The Other Side of Silence

by Andre Brink

  But the couple’s children, who have never put in an appearance in the two years Hanna has been there, arrive from all over Germany and insist that the farm be sold and their mother move in with them, one after the other. They annul the inheritance Opa has promised Hanna long ago.

  Now she will have to fend for herself, or return to the Little Children of Jesus. But she is in too much shock to choose either. Instead, she takes a handful of Opa’s pain pills, and dies.

  ∨ The Other Side of Silence ∧

  Twenty-Nine

  From the very beginning of her stay at Frauenstein Hanna becomes aware of the ghosts that haunt the place. At first they are visible only in mirrors in passing; and when she turns round there is nothing to be seen. But once she has become used to them, or they to her, the encounters are more direct, face to face. Sometimes she meets them singly, at night, when she cannot sleep for fear of dreaming about the train; otherwise in twos or threes. Sometimes there is a whole dark throng of them swarming up the broad stairs, with a whispering sound, and a movement of glacial air sweeping past. But for some reason they do not scare her. If anything, they stir up a feeling of great sadness. They look at her with their terrible and terrified eyes; and she understands as no one could who has only ever lived and who hasn’t travelled through the landscapes of death as well, as she has. And looking into her own eyes in the mirror tonight, she recognises herself and realises why. With them, only with them, she shares the intimacies of life as well as death. She knows they are the women from the unmarked graves outside, the nameless ones, forgotten by everyone, relegated to obscurity as if they had never existed. Which is why they cannot come to rest but have to go on wandering, to be accosted, and in some obscure way acknowledged. Someone must know. She feels so close to them. Not only because she herself has died so many times, but because she will be forgotten like them, and take to wandering too, until perhaps someone, someone, somewhere, will one day be reminded of her story and speak her name in the silence, Hanna X.

  ∨ The Other Side of Silence ∧

  Thirty

  No, the pills do not kill her. She vomits copiously and is ill for three days, and then recovers and knows she has to leave the Kreutzers’ farm. But this time she will under no circumstances return to the Little Children of Jesus. She is no longer a child, she has a life of her own. Behind the backs of the spiteful Kreutzer children Oma manages surreptitiously to slip her some money and an eloquent letter of reference, and arranges for a neighbour to take her to Bremen, with a suitcase of clothes and a box of books; and oh, her magic shell. For a few weeks she stays in Fraulein Braunschweig’s small apartment where she sleeps on the couch until they can devise a way out.

  It is the teacher who first brings news of the drive to recruit women – as domestic workers, possibly as consorts – for the German colony of South-West Africa. And in no time the decision is made. Is this not what she has been dreaming about all her life? Moreover, the news seems to revive some of the teacher’s own deep memories – of the time she was engaged, and bow she and her Otto used to talk about their travels around the world, and how enthusiastic he was about going to East Africa or South-West Africa with her. If Hanna goes it will be, in a way, a rounding off of some of her own dreams. Fraulein Braunschweig accompanies her on the train to Hamburg. With some of the money Oma has given her, they buy her a new outfit; and this gives Hanna new confidence, even after the train journey and two days in a ratty little boarding house in Hamburg. The interview with Frau Charlotte Sprandel of the Kolonialgesellschaft, who has travelled all the way from Berlin, is constantly postponed because of the stampede of women – some as young as fourteen or fifteen, others as old as fifty or sixty – clamouring for the opportunity of being chosen.

  “There are too many,” Hanna says several times. “They will never take me.”

  “You are exactly what they are looking for, Hanna.”

  “I am too severely plain, Fraulein.” The phrase has been branded into her mind where it hurts most and lingers longest. She tells Fraulein Braunschweig about the conversation between Frau Hildegard and her friend.

  “They were jealous of you, that’s all.”

  She cannot suppress a bitter laugh. “What on earth do I have that anyone could be jealous of?”

