Off the Voortrekker Road

by Barbara Bleiman

‘A year passed, with no news of a husband. Now it happened in those days that young men would arrive, out of the blue, looking for a place to stay and a helping hand to start their new lives. Like Ouma and Oupa, they would find their way to the synagogue and from there to the streets of the Jewish quarter. A cluster of new people would appear on Main Road, shuffling along with all their possessions in tattered cases and pillowcases and bags wrapped with string, looking lost and afraid.

  ‘From time to time Oupa would receive a knock on the door from a friend wanting to know if he needed an apprentice, or, if not, just a few weeks’ labour in return for a bed and food. Sometimes Oupa said yes, sometimes no; it depended on how many shoes he had waiting to be repaired and how much money there was in the box at the back of the cupboard. So we were used to the idea of a young man coming to live with us for a few weeks, sleeping in the workshop, sharing our dinner table and then going off to find a job and a home somewhere else.

  ‘One day, while I was away studying at college, Moishe the mohel came by and asked Oupa if he would take a young man for a few weeks, to help in the store in return for a bed and food. By the time I got back from college, the young man had moved in, with his small package of belongings wrapped in brown paper and string. I thought nothing of it. Here was another in a long line of big-eyed, skinny boys, who would stay for a while and then leave. He would sleep on a mattress under the counter and eat with us in the evenings, but other than that I would hardly see him. I didn’t know anything about him and I didn’t especially want to; his name was Samuel, he had just arrived from a shtetl called Kupishok and that was that.

  ‘I went to college each day and returned again, so wrapped up in my studies that I hardly noticed what was happening to turn my home and my life upside down…’

  Ma was about to continue but the door opened and Ouma came in. She sighed loudly. ‘Oupa wants to talk to you,’ she said. ‘He thinks it’s time you returned to your husband again. I told him another day won’t do any harm but you know your father – when his mind’s set it’s hard to budge him. Put the boy to bed and come to the kitchen.’

  Ma looked at me and shrugged. ‘I’ll finish off the story another time,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell you more of my fairy tale.’

  I lay awake thinking about it, wondering what came next in the story, listening to the raised voices in the kitchen, as Oupa reminded Ma of her duties as a wife and a mother and confirmed that we would be returning home in the morning. I was afraid for Ma and Pa. What would become of them? And what about me and Sauly? We needed a fairy tale ending. I hoped that Ma might be able to provide one.

  Chapter 7

  1941

  A little pattern had formed: Ma and Pa would row; it would be something more than the normal little snipes and querulous irritations, usually about money and the shop, rarely about Sauly or me; Ma would go to her room and I would hear drawers opening and a few small bags being filled. And then we would troop down the road to Ouma and Oupa’s for a few days. There was no more talk of us staying there forever, no great scenes, no threats. I had become used to it all; this is what we did; this was what family life was like. I even looked forward to the steamy warmth of Ouma’s kitchen and the closeness of sleeping on the camp bed pressed up next to Ma. After a day or two, when Oupa started grumbling and Ma began to talk again about the store and wonder what was happening there, and whether Mrs van de Merwe had paid her bills and how Pa was managing without her, we would return. Nothing was said, but Pa would kiss Sauly and me and hold us tight in his arms for a few moments, before turning back to finish what he was doing. Then, for a few days at least, there would be calm between my parents, a careful tiptoeing around the things that caused them to fight, a quiet, almost tender, peace.

  In these quieter times, I enjoyed watching Pa going about his business in the store. I especially liked watching him cutting planks, the chips of wood and powdery dust flying out from the saw and catching in the sunlight like a spray of gold. Or the slicing of biltong, his strong arms vigorously sharpening the knife on a stone, then carving a pile of the finest slivers of dark, fat-marbled meat onto greaseproof paper. I appreciated his skill, so different from my own clumsiness, his control over the physical world, which seemed to allow him to do with it whatever he wished, like a great god of wood and metal and paper and stone.

