The Girl From the Train

by Irma Joubert

  “Grietjie?”

  His eyes sought out hers. He knew she was battling not to cry, but he said nothing, because he also knew she hated being a crybaby.

  Awhile later she said, “I still dream, Jakób. Much worse than when I was younger.”

  “About the fire?”

  “Yes.”

  For hours they talked or sat in an easy silence. They forgot to eat the meat pies he had bought on their way over. Much later they had coffee.

  He understood everything, yet he didn’t know what advice to give her.

  At ten he took her back to her residence. “You can bring your books and study at my apartment tomorrow,” he suggested.

  “I have research to do in the library, so it won’t work. But thanks, Jakób.”

  He didn’t ask about Sunday again.

  Back in his flat he poured the last of the wine into his glass and returned to his window. A bus drove past. The rest of the street was deserted.

  He had so badly wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, to protect her against the hurt she carried inside her.

  But it was not the little girl he had wanted to protect—it was the beautiful young woman.

  He sank down in the chair and lowered his head into his hands, tried to banish the feeling. Jakób Kowalski, he told himself, pull yourself together! This is Gretz, the little girl you fetched from Rigena’s tumbledown house and left on the steps of a ruined church in Kiel.

  But he knew she was more.

  When the sun had bathed her in its rays in the late afternoon, when she had sat in the chair tonight with her legs tucked under her and the glass in her hand and her hair like a golden halo around her head, she had been more than beautiful.

  She had been infinitely desirable.

  13

  Taking exams has its advantages, Grietjie thought one afternoon late in June after she had written her last paper. The biggest advantage was that she had no time to think. She was much too busy. And she was so tired that she just wanted to get back to res, take a shower—if there was hot water, mind you—and get into bed. Tomorrow she would tidy her room, pack her things, and start looking forward to the vacation.

  Only then would she start wondering what had become of Jakób.

  He had phoned her two or three times, asked how she was, asked how the exams were going and whether she was getting enough sleep. But he hadn’t come to see her again.

  She slept like a log that night, past her usual wake-up time and right through breakfast. When at last she surfaced from the vapors of sleep and looked at her watch, it was almost ten o’clock. She flew out of bed. Karin and she had plans to go into the city to look for fabric for new evening gowns.

  When they came back just before five, she decided she didn’t want to spend the entire vacation wondering what was wrong with Jakób. She found two tickeys and went down the stairs to the phone booth.

  “Why haven’t you come to see me again?”

  “Hello, Grietjie.”

  “Hello, Jakób. I’m going home tomorrow for three weeks and I haven’t seen you in a month.”

  “How are you?” he asked in Afrikaans.

  “Very well, thank you.” She reverted to Polish. “If you stop seeing me, you’re going to forget all the Afrikaans I taught you.”

  “Doesn’t my Afrikaans sound good?” he asked in Afrikaans.

  For a moment she was taken aback.

  “Your three minutes are up!” said the operator.

  “Jakób, you’re wasting my tickeys!” Grietjie scolded and dropped her last tickey into the slot.

  He laughed. “You’re a little firecracker, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not wasting my money arguing with you any longer. If you don’t come to see me tonight, you’ll have to wait another month. And by that time I might not recognize you anymore.”

  He laughed again. She liked it when he laughed. “We can’t take that chance,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at six. We can go out for something to eat.”

  “French fries?”

  “No, better than French fries.”

  She had just got back to her room when a voice called down the passage, “Grietjie Neethling! Telephone!”

  She trotted back to the phone booth. If Jakób had changed his mind, she’d know he was angry with her. She just didn’t know why. Maybe she bored him with her juvenile conversation. Maybe he’d rather spend time with the human resources officer. What was her name? Alice.

  It was Francois calling.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said when he invited her out, “I would have loved to go. I haven’t seen you for so long.” She was truly sorry. Maybe Francois would think she didn’t want to see him. “But I promise, the first evening I’m back we’ll spend time together. Promise.”

  “It’s going to be a very long vacation,” he teased, but she heard the serious note behind the banter.

  Long before six she was waiting outside for Jakób.

  When his blue Volksie pulled up, she went to meet it. He got out and playfully opened his arms. She felt a surge of happiness, as always, when he did that. She laughed and walked into his embrace. It felt exactly the same—familiar, safe, happy. He hugged her for a moment. Then he let her go and opened the car door for her.

  They went to Janina’s, a fancy restaurant in the city. She looked at the menu while he studied the wine list.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

  “Red wine would be nice, thank you.”

  “I don’t think they serve alcohol to minors,” he said.

  “Jakób!”

  He laughed.

  When he had ordered the wine and the food, he turned to her. “So, are you done with all your exams?”

