Off the Voortrekker Road

by Barbara Bleiman

  He couldn’t help but think back to those Passovers at Ouma and Oupa’s house, in the small living room behind the workshop, when he was a child himself; the year that his cousin Isidore threw up under the table from drinking too much sweet Passover wine, or the time when little Pearl, Isidore’s younger sister, wet herself from excitement in the hunt for the afikomen. Or the wonderful Seder night when they left the wine goblet and food out for Elijah, according to custom, and opened the door to let him come in, only to see Uncle Solly, his mother’s one and only keenly awaited brother, standing there at the door. He had driven all day to get there and arrived unexpectedly just at that moment. The children had all shrieked in terror and excitement and Pearl had burst into tears. It had been thrilling.

  And then he remembered the year he’d first walked over to Ouma and Oupa’s house on his own. He’d felt so proud, walking through the streets unaccompanied. He’d lingered on his journey, enjoying the sights and sounds of the neighbourhood in a way that he rarely had the chance to do, when Ma was hurrying him along with Sauly in tow and Mikey in the pram. Krapotkin’s he knew well, but nevertheless he stopped to look at the banks of fat sausages, the piles of mince meat and thick slices of steak, sitting leaking little puddles of blood, seeing them afresh, as if through new eyes. He waved to Mr Krapotkin through the window and moved on, passing Dr Meller’s surgery and the pharmacy next door, the bakery, the barber’s shop with its stripy sign that looked like a lollipop, the Jewish Communal Hall and the flower shop, where he stopped to smell the musky rich scent of gardenias and admire the tall blue agapanthus plants in their buckets of water. He reached out to touch the tough-skinned protea sitting in a pot of sandy soil, then went on past the Victoria and Opal bioscope, stopping to look at the posters for the latest film, a western called Stagecoach, with John Wayne. At Mostert’s Garage, he decided to go in and say hello to Terence. He thought he would ask him if he thought his mother might pay for them both to go and see the new film on Saturday afternoon.

  ‘He’s upstairs in his room,’ Mrs Mostert said. ‘Did you walk here all on your own Jackie?’

  He’d nodded.

  ‘Big boy now!’ she’d said admiringly. ‘Are you going to stay and play for a while?’

  ‘Yes please,’ he’d said, glad to have remembered his manners as Ma always told him he should.

  A quick game of snap turned into a longer one, followed by an adventure with Tarzan and Jane and a Dinky car pile-up in a tunnel, and soon it was lunchtime. When Mrs Mostert’s hot babotie was offered, he could not refuse.

  Later that afternoon, he’d strolled down towards Ouma and Oupa’s, still feeling very pleased with himself and his newfound independence. As he walked down the road, he could see in the distance, at the door to the workshop, the whole family, everyone except Pa, craning their heads, as if searching for something, scurrying around busily. Passover preparations, he thought. Getting closer, he saw that Ada was there too. As he approached there was a shriek from Ma and the whole family started running towards him.

  ‘The boy, the boy! Mein gott, thank the Lord, he’s safe,’ cried Ouma.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Ma shouted, through her sobs.

  When the truth came out, Oupa whacked him hard across the legs with a strip of tanned leather and Ada was sternly admonished for ever imagining, in her wildest dreams, that he was old enough, or sensible enough, to be allowed to make the small journey through Parow from the Handyhouse to his grandparents. He’d missed the sweeping of the chametz, he’d suffered the stinging blow of Oupa’s piece of leather on his skin and it was a long, long time before he was allowed the freedom he’d so enjoyed that day, to feel himself part of the street, to have his own individual encounter with the wider world around him.

  *****

  ‘You remember that Passover you went and spent the day with Terence Mostert and Oupa slapped your leg good and hard?’ Sarah asked now, as if reading his thoughts.

  ‘Funny, Ma! I was just thinking about that.’

  ‘Pity about that family, the Mosterts,’ she said. ‘Something happened to them and they disappeared. And the garage shut down. But I can’t really remember much about it. It’s a good long time ago.’

