by Sarah Lark
The days were calmer and lovelier. As soon as her father and brother had left, she and Rosie fled the cramped, evil-smelling hut for the Billers’ villa and its world of wonders: Caleb’s books and toy chest, Mrs. McEnroe’s cooking and baking, and even Mrs. Biller’s vague friendliness. Until early fall, Violet took the children to the river in the afternoon, and often Caleb watched Rosie when tiredness overcame Violet. It always amazed her how lovingly Caleb treated Rosie. Though he did not like to play with Rosie, he read to her or played the piano for her. Violet was moved to tears when he played a children’s song and Rosie suddenly sang along with her sweet voice, which she had not done since their mother died.
“We should teach her to read,” Caleb said one day.
Violet now read fluently and followed with interest the reports about Mrs. Morison and her battle against alcohol. That it was about other things, too, did not become clear to Violet until she became witness to a bitter debate between Hermine and Joshua Biller.
“I repeat, Hermine, it might be printed ten times in your supposedly harmless housewives’ magazine, but I will not tolerate such radical texts in my house.”
“I haven’t even read it, Joshua, but, but it cannot be so radical. She is right: All laws apply to women. Women can be judged for crimes and even receive the death penalty, just like men. And if you look at the schools—are girls really worse learners than boys?”
“So, you didn’t read it, eh?” scoffed Mr. Biller.
“Maybe I read a bit,” Mrs. Biller admitted. Her voice suddenly sounded fuller. “And I don’t find it radical. What makes the woman great? She remembers everything women have done for this country. She points out injustices.”
“She demands the unnatural,” insisted Mr. Biller. “She’s mad. And you’ll throw this pamphlet away this instant. I don’t want to think about someone seeing it here. People would think I didn’t have control of my wife. Do you hear me, Hermine? This instant.”
Joshua Biller did not wait for his wife to obey. Instead, he reached for the periodical, which was on the buffet, and threw it into the trash can.
Violet fished it out when he had left and Mrs. Biller had withdrawn to her bedroom with a migraine.
She carried it up to Caleb’s room and read the article in question while the boy had his “afternoon nap.” He was also flipping through some book during this time. Mrs. Biller insisted that Violet take her son to his bed, so they both obeyed. Rosie was the only one who slept during naptime, and she was stretched out on the rug in the playroom.
“Some ‘Femina’ wrote it, but that’s not her real name, right?” Violet asked when she had finished.
Caleb pointed to the dictionary on the shelf without saying anything. Violet soon discovered that it was the root of “feminine.”
“So, that just means ‘woman’ or ‘female,’ she said. “And Femina says women should be able to vote.”
This demand astonished Violet. Until then she had never thought about voting. She had heard of it, but her father had never taken part in an election.
Caleb shrugged. “They would have to if they want to ban whiskey,” he said.
Violet looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Well, if you want to forbid it, you need a law for that, and Parliament makes the laws, and representatives sit in Parliament, and they’re elected. Don’t you know anything, Violet?”
Violet felt stupid again. Yet in this light, Femina’s demand was understandable.
“Why haven’t women been able to vote before?” she asked.
Caleb shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, disinterested. “Probably because they’re not smart enough. I don’t think my mom is especially smart.”
Violet was pleased that at least he did not present her as an example of female inadequacy. Although from Caleb she would have accepted it. Compared to the strange boy, other people—men and women alike—were not terribly smart, and they did not think quickly enough. She had even heard the pastor complain to Mrs. Biller that soon he would not be able to teach the boy anything more. Caleb was almost better at Latin than the pastor himself.
What about people like her father? Or Fred and Eric? They could barely read or write—although Eric was better than the other two. Ellen Paisley had been smarter than her husband by a long shot. And even if the acknowledgment made Violet’s heart pound, she was smarter than her father too.
So why should her father vote and not her? Why was Joshua Biller allowed to decide what periodicals his wife read? What gave Jim Paisley the right to treat his daughters like slaves, to drink away the family’s money, and to beat Violet?
