

  “It could go away forever,” he said. “But we’ll have to find out what started it.”

  She shook her head hopelessly. “I’ve thought and thought. I think back, far back. I think more deeply and widely than I want to, but there’s just a dark, empty tunnel. It’s not that I don’t remember anything—I remember lots of things.”

  “Such as?”

  “The furniture and the outside of Oma’s little house. The room where we stayed later. I remember Oma and Mutti and Elza—even some of the others in the house, vaguely.”

  “And? Tell me more, anything you remember.”

  “I remember the stations. And the train. At the head of the train there was a fire, too, you could see it when the locomotive steamed past. The smoke smelled acrid and sooty, different from any other fire’s smoke. It’s definitely not the fire of my dreams.”

  For a long time they sat motionless. Then he asked, “Do you remember the bombs?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I remember the droning of the planes and the sounds of the sirens and the bombs.”

  “You saw the bombs strike buildings?”

  “Yes, I did. I saw the flames too, and the black smoke. But I know that’s not my fire.”

  It was good talking to him. Maybe he could find out where the fire came from, maybe he could even find a way of putting it out.

  “Did a bomb ever explode near your home?”

  “Yes, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away. After a while you get used to it. When the people stood in line for their food rations, they didn’t even seek shelter, because they might lose their place.”

  “And . . . Grietjie, you must tell me if I must back off.”

  “Ask away, you might even be helping me,” she said. “Grandpa John always says you have to be cruel to be kind.”

  “The explosion in which your grandma and your mother died?”

  She shook her head. “For a time I thought Oma and Mutti might be in the fire of my nightmares, but they’re not. That’s not what my dream is about, I know.”

  “Good.” After a long silence he spoke again. “Grietjie, I don’t have the right training to help you, not yet. Wouldn’t you like to speak to someone who can be of more help? I can arrange with—”

  “No, Francois,” she said firmly. “I won’t do it. Definitely not.”

  “Why not? If the person can help you? Can take away the dreams?”

  “No. Besides, I can’t tell him anything I haven’t told you.”

  “Fine,” he answered. “But if you ever get the chance to speak to someone, promise me you’ll do it. Please?”

  “I will.” She realized it was most likely an empty promise.

  “And if you want to talk to me, please tell me. It won’t go any further, you know that.”

  “I know.” And she did know. But she had already told him everything that might be relevant, and still nothing had come of it.

  “I’m handing in my research paper on Wednesday. Would you like to read it first?”

  “No,” she answered. “I trust you with my dark past. Besides, I’m writing my last paper on Thursday. Kobus finishes on Friday, and then we’re off to the farm!”

  They sat in silence for a while. A comfortable silence. A contented silence. Then he said, “I’ll miss you. It’s going to be a long vacation.”

  “Yes.” Strange, she didn’t really know whether she would miss him as well. She only knew she was going to spend the vacation with her family in their lovely sandstone home. She, her mom and dad, and Grandpa John and Kobus.

  She wrapped the knowledge around her like a comfort blanky.

  Christmas that year was a huge family affair. Grandpa John was already there when she and Kobus arrived at the station—he had come to town with their mother to fetch them. In mid-December Uncle Peter and his attractive wife, Diana, arrived.

  Grietjie liked to talk to her Uncle Peter. He was at the head of Grandpa John’s big company, Rand Consolidated. Soon after the Anglo-Boer War, Grandpa John had established Rand Consolidated as a one-man business with one exhausted mine. Through hard work and inborn business acumen he had developed it into one of the most stable mining houses on the stock exchange.

  Just before Christmas Britney and Sarah arrived with their husbands. Britney had two little boys, busy little imps. Sarah was expecting her first baby in April. She felt the summer heat to such a degree that she went swimming in the frog dam with Grietjie and Kobus. It wasn’t long before everyone was in the water except Diana and Grandpa John.

  The house was full, the old homestead as well. At breakfast they crowded around the long table. In the evenings they barbecued meat and ate outside. Grietjie wished they could live together all the time.

  “It would never work,” said Kobus. “A week is just long enough, after that Dad and I wouldn’t be able to stand the Pommies anymore.”

  “Grandpa John stays for months and he’s a Pommy,” Grietjie reminded him. “You even speak English to him!”

  “Grandpa John is an exception,” said Kobus.

  On Christmas Eve they sat in the living room around the Christmas tree. They sang carols, but this time in Afrikaans and English. The two little boys were so excited, they could hardly wait to open their gifts.

  Late that night her yearning returned. Despite all the joy and the love and merriment, she longed for that distant country where snowfall reflected the moon and stars on Christmas Eve. And for Jakób, always for Jakób. She stroked the dog’s head and gazed at the golden moon over the arid bushveld. Like every other Christmas Eve, she went to Grandpa John’s room, because they were the only ones who knew how long the yearning for another person could last, long after everyone else had forgotten.