  “You have a good mind, child. And you’re a willing worker. You have genuine enthusiasm. Not many people have that.” She smiles, and suddenly looks years younger: “And you do have beautiful hair.”

  The interview, when at last it is Hanna’s turn, takes place in a high bare room in a yellow office building near the harbour. Frau Sprandel, splendid in black and fur (for the day is cold and drizzly), sits behind a long table, flanked by several other people, all of them men, most of them elderly and officious. Nobody shows any interest in the new applicant; they must have interviewed so many already.

  “Come, come, Fraulein,” says the furred lady with visible irritation as Hanna tarries on the doorstep, “we don’t have all day.” She reads Hanna’s name from a document in front of her. “This is your name?”

  “Yes, Frau Sprandel.”

  “You are aware of the kind of person we are looking for?”

  “I have read the notices, Frau Sprandel.”

  “All the applicants – and there are many of them – are evaluated on the basis of their merit and health.” She places great emphasis on the impressive-sounding words Wurdigkeit und Gesundheit. “What makes you think you qualify?”

  “I don’t think I qualify at all, Frau Sprandel.” There is a sudden rustle among the papers in front of the dignitaries at the table. Now they are all paying attention. Hanna presses on resolutely: “I’m a clumsy person and I always break plates and things and often I don’t finish my work on time. But I’ve never been scared of work and I try very hard and I have always had good health.”

  “Hm.” Somewhat to Hanna’s surprise she detects a hint of approval in the lady’s attitude. Frau Sprandel returns to her documents. “I have looked at your references. I notice that you were brought up in an orphanage. The Little Children of Jesus. A good Christian institution, I believe.”

  Hanna feels her jaws contract. But as evenly as possible she says, “That is what Frau Agathe and Pastor Ulrich used to say.”

  “You don’t agree with them?”

  “No, I don’t,” Hanna says quietly. “But there is really no need for you to take my word. Few people do.”

  Frau Sprandel changes her angle of approach: “Would you say the orphanage was the kind of place you would rather not have been?”

  “I often ran away when I was small,” Hanna replies with complete candour.

  “Would you do it again now, if you could?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it doesn’t work.”

  “Yet you are interested in going to South-West Africa. Is that not running away?”

  “It is not Germany I want to get away from, Frau Sprandel. It is Africa I want to go to.”

  This prompts much whispering all the way down the long jury table, while Frau Sprandel sits studying Hanna with narrowed eyes. It takes quite a while before she returns to her notes. “Would you describe yourself as a city girl?”

  “No, Frau Sprandel. Bremen is not a big city. And for the last few years I have been working on a farm.”

  “Hm.” She nods and looks sideways a her co-adjudicators. “The one requirement we are very strict about is that our recruits must be vom Lande und nicht von der Stadt.” A murmur of approval ripples along the table. “You must realise that Africa is not Germany. It is a wild place.”

  “I have always wanted to go to wild places, Frau Sprandel.”

  “It is not for the romantically inclined,” the woman says curtly. “German South-West Africa is a country larger than the whole of Germany. It has half a million of inhabitants of which fewer than five thousand are colonists.” She pauses to let the information sink in. “In addition there is a garrison of some eigh
t thousand troops. But the vast majority are natives. Raw, uncivilised, savage tribes from which one can expect neither help nor mercy, only open hostility.”

  Hanna nods, feeling her throat constrict.

  “The only more or less civilised place is the capital town of Windhoek on the central plateau, and even that has fewer than one thousand inhabitants.”

  Hanna, who has been trying to listen demurely, can no longer contain her enthusiasm. “I have read,” she says, “that there are three roads running from Windhoek. There is a rough road past places called Okahandja and Otjimbingwa to the coast, another south to Rehoboth and Mariental to Karasburg, and a third north to Omaruru, Otjiwarongo, Outjo and Tsumeb in Hereroland.” She stops to catch her breath. “Have you ever heard such beautiful names, Frau Sprandel?”

  A small titter of giggles and coughs from behind the table.

