The Girl From the Train

by Irma Joubert

  Her father’s big hands lay calmly on the wheel. “I’ve already spoken to him on the phone,” he said. “He respects my request.”

  Sorrow made the words stick in her throat. “So he’s not coming?”

  “No, Grietjie, he won’t be here for Christmas.”

  Her heart ached, her entire being contracted with longing for him.

  It was his first Christmas in this barren southern country. And he would be spending it alone.

  She wanted to rant against her father; she wanted to rush at him and shake his shoulders and hammer with her fists on his chest so that he would understand.

  But she knew him well enough to know that he would stand by his decision.

  “Did you quarrel with him, Daddy?” Her tears were just below the surface.

  Her father drew up next to the house and switched off the engine before turning to her. “Do you know me as someone who quarrels?”

  She sighed. “No. I know you as someone who says what’s going to happen and then it happens.”

  Early on New Year’s day she drove back to Johannesburg with Grandpa John. They picked up Aunt Nellie at her sister’s house in town and she sat in the front seat with the chauffeur.

  “You always stay in the bushveld until the end of January,” Grietjie protested feebly.

  Grandpa John smiled. “I would never let you start a new life in Johannesburg on your own,” he said.

  She unpacked her things in the closet in her mother’s former bedroom. It was hers now.

  She took out the photograph taken of her and Jakób at the ball. It was the only one she had of him. She put it on the bedside table, next to her wooden cross.

  If only Daddy understood the way Grandpa John does, she thought. The longing got worse every day.

  The next morning she started work at Die Transvaler. The first week was a nightmare. She got lost, she forgot things, she translated texts without comprehending their content.

  “It’s just politics!” she told Grandpa John one evening. “International politics and economic terms I don’t really understand.”

  “It must be interesting,” he said.

  “It might be interesting if I could make heads or tails of it,” she said skeptically. “Why is the market sometimes a bull and at other times a bear, for instance?”

  Grandpa John laughed. “Sit here, and I’ll explain it to you,” he said and sat down behind his desk.

  She missed Jakób every day. She missed him so much that it hurt. She wanted to tell him things. She wanted to ask him questions and share her fears and her excitement with him, because a new world was slowly opening up to her. She wanted to tell him how strange it was to receive reports directly from Germany and the Netherlands and France, to read articles written there about South Africa, about apartheid, or tourism, even agriculture. He would understand how a phrase or a name, even of a village or a district she had known long ago, could open old wounds.

  She began to develop an interest in European politics. She came to realize how deep her European roots went.

  After a month she began to get the hang of things. The days at the office were full. She buried herself in her work. “You’re doing a good job,” the news editor complimented her.

  At the end of January the first Polish article landed on her desk. It was just a short report about the struggle of the church against the Communist regime. While she was translating it, her heart went out to the people she had known there—Sister Zofia with her doe eyes behind thick lenses, Sister Margaret all the way from Ireland to bring Polish children to the Lord, Aunt Anastarja attending every mass she possibly could, old Mrs. Sobieski knitting warm socks for her, even Jakób’s old professor with his broken glasses. In her mind’s eye she saw them all with their crosses around their necks.

  Daddy, she argued with her father in her imagination, these people are Christians, good Christians, devoted to their way of worship, which may be strange to you but is part of their ancient culture.

  Part of Jakób’s culture.

  Maybe she should write her father a letter, explain it to him. Maybe include the article she had translated.

  The article didn’t make it into the newspaper. “Poland is a long way from South Africa,” the news editor explained. “And it’s a Communist country.”

  Her days consisted of words, sentences, and phrases translated from European languages into Afrikaans and typed on paper.

  But her nights were a dark abyss of longing. Wave upon wave broke over her head and knocked her flat. Or washed over her, the water closing over her head and leaving her gasping for breath.

  “It’s no good to sit at home pining, Grietjie,” said Grandpa John about six weeks after she had started to work in Johannesburg. “It’s good for you to get out and meet new people, get to know them. You’re young and you’re lovely. You must go out, dance, mingle, go to the movies, or whatever you youngsters are doing nowadays.”

  “I don’t want to do it without Jakób, Grandpa,” she said.

  “That’s not a mature argument,” Grandpa John said earnestly. “You might as well put these months to good use. In the process you can make certain he’s the right man for you. You’re too young to be so somber, Grietjie.”

  “I know, Grandpa, but I love Jakób.”

  “Do you think going out with other people will have an adverse effect on your love for Jakób?”

  “No, never, Grandpa. I just don’t feel like going out.”

  Grandpa John gave her a sidelong glance. “So you want to crawl into a hole and waste away?”

  She thought for a moment and smiled. “No, you’re right. I’ll try to go out. Maybe I’ll even enjoy it.”

  But she didn’t believe she would.

  Early in March, the fellow with the messy desk opposite her own was appointed European correspondent in London. Hein was beside himself with excitement. “Let’s celebrate tonight, Grietjie,” he said on the spur of the moment.

