The Girl From the Train

by Irma Joubert

  “I said yes to cake, not to dancing lessons,” he protested. “Anyway, I know how to waltz.”

  “The waltz is old-fashioned,” she said from the kitchen. “But it’s nice, you’re right. I’ll teach you all the modern moves.” She handed him a slice of cake and sat down in the armchair, facing him. “Jakób, are you happy yet?”

  He gave her question some thought. “Yes, I think I am,” he said honestly. “I enjoy my job, definitely a lot more than I did in Poland. I like the people, especially my Afrikaner colleagues. They’re a proud nation, good people. In a way, they remind me of the Poles.”

  She began to laugh. “When I first came, everyone wanted to kiss me! It’s one of the typical Afrikaner traditions that I’ll always find strange.”

  He smiled. “I haven’t had such luck. And don’t imagine that there aren’t pretty Afrikaner girls working at Iscor!”

  “And the country?” she asked. “It’s harsh and dry when you compare it to Poland, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it is, but it has its own charm. I’ve fallen in love with Africa,” he admitted.

  “Have you ever fallen in love with anything other than a country?” she asked out of the blue.

  The question ripped the memory wide open.

  To his surprise, he found that thinking of Mischka didn’t hurt quite as much anymore. A scab had formed on the wound and it was hardly visible now.

  When he didn’t answer at once, she said, “I suppose I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “I did love someone, yes, before I left Poland,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

  “We thought about getting married, but in the end she couldn’t bring herself to leave the country with me.”

  “I’m really . . .” Her pale-blue eyes looked directly at him. “You should have told me. We don’t have secrets, remember? You and I, we know everything about each other.”

  He nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Her name was Mischka Bòdis.”

  She frowned slightly. “Polish?”

  “No, Hungarian.”

  They sat facing each other without speaking, he on the sofa with his legs stretched out in front of him, she in the soft armchair with her legs tucked under her.

  “What does it feel like to love someone, Jakób?” she asked. “I’ve gone out with a number of guys, I’ve kissed a few as well, I mean really kissed, but I don’t know how to tell if you love someone enough to want to marry him.”

  This is turning into a difficult conversation, Jakób thought, like so many of our conversations in the past, even when she was very small. But he had to answer her honestly, that he also knew, because she wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less.

  “Jakób?”

  He gave a slow smile. “I don’t really know, Grietjie. I should think it’s when you always want to be with the other person, when you’d rather be with him or her than anywhere else in the world.”

  She looked into his eyes. “Then I love you, do you know that, Jakób?”

  Holy Mother, give me wisdom, he prayed softly. “You love your parents the same way, don’t you? And your grandpa?”

  “Yes, I do. Our home is the best place in the whole world. I really wish I could show it to you. But I just can’t tell them.”

  “I think you should start with Grandpa John.” Jakób was grateful to steer the conversation in a new direction.

  “Yes, I should. The vacation starts in two weeks,” she said seriously. Then her face brightened. “And next week it’s my birthday.”

  “I know. I suppose you’ll be celebrating with your friends?”

  “On the weekend, yes. But on Thursday the tenth I’m going to celebrate it with you.”

  He couldn’t refuse her anything.

  It was becoming harder and harder to be close to her. He had to stop himself from wiping a strand of hair out of her face, from stroking her soft arm. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight.

  Those feelings filled him with indescribable guilt.

  For the first time since Kobus had graduated she was going home by train. Not on her own—her dad would never allow it. She was traveling with a male first-year student from the neighboring town.

  Jakób had picked them up at her residence in his Volksie and dropped them at the main station, but she had told him not to bother getting out of the car. She kept wishing Jakób could have come home with her, but she said nothing, because it was her own fault that he couldn’t.

  The station hadn’t changed. She got the familiar smell even before she walked through the door. The sounds were the same—locomotives puffing and blowing, wheels screeching on the iron tracks, muted thumps as the cars banged against each other. She saw the white billows of steam and the black smoke of a departing train. She saw red flames where the fire was stoked in the locomotive.

  But today the station was not an unhappy place. Today she was going home for all of ten days. It was just a pity about Jakób.

  At the end of their journey her father was waiting at the station with the big truck. “I don’t have that much luggage!” she teased him.

  He laughed. “We’ll have to put your luggage at your feet. I’ve had to load pigs for Kobus, so the back is dirty.”

  She was glad she hadn’t witnessed it.

  At home the dogs and her mother were waiting—in that order, because the dogs had to be calmed before she could get to her mother.

  “Do you remember how scared I was of the dogs when I first came?” she asked as she patted their heads.

  It was almost suppertime and a feast was waiting. And, after hours of talk, she went to sleep in her very own bed in her very own bedroom.

  Saturday morning she rose early. Kobus was already in the kitchen, making coffee. He pumped and pumped the Primus stove.