  “I’m afraid it’s only the names that, to some people, may sound beautiful,” the regal lady says in a reprimanding tone of voice, but it does not sound altogether humourless. “My understanding is that it is mostly inhospitable desert.”

  “I love the sun, Frau Sprandel.”

  “I must warn you that it is a climate of extremes, Fraulein. It will not be an easy life.” Another calculating pause. “Furthermore, it is dangerous. Six years ago there was a war between our people and the war-mongering Hereros in the north of the territory. Many of our colonists were murdered.” A brief clearing of her throat. “Fortunately quite a few thousand of the Hereros were also exterminated, and soon after that a widespread cattle disease dislodged most of them from the land and forced them into constructive employment on the farms.” Her eyes appear to look right through Hanna. “But from dispatches out there we learn that hostilities are once again building up. In due course there may well be another war. For the moment Germany entertains good relations with some of the wiser leaders, who realise that without us they are doomed. But there are some savages among them” – she briefly consults her notes and shakes her head – “with names no Christian person can hope to pronounce, and who will not learn. Should they ever succeed in fomenting a general uprising among all the tribes of the land, our garrison will be stretched to the limit. So it is only fair I should give you due warning.” This time the pause seems almost interminable. “Are you still serious about going to such a place?”

  “Oh yes, I am, Frau Sprandel. I’ve read everything about it I could lay my hands on.”

  “The work will be extremely exacting.”

  “I shall do any honest work expected of me.”

  “Are you by any chance engaged to be married?”

  Hanna shakes her head.

  “You realise some of the men offering work to immigrant women may also have an interest in…finding a companion, a spouse.”

  Hanna swallows but keeps her face straight. “If it is a good man I will not have any objection, Frau Sprandel.”

  “And what, in your eyes, is a good man?”

  “Someone, I hope, who will have some respect for me.”

  Another ripple along the table, but there is little mirth in it.

  “That is a good Christian sentiment,” comments Frau Sprandel, fingering the collar of her fur coat. “But one cannot expect too much refinement or delicacy in a colony of that nature, you appreciate that?”

  Hanna breathes in deeply. “Some of my employers over the years have not been very dehcate either, Frau Sprandel. I think I can handle that.”

  There follows a long whispered consultation along the table. Then Frau Sprandel turns back to Hanna. “Now that you have heard our questions, is there anything you would like to ask of us?”

  Hanna pauses. Then she asks very calmly and seriously, “Please, Frau Sprandel, will there be palm trees in South-West Africa?”

  This time the laughter is more generous.

  “I have told you that it is a desert land, Fraulein,” replies the regal lady in the middle of the table. “I think we can safely assume that there will be the odd oasis with palm trees.”

  “In that case I shall go,” says Hanna.

  “We haven’t offered you a place yet,” Frau Sprandel pointedly reminds her.

  Hanna blushes scarlet. Now she has ruined everything. “I’m sorry, Frau Sprandel, I didn’t mean…It’s just…When I listened to the sea in my shell – I got it from a little girl on the Weserstrand – and it wasn’t just the sea, but palm trees too – and from that day I knew that if there was such a place I must go to it. So please take me, I’ll do anything you want.”

  “Can you make any contribution to your passage?” the woman asks.

  “A contribution…?”

  “In cash.”

  “No. No, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise…”

  “Third class,” says Frau Sprandel and turns first left, then right, to her colleagues. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “You may go,” announces Frau Sprandel. And as Hanna stumbles out in a daze, forgetting even to thank them, the furred lady adds a flippant rider: “As long as you don’t expect too much of your palm trees.”

  ∨ The Other Side of Silence ∧

  Thirty-One

  There are very few palm trees, all of them tattered and frayed by the wind, when the women disembark at Swakopmund from the sloop which has brought them from the Hans Woermann, at anchor in the deep sea. Hanna is hardly capable of observation, drenched to the bone by the angry waves through which the small sloop has had to plough. Several of the passengers’ boxes and bundles have disappeared into the inky sea. Hanna is too numb to care. It is a cold grey day, as if they have never left Germany. There must be some mistake. But she refuses to give up hope; this is only the point of arrival, it doesn’t count, the oasis will be inland, she must be patient.