  She put on her black evening gown. Not the dark greenish-blue silk taffeta, the color of a glossy starling in the sunlight.

  They talked and ate and drank wine. They laughed and danced until they nearly dropped. They celebrated Hein’s appointment with gusto—it was his dream come true.

  In the early hours he took her back to Grandpa John’s house in Parktown. Just before he got out to open the door for her, he turned to her and said, “Grietjie, you’re so lovely, why isn’t there a man in your life?”

  She told him about Jakób. Everything. It felt good to tell a stranger.

  When she had finished Hein said, “He must be a remarkable man to win the heart of someone like you.”

  “He is a remarkable person,” Grietjie said.

  Hein nodded slowly. “My parents would also have a hard time accepting a Catholic daughter-in-law,” he said. “Maybe you should get yourself a good Afrikaner boy. You know, one who votes for the right party, shouts for the right team, sings in the right church choir?”

  “Yes,” she replied, trying to keep the conversation light, “maybe I should. A pity you’re going to London for three years.”

  He laughed out loud. “You’re the first person to mistake me for a good Afrikaner boy!” he said.

  On a Saturday night in April Kobus came to spend the night with Grandpa John on his way to Estcourt. Grietjie sat with the men at the supper table like in the old days, and later around the fireplace in the study.

  They laughed and chatted as if Jakób weren’t so near, and yet so far.

  On Sunday Uncle Peter and Diana came for lunch. The conversation turned to Kobus’s
pig farming.

  “It’s a good thing you diversified,” said Uncle Peter. “I think you struck gold with your plan to supply bacon pigs to the factory in Estcourt.”

  “It’s going well,” said Kobus. “I’m on the point of signing a second contract with them. Next year I want to start exhibiting as well, at all the big agricultural shows, like the Rand Easter Show and the Royal Show in Pietermaritzburg. I want to make a name for myself as a pig farmer.”

  She enjoyed listening to her brother. She was proud of him.

  “We also plan to diversify,” said Uncle Peter. “We want to expand into the coal industry. Black gold, they call it.”

  Kobus leaned forward. “That’s interesting,” he said. “But won’t it be a very costly exercise? Surely it requires different equipment?” He laughed. “Not that I know much about that kind of thing.”

  “We’re thinking of collaborating with a German company,” Grandpa John said.

  “And Iscor is also interested in entering into an agreement with us,” Uncle Peter continued. “It was actually Jakób’s idea, he . . .”

  Grietjie’s mouth went dry. Jakób! She pressed her cold hands to her hot face. Jakób!

  “. . . with the negotiations,” she heard Uncle Peter’s voice again.

  “Grietjie, will you go and see what’s happened to the coffee?” Grandpa John asked calmly.

  He could have rung the bell, but she got up. “Yes, Grandpa,” she said.

  “. . . brilliant fellow, he’s acting as . . .,” she heard Uncle Peter say just before she entered the kitchen.

  When she returned seconds later, the conversation had moved on to something else. Jakób’s name wasn’t mentioned again.

  That night she couldn’t sleep. She stood looking at the moon. Jakób was in this city, not in distant Poland. He worked with Uncle Peter every day. She knew Grandpa John regularly spoke to him. But when she had reentered the room, his presence had been erased from the conversation. Deliberately, she knew.

  The next morning Kobus left early. Grandpa John was still asleep, but she filled Kobus’s flask with coffee and gave him the food Aunt Nellie had packed for him.

  “How are you really, Grietjie?” he asked just before he got into his pickup.

  “I miss Jakób terribly,” she said honestly.

  “You haven’t seen him again?”

  “Not at all, nor spoken to him. Kobus, nine months is a very long time. I’m sick with longing for him.”

  Kobus looked at her seriously. “Go out with other men, Grietjie,” he said. “It’s no good wishing the nine months were over. I can’t see Dad ever accepting Jakób’s Catholic faith. I don’t want you to get to a point where you have to choose between him and us.”

  She was aware again of the knot in her tummy. “Do you think it’s that serious?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I do, Griet. I’m afraid so.”

  Jakób strode down Market Street, past Corner House to Barclays Bank. He pushed open the door, caught a glimpse of the long lines at the tellers, and sighed. He pushed his fingers through his thick black hair and considered returning later. But later he wouldn’t have time either, he thought, and joined the shortest queue.

  Only then did he glance at the people around him.

  She was standing in an adjacent line, slightly ahead of him. His heart leaped into his mouth. He stared, transfixed.

  She was beautiful. He could see only her profile—the pert, turned-up nose, the full lips, the blonde curls in a new, modern hairstyle. She was dressed in a dark-red suit, the jacket emphasizing her feminine curves, the skirt showing just enough of her shapely legs.

  She was studying the statements in her hand. If she turned her head, she would see him.

  His licked his dry lips.

