Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  The Art prize was the last to be given out. Craig and I were called to the stage. I felt unusually self-conscious. I’m not sure whether it was the fact that I was perceived by most to be an underachiever or whether it was the lingering effects of the weed we had smoked. In my eyes, the prize was a farce as we were the only two who had taken Art as a subject out of the entire 1977 matric group. What was the point of an award?

  Final exams were just around the corner. The least I could do, I decided, was to make a last attempt to pass. Failing would be an embarrassment. I had always scraped through without studying, but I knew there was no way I could get through finals using the same strategy.

  In the weeks leading up to finals, Craig would fetch me from the Arc and we would go to the library at Wits University. We managed to get our hands on the previous year’s exam papers from Damelin College, and this turned out to be a huge advantage. I don’t think I had read a single one of the setwork books during my school career, so I needed to take all the short-cuts available to me.

  Early one evening, while I was waiting for Craig to fetch me for our regular study session at the library, one of the Arc girls, Melissa, who was also my ex-girlfriend and at that time my best friend Derek’s chick, came to me and said she needed to speak to me when I got back. Derek was already away in the army.

  ‘I may be back late, probably around midnight,’ I told her, but she assured me she would wait up.

  The thing was that I still had feelings for Melissa, and in a sense I had been upset that Derek was going out with her. It didn’t seem right. Anyway, sure enough, there she was, waiting for me in the shadow of the stairway that led upstairs to the girls’ department. It was close to midnight and very quiet. I watched Melissa come down the stairs. She had a beauty about her that could make any man irrational. I met her halfway up, took her by the hand and led her to what was then the movie room, which was adjacent to the dining room and next to the pantry. We didn’t switch the lights on. We settled on the couch, and before I could say anything her arms were around me and she began to sob.

  Stroking her hair and whispering in her ear, I told her it was okay to cry and encouraged her to just let it all out. Then I placed my hands on either side of her face and gently kissed her on the lips, reawakening feelings I realised I had been suppressing for a long time. From her reaction to my kiss, it was quite apparent that she still fancied me as well. We kissed, we touched and together we met and rode the crest of a wave that seemed never to end. I don’t know how long we lay there afterwards in silence, but we both understood that there was no return from where we had just been. It was a special moment.

  Once I was back in the boys’ dorm and tucked into my bed, I felt guilt-ridden for having betrayed Derek, but at the same time I justified it by the fact that Melissa had been my girlfriend to begin with. I was only 16 when we first went steady, but when things began to get serious, I broke up with her. At 16 I was having too much fun, I reckoned, to have a serious relationship and girls were generally a headache. That night, however, I had fallen hopelessly in love all over again. The fact that, from then on, we had to sneak around and keep our romance a secret only added to the thrill and excitement. We became dangerously adventurous to the point of being careless.

  Melissa shared a room with two other girls, and I started sneaking into her dorm late at night, where, as quietly as possible, we would make love. On one occasion we fell asleep in each other’s arms and only woke up in the early hours of the morning. There was no way I could exit down the stairs. I had to make my way undetected to the girls’ lounge, out onto the balcony and over the edge, which was a 3m drop. Fortunately, I somehow managed not to hurt myself.

  Our relationship intensified over the weeks and Melissa agreed to dump Derek. We would be free to live and dance to the only way we knew, to lose ourselves in our own world. Melissa was forever on my mind and it was difficult for me to concentrate on my studies. Then one weekend Derek came home on his first army pass and we went on a double date. It was fucking awkward. Here I was, with another ex-girlfriend for whom I still had feelings, and Melissa, my current lover, was with her boyfriend, my supposed best friend. We went out for an early dinner and then to a movie. I ended up sitting between the two girls and, while holding the hand of my date, I also secretly held Melissa’s hand. Derek fell asleep during the movie, which made it easier. I’m not sure what was going through my mind at the time, but love sure has a way of twisting our morals. Or perhaps it was that we were young – enough of an excuse to do as we pleased.