  Jack wondered whether she really couldn’t remember or just didn’t want to.

  ‘The chicken soup’s boiling and the kneidlach are ready to go into the pot, so we should get started on the readings and the whole rigmarole,’ Renee said, coming in from the kitchen. ‘Take your seats, everyone! My father’s going to do the honours. He’ll take us through the ceremony, with a bit of help from Jack maybe.’

  The conversation moved on – there was the important business of the Seder night ahead – but Jack’s thoughts kept coming back to that happy afternoon spent playing with Terence on the eve of Passover, and on the events that followed a few years later. He remembered the argument between his parents that night, when his mother had rounded on his father for allowing him to do the walk to his grandparents on his own. No harm had come to him that day, so maybe Pa had been right after all. Perhaps his mother had been over-protective? He would have to try to find a decent balance with his own child.

  Renee squeezed his arm affectionately, and he shook himself out of his reverie to join in with the singing and the readings and the prayers, the sips of sweet wine and the tasting of salt water and egg, bitter herbs, matzo and his favourite, favourite charoset.

  Later that evening, when everyone had gone and he and Renee were left clearing away the plates and washing the glasses, there was a loud ring on the doorbell.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called.

  He didn’t recognise the woman’s voice coming from behind the door, with its strong accent; not Mrs Swanepoel from next door, not Vera, nor any of the other secretaries at the chambers. He was puzzled. Who could be ringing his doorbell at this late hour? A sudden thought struck him. Could it be Agnes Small?

  ‘Hold on a moment. I’ll open up for you.’

  He went to get the keys from the hook, then turned to Renee.

  ‘You go to bed. You must be tired. I think this may have something to do with the van Heerden case.’

  Renee sighed.

  She let her hand graze his arm. ‘At least you’re not having an affair, though sometimes, I must say, I think a mistress might be less competition. She wouldn’t be in your thoughts every waking minute the way this trial is.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘It’s been taking up far too much of my time. You’ve been a saint, Renee, but I promise you, once it’s over, I’ll make more space for you and me.’ He patted her stomach gently. ‘And the baby.’

  He waited till Renee had disappeared upstairs into the bathroom, then went to unlock the front door.

  In his mind’s eye, when the door opened, Agnes Small would be standing in front of him. She would be wearing a small felt hat and white gloves and a neat coat, buttoned up to the collar. She would be calm and composed but there would be signs of upset, the remnants of a few tears, dark rings beneath troubled eyes, suggesting sleepless nights, a slight trembling of the hands. He drew back the chain, unlocked the mortise and turned the doorknob.

  Standing before him was a woman he had never seen before. She had fine blonde hair, pulled back into a bun, and a delicate, pale face from which startlingly blue eyes burned out. Her clothing was old-fashioned, a long brown skirt and a beige cardigan but it was a little dishevelled, as if she’d dressed in a hurry. She was an unusual combination of fresh, open-faced prettiness and rather staid conformity, as if a younger woman’s frame had been placed in an older woman’s clothing.

  ‘I’m Laura van Heerden,’ she said.

  Jack took her arm. ‘You’d better come in.’

  He had been waiting a long time to meet this woman but had held off, hoping to interview her only when he had worked up his defence enough to
be clear about whether he would have to use her as a witness or not. Clearly, with her health being so fragile, it would be better to avoid this if at all possible; an appearance in court was never easy, but in this particular case, feelings would be running high and the nature of the charge was likely to make it especially squalid and brutal.

  Now here she stood, her face much as he had imagined it, with the exception of those startling blue eyes that seemed to look right into you.

  He sat her down on the beige leatherette sofa, while he took the low armchair opposite her and pulled it up, to bring him a little closer to her. Even in the quiet of his house, speaking across the wide-open space of the large living room seemed too public, too distant. He felt all too aware that together they would be opening up the raw wounds of her marriage. He thought back to his own parents and their suffering, his suffering. For Laura van Heerden there could be nothing ahead but pain.