  Each night when he locked the door and turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’, when the counter was cleaned and the sawdust swept away, he would come to the till to count the takings. I watched his fingers flicking through the notes more quickly than I thought possible, his lips moving silently as he totted up the figures. He scooped the tickies and the shillings out of the drawers, spreading them on the counter and with a single finger expertly flicked them one at a time into small paper bags.

  At this point, if I was in the store, he would take me out the back and hand me over to Ada or Ma, saying, ‘The boy needs his supper,’ or ‘Time for his bed now,’ or simply, ‘I don’t want him with me any more.’

  One evening, when Sauly was sick with the flu and Ma was upstairs tending to him, and Ada was away seeing her mother, Pa said, ‘Come, Jackie,’ took me through to the back room, put a wrapped toffee (rare treat!) into my hand and told me to be good and wait for Ma to come down to look after me.

  Sitting on a chair in the kitchen, I tried to unwrap the toffee, but the wrapping had got stuck and I couldn’t pull it open. It was sweet and soft and sticky and just waiting to be opened and put in my mouth.

  I climbed down from the chair and opened the door to the shop. I would see if Pa could unwrap the sweet for me. I was a little nervous; I knew Pa well enough to be cautious of his temper; it could flare unexpectedly and fast. But the toffee was warm in my hand and I wanted to eat it. I pushed the door open carefully.

  There was my father, on his knees. What was he doing? All I could see was his backside under the till and the scuffed leather soles of his shoes. And then I heard the sound of him prising open a floorboard under the counter. I shrank back a little, watching nervously from behind the door. Pa pulled himself up and, with his back to me, straightened his body, placing his arms on his hips and stretching. He collected a small pile of notes sitting on the counter, counted them out carefully, then squatted down and began stuffing the notes into a hole under the floorboard. Very gently he then put back the floorboard and lightly tapped the nail back in, trying it with his foot to make sure that it was firmly in place.

  I tiptoed quietly back to my chair in the kitchen and waited.

  ‘Nice sweet?’ Pa asked, coming through from the store a heart-stoppingly brief moment later.

  I reached out my hand to show him the warm, squashed toffee sitting unopened in my hand.

  ‘Silly billy boychie,’ he said. ‘You need to open the wrapper.’ He sighed. ‘You need to start catching up, Jackie, my boy. You’re five years old and time’s passing. You must start to talk like other children do, and begin doing something useful with those nice little hands of yours, or you’re going to be a great big burden to your ma and your pa when you grow up. I don’t know how you’re ever going to become a man like me, and make a living for yourself and your family, if you don’t start doing the things that normal children do!’

  Pa lifted me and put me up on the table. He kissed the top of my head. ‘I want you to run the store with me one day,’ he said softly, almost whispering, as if it were our secret, not something for Ma or Sauly to hear. ‘You and me together,’ he said. ‘Think how nice that would be.’ He ruffled my hair.

  ‘You know, Jackie, I was always good with my hands. That’s something to be really proud of, you know. All those clever chochems, with their fancy books and pens and paper, they swan around showing off their big brains and their learning but can they get by when times are hard? They move country and then their smart qualifications are just a bit of paper to tear up and throw in the bin. I can fix
up a shed anywhere, you know, in Kupishok, in London, in New York or Cape Town. Just give me the tools and I know what to do.

  ‘My father was a peasant – he had nothing to his name, not a bean. But I’ve built something here in this store. I’ve created it all myself. The fruits of my labour. Not much yet, I know, but it will be. My own boss I am, not some penniless serf, working for someone else. That’s not to be sneered at, Jackie, being your own boss and running your own business. It’s something.’

  He paused and I saw his eyes go soft and vague, as he looked into the distance, beyond me, seeming to leave me behind.

  ‘When I came to Cape Town, I pitched up at your oupa’s house, with no money, no job, nowhere to stay, carrying just a small package and with only one suit of clothes. He took me in, offered me shelter for a few days, in return for a few jobs around the place. You should have seen that workshop when I first arrived. A madhouse! Your oupa was always searching for the shoes, shouting, cursing like a meshuganah. Thought he was still in the shtetl, the only shoemaker, imagined people would forgive his mess and his muddle and his crazy outbursts. He was losing money hand over fist to Silberstein, the other Jewish cobbler in Parow, who didn’t lose the shoes or make the customers wait for days on end for a new heel or sole.