  “This thing is from Noah’s ark,” he muttered. “Mom should get a new one. Do you want coffee? And would you like to go down to the pigsties with me?”

  Later that morning Salomé arrived. Her small Morris was chock-full of curtains—a few of the old ones that she had washed and a few new ones she had made. There was even a covered pelmet for the living room. They worked all morning to hang the curtains. Salomé and Kobus were getting married the week before Christmas, and the old homestead was almost ready for the new bride to move in.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you, Grietjie, will you be my bridesmaid?”

  “Your bridesmaid!” Grietjie cried, surprised. “Salomé, thank you, I’d love to!”

  “I’m glad you’re going to be my sister. I only have brothers,” Salomé said sincerely.

  I once had a sister, Grietjie thought, but she didn’t say it aloud.

  That evening she said to her mother, “Salomé is actually a nice girl once you get to know her.”

  “Yes, she’s lovely.”

  Well, I don’t know whether I’d go that far, Grietjie thought. Aloud, she said, “What are we making for supper, Mommy?” Maria didn’t come in on Saturday nights.

  “I haven’t given it any thought,” answered her mom.

  “I’ll make pancakes,” Grietjie suggested. “I know it isn’t raining, but it’s been a long time since we last had pancakes.”

  “Lovely,” said her mother. “But let me find out what your dad wants. I hear him calling.”

  “Did I hear the word pancakes?” Kobus asked from the doorway. “And it isn’t even raining!”

  “If we have to wait for rain,” Grietjie said as she measured out the ingredients, “we’ll never have
pancakes. Please get me two eggs from the pantry?”

  When Kobus returned with the eggs, he said, “I’ll help bake.”

  “No,” said Grietjie, deftly mixing the batter with a wooden spoon, “I’ll bake. Last time you baked, half the pancakes landed on the floor.”

  “I accidentally dropped one pancake,” Kobus protested and sat down at the table.

  “It was one too many,” said Grietjie as she took the Primus stove down from the shelf. She shook it to see whether there was enough kerosene in the tank. “You can mix the cinnamon sugar,” she said. She carefully poured methylated spirits into the spirit cup. “But don’t put in too much cinnamon,” she said as she set the spirits alight, “or the pancakes will be bitter.”

  “Where do I find the cinnamon?”

  “In the pantry—in the basket with the herbs and spices.”

  When the spirits were hot enough, she began to pump the stove.

  “Is this the cinnamon?” asked Kobus from the doorway.

  She turned.

  An explosion rocked the kitchen.

  She felt the hammerblow of the scorching flames.

  Someone pulled her away.

  She smelled burning hair.

  She smelled smoke.

  The smoke was all around her and inside her.

  Someone was screaming.

  She saw the curtains catch fire, and the carpet, and the bed.

  The big bed on which Jurgen lay sleeping.

  The smoke made everything black.

  Someone was screaming dreadfully.

  Screaming and screaming and screaming.

  Dreadfully.

  14

  On Monday morning just before nine, Alice walked into his office. “Jacob, someone inquired about you, a Mr. Woodroffe.”

  Jakób smiled politely. “Woodroffe? I don’t know anyone by that name. Did he ask for me personally?”

  “Not personally. He asked whether we had a metallurgical engineer named Jacob. But he pronounced it oddly, and not like the Afrikaans fellows either.”

  “Jakób?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “like that.”

  “It’s the Polish pronunciation of my name,” he said, still frowning. A feeling of dread took hold of him. But what could they do if they traced him here? Besides, they would use his last name rather than his first name if they made inquiries. “This Mr. Woodroffe didn’t mention my last name?” he asked.

  “No, he just asked for a metallurgical engineer by your first name. He said it wasn’t about business, it was a personal call. Here’s the number if you want to return his call,” said Alice.

  Jakób took the note from her and looked at the number. It was a Johannesburg number. Woodroffe? In Johannesburg?

  The realization struck him like an icy blast.

  He looked up. Alice was still standing there. “Thanks,” he said, “I’ll phone him later.”

  The moment she had left, he picked up the receiver and told his secretary, “Get Johannesburg 30851 on the line. Mr. Woodroffe. It’s urgent.”

  It could only be about Gretz . . . Grietjie.

  The call came through at once. “Mr. Woodroffe? Jakób Kowalski speaking, from Iscor.”

  “Mr. Kowalski?” It was a strong voice. “Do you know a Grietjie Neethling?”

  He felt the cold fear turn to ice.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’m John Woodroffe, Grietjie’s grandfather.”

  “Grandpa John,” said Jakób. Something had happened to her. “What happened? Is she hurt?”

  “No, she’s fine,” said the voice through the static in their connection. “But she’s had a bad fright. She’s asking for you.”

  Asking for him? She was with her family and she was asking for him? And her grandfather had found him? It didn’t make sense.

  “I don’t understand, what happened?”