  I studied hard in the run-up to our final exams. Subjects like History I learnt parrot fashion, preparing as much as I thought would see me through the exam. I began to think there was a good chance I might actually pass matric – and, despite all predictions to the contrary, I did.

  It was official: my schooldays were behind me. I was ready to embrace everything the free world could throw at me – the good, the bad and the ugly.

  Leaving Arcadia was a bittersweet moment for me, just as it would be, I imagined, for any normal kid leaving his parents’ home. Vicky was forever telling us how tough it was in the real world and that we didn’t appreciate how easy we had it in Arcadia. Delaying adulthood was not an option, however. There was a world out there that awaited a whole new generation of enthusiasts, and I topped the list. Saying goodbye to all the other kids was hard but, like so many other ex-Arcadians who had come and gone but who still visited regularly on weekends and attended the shul on festivals, I would be no different. Arcadia was our home. We were all part of something bigger.

  I moved in with Joan, but December holidays were already upon us so I didn’t settle there for long. Derek and I hitched a ride to Durban, where we met up with his brother Theo, who was staying there with their mother. Half of Johannesburg was in Durban, and we had the best time ever. What stands out the most for me was our adventurous, carefree spirit and how we embraced our newfound freedom. We came and went and did as we pleased, not having to answer to anybody. There were no set times for meals. We were free to be who we were. We were wild and we were invincible.

  Our favourite hangout was the Elangeni Hotel, which was within walking distance of the beachfront. We sometimes slept ten people in a single room. Sometimes we even slept in the hotel toilet.

  Durban was renowned for having the best weed in the southern hemisphere and we smoked pretty often. Theo smoked his first joint with us that holiday, and, after my initiation on speech night with Craig and our teachers, my aversion to getting stoned had melted away. I loved the feeling smoking weed gave me. But weed wasn’t a priority for any of us the summer we finished school. We were just out to have fun.

  Chapter 3

  Soldiers We Are Not

  Early in December 1977 I had received a letter from the army, telling me that my call-up had been changed: I was to be posted to 4 SAI Middelburg, and the period of training had been extended from 18 months to two years. The Border War had intensified, especially in Angola. Troops were being moved to the operational area and bodies were starting to come back in bags. The conflict was real. Our troops were dying out there, and nobody really knew what we were fighting about. Not that I gave a shit, but it disturbed me that we were fighting a war in another country. I thought fleetingly of becoming a Jehovah’s Witness. Those guys were pacifists and did their two-year stints in detention barracks. The only problem was that they were looked down upon by the other soldiers as being chancers or jippogats.

  At 8am on Monday 9 January 1978 I presented myself at Milner Park (Milpark) in Johannesburg with all the other conscripts who had received orders to assemble there. Guys were arriving from all over South Africa. We made up an entire battalion. There were corporals, sergeants, sergeant majors, even lieutenants, all shouting at once.

  ‘Jou bliksem se moer!’

  ‘Kom hier!’

  ‘Troeper!’

  ‘Roer jou gat!’

  After having our names taken, we were split up into g
roups and taken in Bedford army trucks to the Joburg central railway station. Our appointed corporal marched us to the platform. Some of the Afrikaans guys marched like they had been doing it forever. Generally the Afrikaners were very ‘kop toe’ (the guys who felt a deep sense of duty towards South Africa). We boarded a train and I ended up sitting opposite two well-built Afrikaans guys who were both over 2m tall. They were also a good couple of years older than me.

  It turned out that both these guys had degrees. Instead of joining the army first, they had gone to university, which meant that immediately after basic training they would be given the rank of second lieutenant. We instantly struck up a friendship and the trip to Middelburg passed quickly. As we pulled into the station, I looked out at the open landscape, struck by the bright crimson red colour of the sand. Once we disembarked, orders in Afrikaans came blasting from megaphones. Once again, we were loaded onto Bedford trucks and then transported to the camp. On arrival at our camp site, I was amazed to see rows of identical military tents stretching as far as the eye could see. Besides the mess hall and the toilets, there wasn’t a single building.