  ‘I suggested some changes. I built him wooden shelves that stretched across one whole wall, with spaces of different sizes, to fit all the shoes – anything from a small pair of children’s slippers to a great big pair of men’s boots. I fixed and oiled the broken wheel that had been stacked in the shed and put it back in the workshop. It hummed and purred like a pussycat when I’d finished with it. I sharpened and cleaned the saws and knives and built a board with pegs to hold each of Oupa’s tools – the hammers, chisels, knives, punches and strong sewing needles. I set up a book to keep on the counter, to list jobs, mark down prices and payments, and money owing. Boy, was your oupa delighted! I had an extra slice of rye bread and an extra helping of chicken for my supper each night. As far as he was concerned I could do no wrong.

  ‘Then, what do you know? Your ouma caught on that I wasn’t such a bad thing. She started thinking up little jobs that I could do for her too. So I set to work on the back room making more space, varnishing the wooden floor, cleaning out the flue for the stove. Ouma was pleased as punch – extra ladles of soup came my way, more helpings of her delicious kneidlach, fluffy and light, floating in the chicken fat at the top of the bowl.

  ‘Ah now, Jackie, here’s where it’s all leading, this story I’m telling you. They asked me to sort out the shed in the back yard, full of old junk it was– a broken treadle sewing machine, old metal pots and dusty jars, springs from a discarded bed, scraps of wood. A mess and a half! Your ouma and oupa wanted it cleared. But there was someone else who thought otherwise! Your mother thought it was her shed, the little place where she could take her clever books and get away from everyone. One day when she came home, she found that I’d stripped the shed bare, laid sawdust on the floor and straw in one corner and brought in a clutch of nice, fat, squawking hens. She gave me furious looks, as though I was her worst enemy, but she didn’t say a word. She knew that Oupa would clop her, whack, right across the head if she did.

  ‘Well, time ticked by and I carried on staying there, sleeping under the counter. There was no talk of me leaving and finding my own home. I served in the shop, went about with my sleeves rolled up, nails in my mouth and a hammer in my pocket. Your oupa began paying me a small wage, but in the evenings I went to work for other families. I came home long after the meal was cleared away and went straight to sleep on my mattress. I saved every damned penny that I earned. Each one was building my future. I worked together with Oupa and over the din of the grinding wheel we talked about the price of leather and rubber, spirit levels, chainsaws and wood.

  ‘And then one day he changed the subject from shoes and tools to talk of your ma. She was ready to be taken off his hands. I was young and fit and keen to start out on my own. If we were to marry, he said, he’d help us on our way, with some cash to set myself up in business. It was a good proposition. I liked your ma well enough. We didn’t speak much but we’d have plenty of time for that when we were married.

  ‘I put down a deposit on a building, bought in the stock and gave the store my name, “Neuberger’s Handyhouse”. Then, when the rooms at the back and up above the store were ready, your mother and I were married and moved in. I became a shopkeeper – I could work for myself now, build myself up and think about a family.’

  That’s me, I thought. That’s where I come into it all. That’s how I began.

  Pa folded his arms; his story was coming to a close.

  ‘So you see, Jackie, how important it is to work hard, to work with your hands, to be a practical man. It brought me your mother and it brought me all of this.’ He opened his arms wide, to encompass the world that he had created for himself. ‘That’s what I want for you. One day I want you to help me run the store. Yes, we’ve been struggling a bit, but so has everyone, and that government of ours keeps promising that things are going to get better. When these bad times are over, it’ll be a good, sound business, I know. I want you to grow up and take over from me when I’m old. I want you to do something that will make me proud of you.’

  He looked at me long and hard. As usual I said nothing. Then, with a sigh, he lifted me down from the table and went to the sink to wash his hands for supper.