Violet decided to fight for the right to vote.
Chapter 3
Matariki led a busy life in Parihaka. In the morning, she and two other girls fluent in English watched a group of small children and taught them English. Week by week, the group grew. The people in Parihaka had faith in the future and loved one another, driving the birthrate high.
In the afternoon, Matariki and her friends dedicated themselves to their studies, working diligently through the secondary-school syllabi in preparation for graduation exams in a high school in Wellington or Auckland. So far, no student from Parihaka had failed the exams, so there was pressure on the young people.
Really, however, there weren’t many worries, particularly since everyone in Parihaka was completely dedicated to its mission. No matter how hard they worked during the day, they spent their evenings enjoying dancing and music, or practicing traditional Maori arts.
The longer Parihaka existed, the more willingly the tribes of the North Island participated. They sent tohunga to teach the villagers how to make and play the old musical instruments, and they built their own marae where their tribal gods lived.
Kupe had a particularly memorable encounter when an iwi of the Hauraki arrived. The tribe had been driven from the region of Hamilton and lived nomadically ever since. Everybody greeted one another with the customary powhiri, and Kupe noticed that the young man who performed the wero was not a pure-blooded Maori. He spoke to him shyly because it was not polite to remind mixed-race Maori about their ancestry. Many were ashamed of their pakeha fathers. Arama, however, was open and friendly with his answer.
“I wasn’t happy to leave,” he admitted. “I would have preferred to keep going to school and then probably become a farmer like my father. I don’t have much talent for hunting, let alone for being a warrior.”
“But you do for being a dancer,” Kupe laughed. “The way you made that face—it almost made me afraid.”
These gestures were part of the war dances of the tribes, and Arama had mastered them. Solely by reason of his stature, he already garnered respect. Sam Drechsler’s son was a giant.
Now, he grinned. “You see, in Hamilton they would have sent the army after me. It was the right thing to go. But I miss the farm. Maybe things will change someday.”
Kupe nodded. “That’s why we’re here,” he said seriously. “You can write to your father, you know. Parihaka has a post office. And a school. And a farm. Is your mother here too? I would like to tell both of you what your father did for me.”
Arama’s mother was a tohunga in jade carving. She instructed Matariki and the other girls in carving hei-tiki and mere. Matariki also tried to improve her playing of the putorino, a type of flute. Kupe was proud when, after a year, he was allowed to dance the wero at the powhiri before Te Whiti’s speech. Like his new friend Arama, he was a gifted dancer and musician—and his Maori got better every day now that he did not limit himself to focusing on the chanting of nonsense syllables. Kupe was the smartest of the young people, and soon after arriving in Parihaka, he took the graduation exam and passed with high grades. He could have gone to university in Auckland, but he remained in Parihaka. It was exciting to watch the village grow and the movement expand with more members.
The gatherings were now attended by around three thousand people. While the message of peace was always communicated, the people
at the meetings hoped to gain better understanding by airing their grievances. Just as Parihaka’s population grew, so, too, did the population through the plains and the hills around Taranaki. White settlers poured in by the thousands. They were greedy for land, and the provincial government did everything it could to offer it to them. The tribe representatives reported on the occupation of land and the destruction of fences and other property. Tribes drove away the land surveyors, which became another reason for the pakeha to accuse them of revolt and confiscate their land “as punishment.”
Te Whiti and Te Whetu did not mince words when they spoke to the people at the full moon. They had collected evidence against the pakeha, who attempted to bribe the chieftains in Taranaki with alcohol, clothing, and perfume into giving away their land. Te Whetu exposed the false promises of the pakeha to avoid the fishing grounds and tapu sites of the Maori and to reimburse the natives fairly in land sales.
“Friends, they make no secret of their intention to profit from the sale of our land and cheat us. They are offering more than six thousand acres of our land for sale to the settlers.”