  After the long weeks at sea the land under her feet appears to heave and sway. She has to catch hold of a railing to steady herself. Closing her eyes against the fog she can see the palm trees of her Children’s Bible again, and the real ones of her dreams. From her pocket she extracts the shell that has come all the way with her, from midwinter to this angry midsummer. She presses it against her ear and smiles, because the sea is still there, the sibilant sea.

  She wanders away from the others, but is called back. They are shuttled into groups of ten and taken to a large building in ornate colonial style, where they are ushered, one by one, into a series of offices. This is where they will meet their future employers, their prospective husbands. For this, she knows, they all know, is what they have come for. And she is resigned to it.

  At first sight, as she comes into the small office that smells of dust and tobacco and stale sweat, the prospect is not inspiring. The man sits with his back to her. A middle-aged peasant, is her first impression. His whole body, his ill-fitting jacket, the back of his narrow head, everything defines him as a loser – a mean-spirited, vicious, hard-drinking, abusive loser.

  He gets up to face her. She goes past him to the empty chair next to him, and sits down. He clears his throat and turns his dirty hat in his hands, then he sits down again. The official behind the large desk reads out the man’s name, but she isn’t paying attention and only absently picks up something sounding like Grossvogel.

  And then he reads, “Lotte Mehring.”

  “I am not Lotte Mehring,” she says, flaring up.

  “That is what it says here.”

  “Then it is a mistake.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Hanna.” She will add the surname now lost to us.

  The official looks flustered. “But here it says Lotte Mehring.”

  “Then you must please change it.”

  “I’m not allowed to. I can only go by the register.”

  Unexpectedly, the matter is taken out of his hands. The man sitting next to her grins in her direction. “Hanna,” he says, leaning forward in a show of familiarity. “Now that’s a good name for a woman. Hanna.” He grins again. Several of his teeth are missing, the rest are t
obacco-stained. He has a bristly moustache. His face is a dark reddish brown; but there is a white rim around his narrow forehead where the hat has kept out the sun. He puts one large blunt paw on her thigh. He smells of beer and chicken shit. “Well, Hanna. You are to be my wife then,” he announces.

  The official tries to say something, but he has become quite irrelevant to them.

  At first she feels like bolting, blindly, no matter where, the way she felt that day during her illness when Pastor Ulrich put his hand under the bedcovers. She cannot explain it to herself: only minutes ago she was prepared to resign herself to almost anything. Then why this onrush of panic? Perhaps it is brought on by Lotte’s name, by remembering everything that might have happened, should have happened, and now is slipping for ever put of reach. She can barely contain the rage and resentment that seethe in her against this moment which will decide the rest of her life. In the debilitating knowledge that he is the very last she wants, yet the only one she may ever be allowed to lay claim to.

  But she knows she cannot resist them openly; she must stay calm whatever the cost. She dare not antagonise them too much. Not right now. She takes a deep breath and says, “I am sorry. But I cannot be your wife.”

  He stares in disbelief, his eyes bulging slightly. The yellow whites are streaked with red. “What do you mean?” he asks. “Why not?”

  “Because you’re ugly and old,” she says.

  “Now,” says the official behind the desk. “Fraulein Lotte, or Hanna, or whatever your name may be, you should be grateful that there is someone who wants you.” But her stare appears to unnerve him. He looks at the middle-aged suitor. “You are of course free to change your mind, Herr Grossvogel.”

  The man rises and possessively places his hand on her hard shoulder. “I think she will change her mind,” he says. “All it takes is a little firmness. There are ways and means.” Again his ingratiating grin. “And four days on the train can make quite a difference. You did say four days, didn’t you, Meinherr?”