  “There was an explosion, but she wasn’t injured,” Grandpa John said calmly. “I’m going to the farm this morning. I’d like to take you along, if possible. I know Frikkie Meyer. I could arrange it, if you’re willing.”

  Mr. Meyer, the head of Iscor? It was probably not necessary. “I’ll arrange it myself,” Jakób hastened to reply. “Where shall I meet you?”

  In the street below Jakób’s apartment the big black car with the chauffeur was already waiting—exactly as Grietjie had always described it. He ducked his head and got into the backseat. The chauffeur closed the door behind him.

  “Jakób Kowalski? I’m John Woodroffe,” said the man with the snow-white hair.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Woodroffe. Grietjie has often spoken about you.”

  The chauffeur wound deftly through the traffic. When they left the city behind and the road lay open ahead of them, Grandpa John said, “Grietjie once mentioned your name during a conversation. I’m glad I was able to find you.”

  Jakób frowned. “She didn’t tell her parents about me?” he asked.

  Grandpa John gave him a serious look. “No. Should she have?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, Mr. Woodroffe. She should have, long ago.”

  The old man kept looking at him. “Are you Russian, Hungarian?”

  “Polish,” answered Jakób. “I emigrated to South Africa at the beginning of the year.”

  “After the Polish revolution?”

  “Yes, after the revolution.”

  “And you know Grietjie?”

  “Yes, I’ve known her for a long time. But if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Woodroffe, I can’t say anything if she hasn’t spoken to her parents yet.”

  The old man looked at him earnestly and nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”

  “Just tell me what happened, please,” asked Jakób.

  “The Primus stove blew up,” said Grandpa John. “Fortunately she’d averted her face or . . .” He shook his head at the thought of what might have happened.

  A cold shiver ran down Jakób’s spine. Her beautiful face.

  “Kobus, her brother, pulled her away. Her hair caught fire at the back, but he put out the flames with his bare hands. In the end his injuries were worse than hers, but he managed to extinguish the fire before it could cause any real damage.”

  “And Grietjie?” Jakób asked, fear ice-cold inside him. Something was wrong, something serious, or he wouldn’t be driving with Grandpa John in his big car to the farm on the other side of the Springbok Flats.

  “I’m not quite sure myself.” The old man shook his head. “Her mother—my daughter, Kate—phoned to say she’s in shock. She was asking for Jakób. They didn’t know who Jakób was. They phoned her roommate, Karin, but Karin was no help. It was only last night that I remembered a conversation I’d had with her, in which she mentioned that you were a metallurgical engineer at Iscor.”

  “You didn’t get much sleep, did you?” said Jakób.

  “No, Mr. Kowalski. She’s my granddaughter. She has a very special place in my heart.”

  In mine too, Jakób thought—in mine too. “Please call me Jakób,” he said.

  They drove on in companionable silence. Jakób closed his eyes. They would only have sent for me if it was really serious, he thought, running his fingers through his thick black hair. He wished the imposing car would go a little faster.

  After a while Grandpa John said, “Tell me about your work, Jakób.”

  He’s not asking about my past, where I’m from, why I fled my own country, how I know
Grietjie, Jakób realized. He’s asking about my work, because he knows it’s something I’ll be comfortable with.

  Jakób told him about his work at Iscor. He asked about Rand Consolidated. They discussed the government’s labor policy and the possible extension of the pipeline at Iscor.

  When they were approaching the farm, the old man said, “Call me John. Mr. Woodroffe is too formal.”

  I’ll never be able to call this dignified gentleman by his name, Jakób thought. “Would you allow me to call you Grandpa John?” he asked. “That’s how I’ve come to know you over the past months.”

  The old man smiled. “Yes,” he said, “that’s what everyone calls me.”

  At Grietjie’s home, Jakób stood slightly apart while the family greeted one another. Then Grandpa John turned to him.

  “This is Jakób,” he said. “My daughter, Kate. My son-in-law, Bernard.”

  He didn’t mention my last name, Jakób realized. My foreign-sounding last name.

  The woman was beautiful. “I’m so glad my father found you,” she said sincerely. “May I offer you something to drink?”

  “He speaks English,” said Grandpa John.

  “I understand Afrikaans,” said Jakób. “Coffee would be lovely, thank you.”

  The man looked him in the eye and gripped his hand. “How do you do, Mr. Neethling,” Jakób said in Afrikaans.

  “I’m grateful you’re here,” said Mr. Neethling. “Did you have a good trip?”

  “We had a good trip,” Jakób said cautiously. “Your farm looks good.”

  “Just dry, very hot and dry. We’re urgently needing rain. Let’s go in.”

  “I want to see Grietjie,” said Jakób. He turned to Grietjie’s mother. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

  “We don’t know,” said the woman, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, I . . .”

  Jakób instinctively put his hand on her shoulder. “Take me to her,” he said.

  Grietjie lay curled up in bed. The day was hot, but she lay under a thick quilt, her head deep in the pillow.