  The year 1957 started weirdly. She drove back to the university in the big black car with Grandpa John and his chauffeur. Kobus had finished his studies, and her father didn’t want her to take the milk train on her own. On the second night after her return Francois took her out for coffee. She was glad to see him, but when he began to tell her how he had missed her, she quickly changed the subject.

  Classes were also weird. The lecturers and her peers were the same, but the classes were smaller and all of a sudden the students were treated like grown-ups. It was a pleasant change, but unexpected.

  “You can’t take four majors, Miss Neethling,” the dean said one day early in the term. “Why don’t you study French after hours, as an additional subject?”

  “I’m already doing Polish and Russian after hours,” said Grietjie. “It would be so much easier if I could just take French as one of my regular subjects. I’ll work hard, Professor, I promise.”

  He studied her grades for a long time. He can stare until he goes blind, Grietjie thought. I’m at the top of my class in all my subjects. I’m certainly not going to give in.

  The professor looked up. “Miss Neethling, your grades seem satisfactory. Let’s try it for a term and see how it goes.”

  “Thank you, Professor.” She gave him a relieved smile. “I won’t disappoint you.”

  “Satisfactory!” Karin cried when Grietjie returned to their room. “What is his idea of brilliant, I wonder?”

  Things became even weirder when she arrived at Mrs. Bronski’s home for her Polish lesson.

  “Grietjie, my girl,” said the stylish lady in her charming accent, “I have a big shock for you. The police arrested Mr. Ulyanov just after New Year.”

  Mr. Ulyanov? The dignified gentleman who was her Russian lecturer? “But, Mrs. Bronski,” she said, shocked, “what could he have done wrong?”

  “Apparently he�
�s a Communist,” said Mrs. Bronski, fanning her face with her handkerchief. “I just can’t get used to the heat in this country.”

  “A Communist? Impossible! Are they sure?”

  “Seems like it, yes. Just goes to show you can’t trust anyone,” sighed Mrs. Bronski. “Let’s take a look at what we want to do this year. There’s an anthology of poems by Mickiewicz I want us to start with.”

  When Grietjie returned to her residence in the late afternoon, Karin looked almost pleased by Mr. Ulyanov’s news. “I told you Russian was a Communist language!” she cried triumphantly. “I hope you’re not going to look for another teacher.”

  “No,” said Grietjie. “I can read and write Russian reasonably well. I think I’ll focus on my other subjects. Besides, French is quite hard this year.”

  Francois didn’t look shocked or surprised either. “You can never trust those Commies, Griet,” he said.

  “But I can’t imagine that he’s a Communist,” she said.

  “They’re all Communists, the people from those countries,” he said decisively.

  “Mrs. Bronski’s family are definitely not Communists!”

  He shrugged. “Possibly not. They came to South Africa after the war, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, they came here to get away from the Communists.”

  “Be careful anyway,” he said. “You never know.”

  On the night of the rag dance Francois kissed her for the first time—a real kiss, not just a good-bye peck.

  That felt weird too. She had been kissed before, but never like that. Not in a way that made her feel almost guilty because it was so good.

  She had been in standard eight when a boy kissed her for the first time. He was one of Kobus’s friends, and they were in the pantry on the farm of all places, where he had been supposed to help her fetch the ginger beer. She had slapped his face to make sure he wouldn’t try the same trick again.

  But the next day Kobus told her it wasn’t exactly how she should have behaved. He said it took a lot of courage for a boy to kiss a girl, because how was a boy supposed to know if a girl wanted to be kissed or not? He couldn’t very well ask, “Hey, do you feel like kissing me?”

  “No, he can’t,” Grietjie agreed.

  Next time, Kobus explained, she should just turn her head and politely say that she didn’t feel like kissing right now, but she appreciated the fact that he wanted to kiss her.

  “Has a girl ever done it to you?” she asked.

  He gave her an astounded look. “Of course not!” he answered. “Girls always want to kiss me.”

  “You’re such a windbag!” she said.

  “But it’s a good thing that you don’t go around kissing boys left, right, and center,” he continued. “Boys are bastards, they take chances.”

  “Kobus! What would Mommy say if she heard you swear like that!”

  “Just so you know,” he answered and walked away.

  After the matric dance her partner had also kissed her. She quite enjoyed it, because they were all in high spirits. But then he opened his mouth and it turned into a messy affair, so she turned her head and said thanks, but no thanks. The boy was a bit cheesed off, but they managed to stay friends.

  At university, men had also wanted to kiss her. “I don’t understand it,” she had complained to Karin. “When a guy takes you out for the evening, he thinks you’re obliged to kiss him.”

  “It doesn’t happen to me very often,” Karin had said dejectedly.

  She hadn’t discussed it with Karin again.

  But the night of the rag dance was different. It was late; the seniors were allowed to stay out until half past twelve. A few couples were saying a lingering good-bye in front of her residence.

  Francois pulled her into the shadow of a tree. When he wrapped his arms around her, she could feel his heart beat through his white shirt.