  His entire being cried out to her.

  She was so close, he could have reached out and touched her.

  Quietly he turned and left the building.

  “A man called Francois phoned,” Grandpa John said late one afternoon when she came home.

  “Francois!” Grietjie said, surprised. “He’s my roommate's brother, remember? He lectures at Pretoria University now, and he’s studying for another degree or something. Did he leave a number?”

  “He did. And he said his sister would be in Pretoria this weekend. They want you to come over.”

  “Grandpa, that’s the best news! I’d love to see Karin again. And Francois as well. We’re such good friends.” She took the note with the phone number and went straight to the telephone.

  It was wonderful to hear Francois’ voice. She asked about Karin and promised to catch an early train to Lyttelton on Saturday. She asked about Hester and the university and his studies. She told him about her new job, how much she was learning, how interesting she was finding it.

  “And Jakób, Grietjie?” he asked after a while.

  “Karin probably told you I’m not allowed to see him before my birthday,” she said.

  “She did, yes.”

  “I miss him terribly, Francois.”

  He was quiet for a while. “What will change when you’re twenty-one, Grietjie?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing.”

  She could imagine him nodding at the other end. “What are you doing the weekend after this one?” he asked casually.

  “Why?”

  “A group of us are going over to Lourenço Marques. We’re putting in leave for Friday and we’re leaving on Thursday night. There’s room in my car if you feel like coming.”

  She smiled. “Besides you, Hester, and me, who else will be in your car?”

  He gave an embarrassed laugh. “A friend of mine, Hermann Grové.”

  “Also a shrink?”

  “No, another kind of doctor. A vet.”

  “Mm. I’ll decide this weekend.”

  That evening Grandpa John said, “Sounds like an excellent idea, Grietjie.”

  “What? Seeing my friends over the weekend, or the trip to the coast?” she asked.

  “Both,” he said, looking amused. “Just do it, my dear.”

  “Why don’t you write that book you always talked about?” Karin suggested on Saturday afternoon. “It would take your mind off things.”

  They were sunbathing in the feeble sunlight, just as they had often done when they were students. It feels like such a long time ago, Grietjie thought. Now Karin had an engagement ring on her finger. And Grietjie had a great longing in her heart. Even worse was the fear that was gradually consuming her.

  The fear that nine months wouldn’t change a thing.

  “You must have a story before you can write a book,” she said.

  “Why don’t you tell your own story?” Karin suggested, pushing her cat’s-eye sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Not everybody has such an interesting one.”

  “I’ve considered it. I’ve even thought of a title,” she admitted. “But I can’t write a book with such a miserable ending. My dad will never accept Jakób, Karin. I realize it more every day. No one will want to read a story that ends like that.”

  “Well, make up your own ending.” Karin shrugged. “It’s your story, after all, you can do with it as you please.”

  Grietjie smiled slowly. “You’re right. You’re quite right. It’s my story, I can do as I please.”

  Just before they went inside, Karin asked, “What’s the title you thought of?”

  Grietjie hesitated for a moment, then replied, “ ‘The Girl from the Train.’ ”

  “Grietjie
!” the news editor called one Wednesday morning. “The boss wants to see you in the glass case!”

  Surely I couldn’t have done something wrong, she worried as she went up the stairs to the dreaded office lined with windows. She lifted her chin, knocked once, and pushed open the editor’s door.

  “You’re Grietjie Neethling, aren’t you?” the editor asked, peering at her over the top of his spectacles.

  “That’s right, sir.” She stood up straight and met his gaze. She hoped she looked businesslike, professional.

  “Yes, well, I believe you speak German?”

  “That’s right, sir. I do.”

  “Well, good. I want you to come along with me this afternoon. We’re entertaining the editorial team of the Frankfürter Allgemeine Zeitung.” He rifled through the papers on his chaotic desk. “It’s a German newspaper,” he said, then looked up at her over his spectacles again.

  “I know the paper, sir,” she said. “What exactly do you want me to do, sir?” she asked.

  He looked up, surprised. Or maybe the thick lenses gave him the surprised look. “Translate,” he said. “Interpret. Speak when we get stuck. Some of us know basic German; others don’t understand a word. And I believe their English isn’t up to much either.”

  “Fine, sir, I’ll come.” She smiled.

  “We’re leaving in half an hour. We’re meeting them at the German Club in Pretoria at noon,” he said. “You’re going with that photographer with the greasy hair—what’s his name again?”

  It could be any of the young photographers. “Juan?” she ventured.

  But the editor had already moved on to something else.

  The German Club was an unimpressive pre-war building on the corner of Paul Kruger and Vermeulen Streets. She and Pierre—not Juan after all—walked up the wide steps hollowed out over the years by a multitude of feet. When they reached the door, he produced a comb from his sock, combed his hair back, slicked down his sideburns with his fingers, and said, “Let’s go for it, Grietjie, girl.”