  When Ma came down with Sauly in her arms she asked the usual question. ‘Good takings? Are we going to be all right this week?’

  ‘So-so,’ he muttered, looking away. ‘Just about enough to get by if we’re careful... if you go easy on the champagne and caviar.’

  ‘How much longer can we go on like this?’ Ma asked anxiously. It seemed as though she hadn’t even noticed his little joke.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Pa snapped back. ‘Ask the politicians and the bank managers. See if they’d like to pay my mortgage and my debts and my bill at the wholesalers, and when they’ve done that, perhaps they might like to consider helping Mr van de Merwe and Arnie Fortune and all the rest of our customers who seem to find it so hard to dig into those pockets of theirs to pay their bills.’

  He suddenly grew serious, more sad than angry. ‘If it weren’t for all the troubles in Europe, I might even think about whether we’d be better off closing up shop, packing our things up and going back home to my little village in Lithuania.’

  Ma came over to stand beside him. She laid her hand against his arm. ‘Don’t say that, Sam. You know what’s going on over there. I’m not sure there is such a thing as home any more.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll do my best. I’ll make the money stretch. We’ll eat a bit less chicken. And so what if I can’t buy fancy shmancy clothes. Who cares? We’ll get by for now, till times get better, and we’ll count our blessings and thank God for being safe, and pray for all those people of ours who aren’t.’

  Pa patted her hand. He cleared his throat. ‘I must stack those sacks of animal seed, out in the yard.’

  ‘He’s a good man underneath it all,’ Ma said out loud, when he’d gone. ‘He’s doing his best for us and if we have to scrimp and save a bit, well, so be it. We’ll manage.’

  I was glad that Ma and Pa weren’t arguing so much any more, but as the days and weeks went by, I began to realise what scrimping and saving meant. Ma still managed to put a plate of food on the table for Sauly and me, and for Pa, but sometimes she wouldn’t sit down to eat with us, telling us that she wasn’t hungry. I looked forward to the Sabbath night meals we had at Ouma and Oupa’s where we would all eat our fill. Our clothes, always shabby, now had visible patches and only our shoes, made and repaired in Oupa’s workshop, gave Ma some pride in how we looked. ‘Proper little shoes,’ she said. ‘Fit for princes!’

  Each evening, when the shop closed and Ma was upstairs putting Sauly to sleep, Pa emptied the t
ill and counted out the money, and sometimes, when he thought I wasn’t looking and when no one else was around, he would prise open the floorboard under the counter and quickly put a few notes into the space he had uncovered.

  I said nothing. Little Jackie, the boy with no voice. I listened and watched but didn’t say a word.

  Chapter 8

  January 1958

  ‘I’ve been talking to the counsel for Mrs Small,’ Jack said.

  They were sitting in his office, on this, the third occasion that they had met. Johannes van Heerden looked concerned.

  ‘No need to worry. I just want to make sure that the stories add up, yours and hers, and that her plea’s going to be the same. I’ll need to meet her, chat things through.’

  Van Heerden nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘She’ll tell the truth, as I have done. There was nothing between us.’

  It had become quite clear during the earlier interviews that van Heerden was going to plead his innocence; he had not had any disreputable or dubious relationship with the woman, Agnes Small. He asserted this firmly. Neighbours had misinterpreted his visits to her house, unaware as they were of the perfectly valid reasons behind them; one or two members of the church, with an axe to grind, had got the wrong idea and leapt to conclusions. Perhaps he had been naïve, in the current climate, not to anticipate the possible misunderstandings, how it might be seen by others, but, as far as he knew, naivety wasn’t yet a crime in this country.

  A good line of defence, thought Jack, and scribbled down these last words in his notebook, for use when he came to speak in court.

  ‘Her counsel’s not the best, I’m afraid. I don’t know where she dredged him up, but he’s struggling to keep pace with things, from what I can see. He hasn’t even interviewed her properly yet. I’ve asked if I can see her myself. It’ll help me get the full picture.’