  ‘Clara came to see me yesterday. She told me about that evening in Elsie’s Fields. She said that she‘s sure that Johannes has been having an affair with that woman. ‘

  Jack had been holding his breath. Slowly he released the air. So she knew about Clara. It would not be him who would have to tell her. ‘I saw her myself a few days ago. She told me her story. I’m so sorry, Mrs van Heerden. This must be dreadful for you.’

  ‘Oh yes, it is. But I’m strong, Mr Neuberger, can’t you see? I have faith in God and in my husband. Johannes is a good, decent man.’

  Jack realised that there had been no tears so far, no outward signs of distress. Even standing at his door she had appeared calm.

  ‘Her account, if true, would make a defence case something of a challenge, especially if she agrees to be a witness for the prosecution,’ he said.

  ‘She has already agreed to that.’

  Jack sat bolt upright. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She told me. She’s been coming under pressure, from Dirk Fourie and the others. She says she saw what she saw and there’s no getting away from it.’

  ‘This is a blow.’

  ‘Yes, if you believe her story.’

  Another surprise. Laura did not trust Clara, yet Clara Joubert was her closest friend. Surely Clara wouldn’t be making this up, as a wilful act of mischief? She would be well aware of the distress she would cause.

  ‘You don’t believe what Clara told you?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said emphatically. ‘And that’s why I’ve come to see you, Mr Neuberger, because I want to help Johannes. I want you to know that Johannes is entirely innocent.’

  ‘I see.’

  She had clearly thought hard about what she was going to say and needed no prompts or cues to proceed.

  ‘First, Mr Neuberger, let me tell you that Johannes is not the kind of man to have an affair. He has been faithful to me all our married life. He took a vow of fidelity in church and he would never break that, never falter or swerve from the path of righteousness. He is a strong man, stronger than most. During our courtship he was firm in his commitment to abstinence and the sacredness of love in marriage. I know all of this and I trust him to abide by his true beliefs.’

  ‘I understand that, Mrs van Heerden, but –’

  ‘Second, I want to tell you that there are people in the community who are not fond of my husband and who do not like our work with the coloured families in Elsie’s River. There are some who believe that all our charity should go to our own kind. “Leave the coloured churches to look after their own people,” they say, “or the mosques for the infidels.” Dirk Fourie, Jan van Zyl and even, more recently, Francois de Klerk, have questioned my husband’s views. There have been stirrings and rumblings and even talk of going to the archdiocese. Some people want my husband to go.’

  ‘I see. And Clara?’

  ‘Clara comes from an old Afrikaner family, with a long past. Their ancestors, the Voortrekkers, fought the Zulu; her great-grandfather had a farm and great estate in Natal. Clara has been my dearest friend but recently I have become more aware of differences between us. We have not been so close. She sways with the breeze and the breeze that’s blowing her way at the moment isn’t taking her in our direction. Johannes and Clara have argued.’

  ‘But she is one of the Elsie’s River group. She dedicates time to working with the poor there, no matter what their colour, doesn’t she?’

  ‘That’s true, Mr Neuberger, and the same could be said of her aunt as well. But there’s always been a certain hesitation, a questioning about who we help and how. Her parents do not think the same way that we do. They are Afrikaners first and foremost; their God speaks only Afrikaans. They have recently threatened to go to a different church if things don’t change, and she has been caught up in that.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You may have been told of my fragile health, Mr Neuberger.’

  ‘Something has been said of it.’

  ‘Well, in part it is to do with the birth of my daughter Beatrice – I was very ill, as you have probably heard and the child was taken from me too soon. I’ve struggled to get back on my feet and look after my family, as a woman should. But I have also been sick with worry about our small community. My father entrusted his church to Johannes and me and I don’t want to let him down. All the bickering and arguing has left me exhausted, drained. And now this!’

  ‘Let me get this straight, Mrs van Heerden. You believe that Clara is lying about what she saw that evening at Elsie’s River?’