  “Yes, all done. Jakób, don’t ever stay away so long again! Why didn’t you come?”

  “How did it go?”

  “It was fine. Why didn’t you come?” she asked again.

  “You had to study.”

  “You know very well I can’t study all the time. I missed you.”

  “You did, did you?” he joked.

  “To tell you the truth,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “I missed you so much that at times I couldn’t study at all.”

  “If your grades are poor,” he said with mock severity, “Father Jakób will have to give you a hiding.”

  “You’re not my father!” She remembered something. “There’s a song in Afrikaans called ’Vader Jakób.’ It was the first tune my mother taught me to play on the piano.”

  “You play the piano?” he asked, surprised.

  “Yes, I’ll play for you one day. And after the vacation we must continue with your Afrikaans lessons. The way it’s going, you’ll never speak Afrikaans.”

  “Is that what you think, Miss Neethling?” he asked in Afrikaans.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Jakób, who’s teaching you?”

  “Oh, it comes naturally. Whereas women may find it hard to come to grips with new—”

  “Jakób!” she warned him.

  He laughed. “A colleague.”

  “Alice?” That Alice creature seemed to be taking over completely!

  “No, Alice is English. I’m learning from Jo.”

  “Is Jo also a human relations officer?”

  “No, he’s an engineer.”

  She was flooded with relief. She had no idea why.

  They talked and ate and laughed and
talked some more, because it was good to be together again.

  When they had finished their meal, Jakób placed his knife and fork side by side on his plate and asked, “Would you like some dessert?”

  After they ordered he said, “I have to learn Afrikaans as quickly as possible so that I can speak to your father.”

  Grietjie looked up, perturbed. “I’ve explained to you it’s impossible,” she said.

  Jakób leaned forward. His big hands were folded on the table where his plate had been a moment ago. His black eyes regarded her earnestly.

  “Yes, I know, Grietjie, and I understand. I’ve also given it a lot of thought. You’ll have to—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

  “Yes, I do. I discussed the situation with some of my Afrikaans colleagues.”

  Anger rose up inside her. “You discussed my business with your colleagues?”

  He kept looking at her earnestly. “Not specifically your business. I just asked what they thought of the Catholic faith, and of Jews. The people who work with me are reasonably open-minded, but the older generation, they say, is—”

  “Well, if you know everything, why do you still want to speak to my father?” She couldn’t believe he was spoiling a wonderful evening with this senseless conversation.

  “Be quiet for a moment and let me have my say,” he said.

  “Don’t speak to me as if I’m a child,” she snapped.

  “And don’t take out your cranky German temper on me,” he said firmly. “Listen to what I have to say like a grown-up person, and then we’ll discuss it.”

  She clamped her mouth shut and stared at him. She would let him speak. Then he could take her back to her res.

  But he didn’t say anything. He leaned back, waiting.

  “Why aren’t you saying anything?” she asked.

  “Because I’ve seen this attitude before,” he said calmly.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she opened her eyes and said wearily, “Fine, speak. I’ll listen.”

  He held out his hand, but she kept her own hands in her lap. He withdrew his hand, leaned forward, and began.

  “Grietjie, the more I speak to people, the more I realize the extent of your dilemma.”

  “Why speak about it then?” she asked dejectedly.

  “Because you owe it to your parents to tell them—to your parents and yourself,” he said seriously. “In the long run there’s only one thing that works, Grietjie, and it’s honesty. Absolute honesty.”

  She nodded slowly and sighed. “I know. That’s what my dad also says.”

  “Your dad sounds like a wise man.”

  “He’s also a typical Afrikaner.”

  He nodded. “Maybe you’ll find it easier to speak to your mother?”

  “Maybe.” She didn’t want to, though.

  When he reached across the table again, she put her palm in his. His broad, strong fingers closed around her hand. She knew he wouldn’t give her the wrong advice. He never had before.

  “Promise me you’ll start telling your parents the truth during this vacation?”

  She felt stupid tears just under the surface. “I can’t promise, Jakób.”

  His thumb stroked and stroked her hand. “Fine. Just promise you’ll try.”

  She wanted to. Strange, but for the very first time she wanted to—it would be liberating. “I want to, yes,” she said, “but I don’t know whether I can.”

  When he pulled up in front of her residence, she turned to him.

  “I don’t want to go home anymore.”

  “Don’t be silly, of course you do. Nothing has changed. And if the opportunity arises, you’ll tell them.”

  “Ye-es.”

  “Or you’ll try to create an opportunity to speak to at least one of them.”

  “Yes, Jakób.” She didn’t want to leave the safe space of the Volksie.

  He got out and opened the door for her. “Come, Grietjie.”

  “Okay.”

