by Irma Joubert
“Yes, that one.” He drew a deep breath. “That train was unscheduled. We were supposed to blow up a troop train that would come past later. Grietjie, I planted the bomb that blew up that train.”
She was still for a while. Then her arm crept around his waist. “Why didn’t you tell me this long ago, Jakób?” she asked against his chest. “It must have been so hard for you to have known it all these years.”
He held her against him. “It was harder to say the words,” he said.
“It wasn’t your fault, Jakób.”
“I’m still the one who planted the bombs, Grietjie.”
He felt her nod against his chest. “I understand.” She sat up straight and looked into his eyes. Her eyes were impossibly blue. “But now you know that I’m the woman who loves you, the one you can talk to about anything, no matter how hard.”
He pushed her hair back, cupped his hands around her face. “We’re so lucky, you and I,” he said.
“Things will work out between us, won’t they?”
“There are no guarantees, Grietjie. We’ll see. We’ll take it step by step. And remember, if it doesn’t . . .”
She stuck her fingers in her ears. “Don’t say it, I know,” she protested.
“I love you.”
She laughed happily. “I know, Jakób Kowalski. I know.”
On the last Wednesday in November she wrote her last exam. That evening Jakób drove all the way from Johannesburg to say good-bye. On Thursday she and Grandpa John would go to the farm, and the week before Christmas Kobus and Salomé would marry.
Jakób and Grietjie went for a meal at Janina’s again. He drew out a chair for her, ordered a bottle of wine. His eyes were drinking her in.
“I’m going to miss you terribly, Grietjie. The farm is very far away. Four weeks is a long time.”
“But you’ll try to come for Christmas, won’t you, Jakób?”
“I’ll try,” he said. “On one condition.”
“Your wish is my command, noble lord.”
He smiled briefly. “Until I have spoken to your father, I’ll be there as a friend of the family, because that’s how I was invited. I won’t be coming as your special guest.”
Her eyes twinkled. “You mean I’m not allowed to hug and kiss you?”
He kept a straight face. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“At least not in the presence of my family?”
“Nowhere. I’m serious, Grietjie. If we embark on a relationship, I want to clear it with your father first.”
“We’ve already embarked on a relationship,” she said. “Besides, you don’t speak to the parents unless you want to get married.”
“In our case it’s different, and you know it.”
Maybe that was what made her happiest—that he was Jakób, the perfectionist. “Yes, I know, you’re right. However”—a thousand sprites danced in her eyes—“I might manage to behave, because I have an iron will and incredible self-control. But how you’re going to resist me, I don’t know.”
“You’ll be surprised, Miss Neethling,” he said, putting on a long face.
“Will you at least kiss me on Christmas Day?”
The long face remained. “I doubt it, Miss Neethling, I doubt it very much.”
She laughed, but the rough little claws of the black bug kept scratching at her mind: Your father won’t be impressed . . .
16
She had told him not to phone, because the farm lines weren’t private. “Everyone listens in, Jakób. You have no idea how much gossip it leads to.”
But four weeks was a very long time—much longer than she had imagined. She missed him when she woke in the mornings and when she went to sleep at night, when she helped her mother with the household chores or talked to Grandpa John or heard her father’s pickup outside.
And now that she was home again, she became more and more anxious about how her parents would react, especially her father. He liked Jakób, she knew. But Jakób was a foreigner. He didn’t speak fluent Afrikaans, he didn’t know the country’s traditions and customs, he was years older than she was. And he was Catholic. That would never change. She knew it, because she knew Jakób.
The week before Kobus and Salomé’s wedding, the farm was a hive of activity. Grietjie was grateful for the distraction. She lent a hand with the final preparations, she put on a beautiful dress, and she kept her smile in place all day. It was a wonderful wedding.
But that evening she sat alone on the veranda and looked out over the veld. She missed Jakób with all her heart.
And she was afraid.
A few days later her mother asked, “Grietjie, is something bothering you?”
“No, Mommy. I’m just lazy after the exams and the wedding and everything. And would you believe it? In ten more days I’ll be a working girl!”
“Butyou’lltellmeifsomethingisbotheringyou?”hermotherpersisted.
“I will, Mommy, I promise.”
It was going to be a strange Christmas, Grietjie thought, with only herself, her parents, and Grandpa John. And of course Jakób, who was coming on Friday. The closer it came to his arrival, the more Grietjie felt as if the black bug had got hold of a screwdriver, inserted it in her navel, and began twisting.
At breakfast on Thursday morning she couldn’t eat a slice of toast, no matter how hard she tried. “Grietjie,” her mother said worriedly, “you look pale. Don’t you feel well?”
“I’m okay, Mommy. I’m just not hungry. It must be the heat.”
But when her father had left to tend Kobus’s pigsties and Grandpa John was sitting in his favorite place in the garden, Grietjie went to the pantry where her mother was busy.
“I want to talk, Mommy.”