  ‘I do. There was no one else who witnessed what she claims to have seen. It’s her word against my husband’s.’

  ‘You feel that she’s part of a campaign against him?’

  ‘Indeed. Perhaps she didn’t set out with that in mind but she’s got caught up in it and it’s got out of control. People like Dirk Fourie, like her own father, they’re hard to resist.’

  ‘A pure lie that she now has to sustain? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘If it’s not barefaced lies, then perhaps a misunderstanding that’s turned into something else. Maybe she saw my husband comforting the woman, praying with her. Maybe his arm was round her shoulder in an act of Christian kindness. Perhaps she allowed her imagination to run wild and now has been shocked by the impact of her little fabrications. I do not believe Clara to be a bad person, just a weak one. All I know is that she is no longer a good friend to Johannes and me.’

  ‘Will she go through with it, and speak out in court against your husband, do you think?’

  ‘Who knows? On her own, perhaps not. But with Dirk Fourie behind her, I think she’ll find it hard to back down.’

  Jack’s thoughts were racing. He had heard many of the main protagonists – Johannes and Agnes, Francois de Klerk and Clara Joubert and now Laura van Heerden, the wife in the shadows, who was turning out to be more robust and more sure of herself than he could ever have imagined, not the frail, wilting plant that had been described to him. She was convincing and her story made sense to him, but then so did that of Clara. Each person he saw seemed to speak honestly to him, yet their stories couldn’t all be true. A man commits adultery, plain and simple, or a church splits in acrimony and turns viciously against its leader, or a misunderstood embrace becomes blown up out of all proportion. What was the truth of it all?

  ‘One thing, though, Mrs van Heerden. I’m not sure what the urgency is for you to have come all this way to see me at this time of night.’

  ‘Johannes is planning to come to see you in the morning. I wanted to speak to you first, to tell you about Clara, Fourie and the others, to explain to you what I know. He will not tell you himself. He couldn’t bear the thought that the difficulties and arguments in our church will be brought into this and its reputation sullied. He doesn’t know that I’m here and I’d rather that you keep it that way.’

  ‘I may have to tell
him,’ Jack said. ‘If I’m to make good use of what you’ve told me, he’ll need to know where I’ve got this information from. But I promise I’ll use my discretion. I’ll make sure he understands that you’ve come to me to help him – that I need to know everything if I’m to mount the best defence for him.’

  He hoped that she would accept this – her words were of no use to him if they could not be repeated to her husband, or indeed later, in court, where discrediting Clara Joubert’s claims would be of the utmost importance. He thought she was clever enough to see that, and he was right; after a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. It was only then, after all of this, that she finally broke down, not sobbing or weeping but allowing a few small whimpers to escape her lips and succumbing to little shudders that, to Jack, seemed all the more affecting for their quiet restraint. Not for the first time in this case he found himself promising that he would do all he could to ensure an acquittal for Johannes van Heerden.

  When Jack had finally called for a taxi, seen Mrs van Heerden into it and locked up, he came back into the living room and sat down. Around him, there was still some of the debris of the Seder night that he and Renee hadn’t finished clearing up - a few half-empty wine glasses, paper napkins, little depleted bowls of peanuts and matzo crumbs on the floor. He was too tired to do anything more; he would leave it for the maid to do in the morning.

  He tiptoed quietly into the bedroom so as not to wake his sleeping wife.

  ‘Was that Agnes Small?’

  ‘Ah, you’re still awake. No, a bit of a surprise really, Laura van Heerden.’

  ‘Oh my!’

  ‘Go to sleep my love. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.’

  Jackie comes downstairs. It is dark on the stairs. He feels for each step with his bare feet. Now he is in the dark kitchen, opening the door into the store. Someone is there with him in the kitchen. Someone is watching everything that he does. It’s Ma, he thinks. No, it’s his grandmother, his dear old Ouma. Or is it Renee? But he’s only seven. He hasn’t got a wife. Why yes, it is. It’s Renee.