It was no wonder that the reporting on Parihaka and its spiritual leaders in the pakeha newspapers was slowly changing. It was rare now for journalists to write enthusiastic stories of Te Whiti’s peaceful and friendly intentions. Instead, they called his speeches blasphemous and rebellious, and they reported on dangers emanating from Parihaka and the fateful influence of its leader on the tribes.
Nothing about Te Whiti’s approach had changed. Just as before, the speakers at the meetings called for understanding, politeness, and the peaceful setting aside of conflicts.
“Above all, do not take up arms against the settlers,” Te Whetu advised the tribes when they complained about sheep grazing without permission on their hills. “They cannot do anything about it. They bought and paid for their land. The money went to the wrong people. Try to make that clear to the settlers. Try to make them see that they, too, were cheated. There are clear rules among the pakeha: when they buy jewelry from a purveyor of stolen goods, then they have not committed a crime, but they cannot keep the jewelry either. The purveyor is guilty and so is the thief. We must find ways and means to explain this to the settlers. But without awaking Tumatauenga.”
The Maori tribes understood this argument, though their concept of land ownership diverged starkly from that of the pakeha and based itself more on temporary use than on property. The settlers did not want to hear it. After all, they had saved for years for their farm in Taranaki. Now, it seemed so much easier to them to defend themselves against a handful of natives than to ask for their money back from the government.
Matariki was as outraged as the other citizens of Parihaka, but there wasn’t a clear solution to the problem. The tribes began to grumble about Te Whiti’s strategy of stalling. Further negotiations faltered, and the patience of the Maori reached an end.
At one gathering, Te Whetu detailed the future strategy.
“Friends, Parihaka has more than a hundred oxen, ten horses, and a matching number of plows at its disposal. We will now offer them to our neighbors. It is certainly so that the tribes that came to Aotearoa in the Tokomaru possess all the land in Oakura and Hawera, where the pakeha farms are springing up. The land has lain fallow, grass grew on it, and now the whites want to graze their sheep on it. But if our friends among the tribes decide to plow their land? It is their right. Maybe they want to raise potatoes and cabbage, or they just like to look at a few lovely, straight furrows.”
Te Whetu and the other chieftains smiled sardonically as laughter spread through the audience. So that was what the men had in mind. Peaceful protest through use of the land. Once the pastures were plowed, they would be useless to the sheep farmers for years.
“We will begin tomorrow. The best plowmen will go to Oakura. Bear in mind, we’re plowing, not fighting. Be polite to the settlers, inform them in a friendly manner. Do not defend yourselves even if they lay hands on you.”
“Are you going to volunteer?” Matariki asked Kupe. They were celebrating the chieftain’s speech that evening. The first plowmen could hardly wait to set out.
Kupe nodded. “Of course. Though I’ve never plowed before. But I think they’ll soon start teaching people. The first ones will be gone soon, after all.”
“Gone?” Pai asked, horrified. “You don’t really think they’ll shoot at the men?”
Kupe shrugged. “It’s not without risk. They’ll certainly threaten us, and you never know when someone will pull the trigger. Primarily they’ll probably stick to arrest, though. I’d bet Te Whiti has already alerted all our lawyers. When the plowmen are arrested, the plows will be abandoned, so more people will need to be taught to use them.”
“Oh, a lot of time will pass before that,” Matariki said. “The farmers will long since have left, and our plowmen will be free.”
Kupe arched his brows. “I wouldn’t count on that. This is going to be a long struggle.”
The next morning, a long train of oxen and plows moved toward Oakura, cheered on by the villagers who stayed behind. Te Whiti, Tohu Kakahi, and Te Whetu remained in Parihaka, but other chieftains, including those of the affected tribes, traveled with the plowmen. Kupe went along as a translator.
A few days later, he was back. Weary and exhausted but enthusiastic as ever, he reported on the first events.