Her mother turned at once and gave her a look. “Let’s go to your room,” she said.
Now I’ve made a mistake, Grietjie thought as they walked down the passage. I was stupid to have said anything.
“What’s the matter, Grietjie?” her mother asked when they reached her bedroom.
“Jakób and I are in love, Mommy.”
She saw the astonishment on her mother’s face, saw her frown, then turn pale. “Jakób?”
“Yes, Mommy, Jakób Kowalski.”
“You mean . . .?”
She should never have said anything. It’s always better to say nothing. She had to stop Jakób in time so that he didn’t speak. She had to—
“Grietjie?”
“Yes, Mommy. I mean Jakób and I have fallen in love.”
“But, Grietjie,” her mother exclaimed, “you can’t! He’s years older than you!”
“Yes, Mommy, thirteen and a half years,” she said.
Her mother stared at her in disbelief.
She played her first trump card. “Grandpa John was almost twelve years older than Ouma Susan.”
Her mother ran her hand over her face. “But . . .” She shook her head. “Jakób? He’s from a different culture.”
If her mother reacted like this, what would her father say? She had known it would be difficult, but she hadn’t realized it would be this hard.
“You were English, yet you and Daddy got married. And you were raised in Grandpa John’s wealthy household. Daddy was very poor, wasn’t he?”
Her mother nodded slowly, still bewildered. “He was, yes.”
Grietjie thought of something else. “And remember, I came here from Eastern Europe. We actually have the same roots, Jakób and I.”
Her
mother shook her head. “You speak Polish to each other. You’ll always be strangers in South Africa. You’ll find it hard to make friends. If you have children . . . gracious, Grietjie! The relationship could never work!”
“It could, Mommy! What exactly is my mother tongue? German? Polish? Afrikaans? Understanding each other is about much more than the words we speak. Yes, we still speak Polish and sometimes German, because Jakób has been in the country for less than a year. But he’s learning fast; he spoke Afrikaans to Daddy when he was here in October.” She paused for a moment. “Jakób and I understand each other no matter what language we speak.”
Her mother lowered her head in her hands. “It’s so sudden, Grietjie.” She looked up, her eyes filled with concern. “He’s Catholic, isn’t he?”
Grietjie nodded. “Yes, Mommy, he is. And that’s not going to change.”
Her mother took a deep breath and shook her head. “Good heavens, child! I never thought . . . I trusted Jakób . . .”
“Jakób did nothing wrong,” Grietjie cried. “He kept sending me away.” She grabbed her mother’s hands. “Mommy, I’m the one who convinced him we should try, at least try. And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll still be friends. But we love each other, Mommy!”
Her mother gently stroked her cheek. Then she asked earnestly, “Why are you so sure that you love him, Grietjie? Isn’t he just an anchor to you? A piece of your past that you’ve rediscovered and don’t want to lose again? A father figure?”
“Daddy is my father figure, Mommy. He’s the best father in the world, that I know,” Grietjie said firmly. After a moment she continued, “I don’t know for sure what it means to love a man, Mommy. But one thing I do know: I want to be with Jakób, all the time. I’m happy when I’m with him. Maybe you’re right. For a long time he was the anchor in my life. And now he has become my anchor again, and I don’t want it otherwise.”
“I understand,” her mother said slowly.
“Because that’s how you felt about Daddy too, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said her mother, “that’s how I felt about Bernard Neethling.”
“And look how happy you are,” said Grietjie.
Her mother gave her a keen look. “Oh, my darling, you’re so young.”
“But I’ve come a long way, Mommy.”
Her mother nodded. “Yes, you have.” She frowned and said, “Do you want me to speak to Daddy?”
“No, please don’t. I should never have spoken to you. Jakób wanted to do it himself. It’s just that I’m so afraid of how Daddy will react.”
Her mother took her hand. “It’s a good thing that you told me, Grietjie,” she said. “It would be better to warn your father before Jakób speaks to him. He and I will want to discuss the matter, pray about it.”
Grietjie nodded. “You’re probably right,” she said reluctantly. She shook her head. “I really don’t know what Daddy will say.”
Her mother got up and gave her a searching look. “Your father won’t be happy,” she said.
“I know, Mommy. I know.”
When her father appeared in the door of the living room just before noon, she saw it in his face. “Can we talk, Grietjie?” he asked. Her heart sank.
They walked out to the kraal. Her mouth was dry, an iron fist gripped her throat, the stone was back in her tummy.
He sat down on the flat rock behind the kraal and she sat down on her own rock, where the two of them had had so many discussions in the past. The sunlight fell through the leaves of the thorn tree and made lacy patterns on the ground. Downy yellow blossoms lay at her feet.
Her nails cut into her palms.
“I don’t want to argue with you, Grietjie,” said her father’s beloved voice.
She tried, but she couldn’t stop the tears from pouring down her cheeks.