  When he lifted her chin, she knew what was coming. She also knew that she wanted to kiss him, really wanted to kiss Francois. His lips briefly touched hers, as if he didn’t know whether she was willing. Her lips parted slightly, her fingers crept around the back of his neck. She felt his hands on her back as he drew her closer.

  When the kiss became too intense, she pulled away. He let her go immediately.

  “Grietjie?” he said.

  She smiled. “Thanks for a wonderful, wonderful evening, Francois.”

  His eyes had a tender expression. “You’re amazing, you know?”

  “Thanks, Francois. Will I see you for church tomorrow?”

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” He smiled back at her.

  “What was your evening like?” Karin asked when she entered the room.

  “Very nice, thanks,” said Grietjie. She had no inclination to say anything more.

  On a Sunday morning early in March, she went home with Francois and Karin for the first time. They caught a train from Hatfield to the main station, and from there another train to Lyttelton. Their home was within walking distance of the station.

  Francois and Karin’s mom was a charming lady with gentle blue eyes and a friendly smile. Grietjie had seen her at the residence a few times. Their dad was a lean, affable man with a military bearing. He was in the air force. They barbecued outside, but the day was hot, so they had coffee in the living room, where it was cooler.

  After lunch Grietjie stood in the hallway, looking at a collection of photographs on the wall: a corseted great-grandmother with a severe expression standing beside her moustached husband, a fat baby in a christening gown like a wedding cake, a wedding photo of Karin’s parents, Karin and Francois as toddlers, playing in a muddy puddle. Our house has photos like these too, she thought, of weddings and great-grandparents and Kobus as a toddler and myself as a skinny eleven-year-old. And my German father in his SS uniform.

  She was soon joined by Karin’s father. “Photos like these have a story to tell, don’t they?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Did you serve in the Second World War?” she asked, pointing at a group of airmen posing in front of a fighter plane.

  “Yes, mainly in North Africa, but toward the end of the war in Europe as well. I wasn’t involved in many battles myself, more in bombing targets like oil refineries and munitions depots and factories. And of course in the airlift, during which we dropped supplies for the Polish Home Army in Warsaw.”

  She felt her heart jump. She stared at the photograph. “Will you tell me about it?” she asked as casually as possible. “About the airlift?”

  He gave a slight smile. “There’s a lot to tell, but not much either, because every night was more or less the same.”

  “I’m really interested. I’d like to hear,” she said.

  He lit a cigarette. After a while she wondered whether he was going to tell her after all. Then he began to speak. “We took off from Italy, because the distance from Great Britain was too great and Stalin refused to allow the Allies to use Soviet airfields. They were night operations, but we were forced to take off and cross the enemy lines in broad daylight, because it gets dark so late in the European summer.” He gave an embarrassed smile. “But you’ll know that, you grew up there.”

  “I was very young. I don’t remember much,” she said quickly. “What route did you take?”

  “We crossed the Adriatic Ocean, followed the course of the Danube, then headed north across the Carpathian Mountains. The weather was usually very bad. Have you ever heard of St. Elmo’s fire?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “It’s when lightning makes blue circles around the propellers, and blue flames form o
n the wingtips and are dragged along behind the aircraft.”

  “Sounds scary!” she said.

  “It looks worse than it is,” he said. “After we crossed the Carpathian Mountains we were in Poland. We had to avoid Kraków, because the Luftwaffe had an airbase there. We flew to Warsaw. When we saw the first glow on the horizon, we had to start descending. We dropped the cargo at as low a level as possible.”

  “Glow?” she asked. “Didn’t they black out the windows?” She remembered very clearly that not a glimmer of light was allowed to show or the Gestapo might see it.

  “Warsaw was on fire at the time. Every building seemed to be in flames, street after street, block after block. The smoke was very dense, up to a thousand feet or more, lit up by the fires on the ground. Sometimes it was almost impossible to see where you were flying.”

  Jakób had been among those burning buildings, Grietjie thought. Surrounded by flames. Until the Nazis had shot him.

  “We flew north along the Vistula,” Karin’s dad continued, “turned left above a cathedral, descended to less than a hundred feet, and flew south until we picked up that particular night’s Morse code signal. Then we dropped all the crates at once—they were attached to parachutes—and got ourselves back to Italy as quickly as possible.”

  “What was inside the crates?” This man made her feel closer to Jakób. He must have seen the planes.

  “Light machine guns, hand grenades, radio equipment, food, medical supplies. Most of it reached the people on the ground in one piece, I believe, because we flew at very low levels and at a very slow speed. It was incredibly dangerous, come to think of it. The Germans fired at us with rifles, machine guns, even pistols, that’s how low we were!”

  They stood side by side, looking at the photo of seven smiling young men in air force uniforms, a moment from the past trapped in an image for the next generation. “Only three of us survived the war.” Karin’s dad turned to leave and said, “But that was long ago, in another world.”