“At first they did not even notice us. Even though we really made enough noise with our singing, the construction of the camp, and the oxen and horses. The pakeha don’t pay any attention to anything not happening in front of their own door. On the farm where I was stationed, we worked the first three days unmolested. We plowed eight acres. The farmer almost went berserk when he finally noticed. Luckily, he was halfway understanding. When I explained to him that was a political action, and he should turn to the government, he went straight to New Plymouth. Before he left, we promised him we would not continue, and the plowmen went to the next farm. I’m here to report to Te Whiti. I’ll be off again tomorrow. And I’m supposed to take a few girls as translators. The chieftains said the farmers wouldn’t have such itchy trigger fingers then. Want to come?”
He looked at Matariki, but naturally Pai was the first to join him. Matariki still saw the young man as a friend, not a lover, and she worried about her apparent inability to fall in love. She did not lack for admirers. Both villagers and visitors courted her, but Matariki could not warm up to any of them. She tried, even letting some Maori boys caress her and pakeha visitors kiss her. She particularly liked a university student from Dunedin with soft blond hair and brown eyes. But her joy in his appearance did not exceed what she felt at the sight of a beautiful picture or the performance of a good dancer. While his kisses and compliments were pleasant, her heart did not beat faster at them, nor did she have feelings to match those Koria poetically described as belonging to love.
Matariki wanted to be in Oakura, so she set out the next morning with Kupe, Pai, and Koria. According to Kupe, the plowmen meant to work their way from Hawera in the south to Pukearuhe in the north. They plowed wide swaths through farmland that belonged to the tribes. In Hawera, they ran into the first group of plowmen and heard about the governor, Sir Hercules Robinson.
“The fellow almost exploded with rage,” said Tane, a square-built young man who hardly spoke English but knew how to direct his oxen with few words. “They’ve also informed the premier. The farmers seem to know who’s responsible.”
Unfortunately, this notion quickly revealed itself to be a lovely dream. The government made no effort to return the farmers’ money. Instead, Major Harry Atkinson, member of Parliament, promised military training to any interested farmer. The magistrate of Patea announced that the Maori had exactly ten days to stop their action; otherwise, the citizens would begin shooting the plowmen and oxen.
On the second day of their translation work, Matariki and Koria had a dangerous encounter with a hundred armed men who stood in the way of the
plowmen. Matariki and Koria approached them, smiling. “Do lower your weapons. We won’t continue plowing this space if you want to stand or walk here,” Matariki said gently. “We can plow elsewhere. You see, all of this land has belonged to the Ngati Ruanui tribe for hundreds of years, and they have only now decided to cultivate it, doing as the pakeha do. We see what good yields your farms produce, and we are prepared to learn from others. We don’t care if we plow here today or tomorrow.”
“This land is mine, miss,” one of the farmers declared, a tall, skinny man who did not actually seem unkind. “I can prove it. I have a deed signed by the governor.”
Matariki nodded. “I believe you, sir, but please ask the governor again if he also has a deed for the land signed by the chieftain of Ngati Ruanui. You see, he doesn’t. Nor can he claim he dispossessed the Ngati Ruanui because they started some war. They didn’t. I’m terribly sorry, but the governor sold you land that didn’t belong to him. And you can’t keep it.”
“Oh, I can’t, can’t I?” The young man raised his gun helplessly, but he seemed to have scruples about aiming it at the girl standing before him.
“Alternatively, you could appeal to the governor to purchase the land from the Ngati Ruanui after the fact. We have nothing against you, sir. On the contrary, you have our respect. It testifies to great courage to pick up from England, or whencever you come, and sail into the unknown to acquire new land. We did that too, sir. We Maori come from far away, from Hawaiki. We sailed far and took on great hardships to take possession of this land. You understand why we won’t simply let it be stolen from us. So, please, lower your weapons. You wouldn’t achieve anything by shooting us, anyway. The Ngati Ruanui tribe has many members who can all plow. And a pakeha court would not have any sympathy for you if you shoot unarmed farmworkers and two girls. Please speak with the governor, Sir Robinson. In the meantime, we’ll gladly plow elsewhere.”