  He walked her to the front door. “Enjoy the vacation and get a good rest.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  He turned and walked away.

  Back in their room Karin asked, “Who’s the guy you went out with?”

  “We didn’t go out,” Grietjie said quickly, “we just went for coffee.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not really. ‘Out’ is—”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “Just . . . someone I’ve known since junior school.” She tried to change the subject. “What are you going to do during the vacation?” she asked, preparing to boil water for coffee.

  “Stay at home, sew,” Karin answered. “He looks a bit old?”

  He was thirty-three. She knew his exact age. “Yes, now that you mention it. Are you going to make that blue evening gown you designed?”

  But Karin ignored her digressions. “How old?” she demanded.

  “About thirty-ish, I don’t really know. Stop pestering me.”

  “He’s the guy who keeps phoning, the one you’ve been out with a few times. Right, roomie?”

  Grietjie sighed. “We’ve been out for coffee, yes. But we haven’t been out.”

  Karin shrugged. “He’s handsome, that’s for sure! But beware of older men.”

  “Good grief, Karin,” Grietjie said, annoyed, “he’s not an older man! He’s just Jakób. I’ve known him for years!”

  “Fine, if you say so,” Karin gave in. “The water is boiling over the top of the jug. Shall I make the coffee?”

  Jakób, handsome? Grietjie considered this as Grandpa John’s chauffeur drove them across the Springbok Flats. Grandpa John had fallen asleep, as usual. She closed her eyes and tried to conjure Jakób’s image. He was big and strong, with broad shoulders and solid muscles from the physical work he’d been doing since childhood. He had thick black hair and black eyes, lovely eyes, come to think of it. Did all those features make him a handsome man?

  Girls always thought Kobus was attractive with his athletic build, blue eyes, and sandy hair. To her he was just an older brother whom she loved.

  Francois might be attractive, but she didn’t really know. He was her friend.

  She opened her eyes and looked at Grandpa John next to her. I love him, she thought, that’s why he’s one of the most attractive men I know.

  I don’t want to tell Mom and Dad, the thought came to her out of the blue.

  But she also knew she had to try.

  Kobus’s pigsties had been completed, the first pigs were in, and the first litters had arrived. He was planning to go to Estcourt at the end of July to sign the final contract with the bacon factory before taking her back to university.

  She was astounded by the multitude of squirming piglets. “Look at all my hams, Grietjie,” Kobus boasted.

  “If you turn all these piglets into ham, you’re going to make a stack of money!” she said. “Do you realize what you pay in the store for four thin slices of ham?”

  “I have a lot of debt to pay off,” he reminded her.

  “A bank loan?”

  “No, I borrowed money from Grandpa John. He charges me interest, but less than the Land Bank.”

  “If I get a job at Die Transvaler in Johannesburg next year, I’m going to live with Grandpa John,” she said. “He said I could. For free, until I get my first salary.”

  “What are your chances?”

 
“A hundred percent. If you work, you earn a salary.”

  “No, stupid, of getting the job.”

  “Don’t call me stupid!”

  “Your chances?”

  “Good,” she answered. “I’ve already had an interview. I should hear in August.”

  Salomé came over often. Grietjie was used to getting most of Kobus’s attention, but when Salomé was present, Kobus hardly noticed her. He only had eyes for Salomé. Grietjie didn’t like it at all.

  “I don’t know whether I like Salomé much,” she told her mother one evening when Kobus had gone to town to visit his girlfriend. “She’s a bit wishy-washy, with her high-pitched voice and her mannerisms and stuff. She won’t last on the farm.”

  Her mother laughed. “I felt the same way about Diana when your Uncle Peter married her. I thought he could do much better.”

  “I know Kobus can do better,” Grietjie said firmly.

  “I think all sisters feel that way about their brothers’ wives,” said her mother. “One day Kobus will feel the same about the man you marry.”

  “I doubt whether I’ll ever get married,” said Grietjie.

  “Oh? And what about Francois?”

  “He’s just a friend. We don’t see much of each other anymore.”

  Her mother nodded. “The right man will come along and sweep you off your feet,” she said. “We must do our best to make Salomé feel at home in our family.”

  Up in the gorge, Grietjie’s father told her of his latest plans. “The soil is sandy, it drains well. This is where I want to put in the first vines,” he said.

  “Are you going to make red wine?”

  “No, you little tippler,” he teased. “I’m going to grow table grapes. I’m going to put in just a handful of vines at first and see how it goes.”

  As they were walking back, Grietjie asked, “What’s your opinion of Jews, Daddy?”

  “Do you mean the Jews of the Bible, the modern Jews in Israel, or the local Jews here in South Africa?”

  She didn’t know what she meant. “The Jews here,” she ventured.