Her father handed her his handkerchief. “Calm down first,” he said. “I just want to talk.” He bent down, picked up a stone, and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.
She blew her nose hard. The handkerchief smelled of her father, of the farm.
“I know,” she sniffed, “you just want what’s best for me. And I want to be the best daughter for you. And I know you don’t want Jakób, but I love him!” It sounded as if she was pleading and it was not what she had intended to do!
Her father placed his big hand on top of hers. “Come now, Grietjie,” he said calmly. “We can’t talk while you’re being so emotional. I just want to discuss the matter with you—I’m not going to run Jakób off the farm.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m just so terribly afraid.”
“What of?”
She thought for a moment. What was she afraid of? “Of what you’ll say.”
“And what do you think I’ll say?”
She sighed. “That Jakób is too old for me.”
“And do you think he is?” asked her father.
She turned her head and met her father’s gaze. “He’s much older. But the relationship could work, depending on how we handle it.” Suddenly she felt calm, collected. “Grandpa John was almost twelve years older than Ouma Susan.”
Her father nodded slowly, but his face betrayed nothing. “What else are you afraid of?” he asked after a while.
She picked up one of the yellow blossoms. She considered her answer. “That you’re going to say he’s a Pole, he speaks Polish, and he’s an outsider.”
“And then you’ll say Grandpa John was more than just an outsider, he was the enemy?” replied her father.
“Yes. And weren’t you also an outsider in Grandpa John’s home at the beginning?”
“Very much so, Grietjie,” her father agreed.
A ring-necked dove called from a tree. This is the Lim-po-po, this is the Lim-po-po. Her father asked, “What else will I say?”
She took a deep breath and looked straight into his blue eyes. How strange, there are tiny brown specks in his blue eyes, she thought.
“That he’s Roman Catholic, Daddy.”
Her father nodded. “Yes, Grietjie.”
She waited. Her father remained silent.
“He’s not going to change, Daddy.”
“I know.”
They sat in silence again. It feels as if a big bat has landed on my head, Grietjie thought.
“I don’t know what else to say, Daddy.”
“What will you do, Grietjie? If the relationship works out, where will you stand?”
She looked at him fearlessly. “I’m a Protestant, Daddy. I don’t feel ill at ease in the Catholic Church, because it’s so familiar to me. But I was confirmed in the Protestant church and that’s where I belong. Jakób has been to church with me. He likes the simplicity; he says our church is stripped of pretense. I’ll probably attend his church sometimes, and sometimes he’ll attend mine.”
Her father gave her a searching look. “You realize that’s not a solution, don’t you?”
She looked down at the blossom that had wilted in her hand. Then she looked up. “It’s the only solution we can think of, Daddy.”
Her father nodded slowly. “We like Jakób, Grietjie,” he said, “you don’t have to doubt that. He’s a strong, reliable man, and I believe he’ll be a good husband to his wife. He’s too old for you, yes, and he’s an outsider, but two people who love each other should be able to bridge that divide.”
She knew it was no good taking courage. She heard it in her father’s tone of voice. “But?”
Her father nodded. “But I consider the issue of his fai
th insurmountable, Grietjie.”
“Surely that’s for me and Jakób to decide!” she cried. “You said you wouldn’t run him off the farm!”
“I won’t, Grietjie. Your great-grandfather did it with Grandpa John almost fifty years ago, and it led to thirty years of heartache. I don’t want that.” He looked at her earnestly. “But I’m going to implore Jakób to break off all contact with you.”
“Daddy!”
“Allow me to finish, Grietjie,” said her father. The pebble fell from his hand—it was shiny and clean, polished between his fingers. “I’m going to ask him to have no contact with you at all until you’re at least twenty-one. Your mother and I feel that you need time. You’re young, Grietjie, you know very little about adult life and its demands. We realize Jakób is an anchor to you, but marriage is far more than—”
“And then? When I’m twenty-one?” She put her fingers in her ears. “Then you’ll have another excuse! You’re taking away my only chance of happiness! I hate you! I wish I never—”
“Grietjie, pull yourself together!” her father said sternly. “You’re behaving like a teenager. Don’t say things you might regret.”
She threw her head back and kept her eyes closed. “Sorry, Daddy,” she said deliberately.
She got up and walked blindly into the veld.
Hours later she heard the pickup approach. She was exhausted, empty. She no longer knew why she was crying. Because she couldn’t see Jakób for nine months? Surely that didn’t mean it was the end of the road for them. Because she had argued with her father? They had disagreed before, especially during her teenage years. Because she had behaved childishly? It only proved that her father was right.
She was relieved to hear the pickup. Her father had come to fetch her before dark.
She went to meet him. He opened the door from the inside. She got in. “Thank you for coming to fetch me, Daddy,” she said.
“No problem, Grietjie.”
They drove back in silence. The pickup bounced along the rocky track down the mountainside.
When they were almost home, she asked in a choked voice, “Can Jakób still come for Christmas, Daddy?”