  We were divided into companies and then taken for a medical examination, after which we were all subjected to the ultimate induction for a soldier: a barber with an electric razor proceeded to shave my head, and I watched my blond curls cascade to the ground. The man basically reshaped my head, leaving nothing but bristles. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t stop rubbing my hands all over my head.

  In the army, 4 SAI Middelburg was known for being one of the toughest infantry units (it was almost a concentration camp, in my opinion). After being shorn, we were issued with uniforms, which included a beret, a heavy metal helmet, or staaldak, and a baalsak. We also received clean linen and two blankets. In my tent there were four iron-framed beds. I had discovered at Milpark that another guy from Arcadia had also been posted to Middelburg and coincidentally he was in the same tent as me. The following morning at breakfast I met up with a handful of other Jewish guys.

  It didn’t take long to realise that the South African army didn’t much care about soldiers of the Jewish faith. For a start, there were no kosher meals and, secondly, we were expected to train on Shabbos. None of us Jewish guys in Middelburg were happy with this state of affairs. Knowing very well that they wouldn’t or couldn’t provide us with any, we decided to demand kosher food anyway. With any luck we hoped we might be transferred to Voortrekkerhoogte, outside Pretoria, where apparently there was a kosher kitchen. We also refused to train on Shabbos.

  We went to talk to the corporal in charge, who was singularly unimpressed when he heard our requirements. ‘Gaan na julle tente en vrek!’ (Go to your tents and die) he ordered. When I got back to our camp site, about 40 guys had congregated around the entrance to my tent. My friend from Arcadia was standing there, his face white as a sheet. He looked really nervous. He told me that, because we had refused to exercise, there were a few individuals making racial remarks.

  I turned around and said loudly, ‘What’s the problem here? I will take on any one of you. Who wants to fight? I’ll show you what a Jew can do!’ Nobody said anything, but just as they were about to back away, this big, fat, dark-skinned guy came pushing his way through the crowd. He reminded me of a charging buffalo. Both thumbs pointing inward to his chest, he shouted, ‘Ek sal jou opfok!’ (I will fuck you up).

  I stood my ground, waited and when he was within punching distance I hit him with all my strength smack on the jaw. He just stood there, like nothing had happened. Then, angrier than before, he raised his arms and attempted to grab me around the throat, at which moment I felt myself being pulled from behind and yanked out of his reach.

  The two guys I had met on the train stepped in front of me and, in a threatening tone, told the fat guy to get the fuck out of there. Fok off. And they made it quite clear that anybody who fucked with me or my friends in the tent would have them to deal with. The fat guy wasn’t happy, but he backed off, rubbing his jaw ruefully, and the crowd dispersed. I thanked my two protectors, who had surely saved me from a good ass-kicking.

  Later that afternoon, we Jews were all told to report to the first-aid tent. When we got there, the medic, who had the rank of lance corporal, said in a harsh tone, ‘Hier is die fokken Jode – spuit hulle diep in’ (Here are the fucking Jews – inject them deep).

  I was totally taken aback. Up until then, I had never really encountered anti-Semitism, and certainly not so blatantly. Fortunately for me, I was first in line for our tetanus injection. This fucking medic used the same syringe on each of us and he really thrust the needle into our arms. Afterwards all eight of us were marched around the parade ground for some three hours. I had hardly been in the army a couple of days and already I was hating every moment. How I wished I had gone to college. Even repeating matric would have been better than this!

  I don’t think that in the history of the SADF there had ever been a soldier or group of soldiers who’d refused to train on a Saturday or eat the food because it wasn’t kosher. In addition, we demanded extra vegetables. We were certainly audacious, but we had also given them something to think about. By the end of the week, our transfer papers to 3 SAI in Potchefstroom, where there was a kosher kitchen, had been signed. Most of us had been hoping to be moved to Voortrekkerhoogte but we guessed Potchefstroom had to be better than where we were.

  On the train ride to Potch, the eight of us fellow Jews really bonded; we had beaten the system, which seemed like an excellent start to our army experience. When we arrived at the Potchefstroom military base, the authorities didn’t know the first thing about us or where we had come from, nor could they understand why we had been transferred so early into training. The new intake of conscripts was already into their second week of basic training. The fact that our heads were so closely shaven that we looked like convicts, compared to the moderate short back and sides of the ‘roofies’ (new recruits) at Potch, also made us stand out. Not knowing quite what to do with us, we were all put into a tent, where we lay around idly. It was quite a strange situation, watching the others training while we lazed about. After a week, they finally resolved the dilemma somehow and we were split up into different companies.

  One good thing about the Potch camp was that there were very few tents; the new intake slept in bungalows. As I was making my way to my allocated spot in my bungalow, I exchanged greetings with a guy whose bed was close to the door. Mine was about six beds down on the opposite side. I had hardly reached my bed when I heard someone say in a loud voice: ‘Hey, Joot!’ (Hey, Jew!)

  ‘Fuck!’ I said. I couldn’t believe my ears. I hadn’t even put my bag down and already I was about to lose my cool. What the fuck? Spinning around and dropping my baalsak at the same time, I saw the tall frame of this red-headed, freckle-faced 2m-tall Afrikaner. Fuck, I thought, why’s it always the big guys getting in my face? I was about to open my mouth to retaliate and utter some profanity of my own when I realised he was not actually addressing me, but talking to the little guy I had just passed near the entrance a moment before. I walked up to this big Dutchman, jabbed my finger in his chest and, in Afrikaans, said, ‘Ek is ook ’n Joot’ (I am also a Jew) ‘and my name is Shani Krebs.’ And pointing towards my Jewish brother, I continued, still in Afrikaans: ‘Hy het ook ’n naam. Maak seker jy gebruik dit’ (He also has a name. Make sure you use it.)

  My Afrikaans isn’t so perfect but he got the message. I turned away and went back to my spot and proceeded to unpack my things. The little guy came up to me, shook my hand, introduced himself and thanked me.

  Once I was settled, I couldn’t believe how jacked-up this place was. Next door to our battalion was 4 Artillery Regiment, where there were also quite a few Jewish guys, and we all ate together in the mess hall. The two chefs there were Jewish, and the atmosphere at mealtimes was great and spirits were high. Basic training was quite tough, though. Every day we would run 2.4km with full kit, which meant with your webbing, magazines and ammunition, and y
our R1 rifle. Without fail, Stan Nathan, who was a marathon runner, came in first, winning by a good 50m. Depending on my mood, I usually ran in second, but Stan was the man to beat. Having two Jewish guys holding the best times for the 2.4 in our company gained us Jews a lot of respect.

  Ironically, two of the slowest runners, who were always far behind the rest of the company, also happened to be Jewish. One was a lanky guy, quite skinny, but the other stood at around 1.8m and carried so much flab around his stomach I bet he struggled to see his toes. On a few occasions, while going on a 20km hike, which also entailed some running, my two Jewish brothers inevitably trailed far behind the rest of us. Sometimes the corporal would order, ‘Gaan haal jou maatjie!’ (Go fetch your friend). Normally, a couple of the guys who were in the front (the fittest and the strongest and most ‘kop toe’ (i.e. the arse-lickers) would run to the back to forcibly help along those who were trailing. On approaching they would slam their rifles into the chest of whomever it was who couldn’t keep up, knocking them to the ground, then pulling them by either the scruff of their collars or their webbing until they got to their feet. They would then either push them from behind or drag them along until they caught up with the rest of the squad. On one or two such occasions, I would run and get to them before the others could and carry their rifles or their webbing for them. This would ease their load and enable them to keep up with the rest of us, and also save them from some humiliation.

  Basic training was hard, but inspection parades in our barracks were the worst. Our beds had to be square, and starch was used to make the edges flush. The men took hours to prepare, and whenever there was a major inspection everybody slept on the floor.