The Power of One

by Bryce Courtenay

  That’s the problem he thinks we may have. He knows about your inability to speak. But he’s hit on a clever plan. He wants you to take an intelligence test, a written test in front of the judge so the judge can make up his own mind. Mr. Andrews has been to see your mother but she won’t hear of your having anything to do with the case. But she did say she’d pray about it so all is not lost. It’s a bit of a problem really, but we’re not beaten yet. I’m sure British justice will come through in the end, even if we have to write personally to Mr. Winston Churchill.

  Can you come and see me when you get out of hospital? Keep your chin up!

  Yours sincerely,

  Fiona Boxall

  Librarian

  I wondered what sort of test the judge would give me. What if I failed and let Doc down? What if the Lord didn’t give my mother permission for me to see the judge?

  But the Lord, with a little help from Mr. Andrews, who came from one of the most important families in town, came out in favor of my being a witness at the hearing. The lawyer had pointed out that it was very much in my mother’s interests to clear our family name as the prattle tongues in town might well accuse her of neglect for having allowed me to roam the hills with a German spy.

  I was released from hospital on Tuesday and the following morning Mrs. Boxall called round in Charlie, her little Austin Seven, to take me down to the magistrates’ court, where the military tribunal was to be held. Mr. Andrews was waiting for us and so, to my surprise, was Marie.

  “She seems to be the only one who can understand you, Peekay, so we’ve brought her along as interpreter. It was my idea,” Mrs. Boxall declared. Marie looked even more scared than I felt.

  Mr. Andrews said the judge would see us privately in the magistrates’ chambers and, depending on how things went, I wouldn’t be required as a witness.

  We had to walk down a long corridor of cork lino that smelt of floor wax. I looked into every open door in the hope that I might see Doc. We finally reached a door with Magistrate in gold lettering on it. Mr. Andrews knocked on the door and a voice said, “Come!” and we followed him in. Sitting behind a desk was a man wearing a proper uniform with a polished leather Sam Browne belt. He stood up when we entered and I could see he wore a revolver at his side. Mr. Andrews introduced him to us as Colonel de Villiers. There were four chairs arranged in front of the desk and we all sat down. My notes were on the desk on top of a file tied with purple tape. Colonel de Villiers put on a pair of spectacles that slid down his nose so he looked over the top of them as he spoke.

  “Well now, young man, Mr. Andrews here tells me that you are bright enough to have written these notes.” He tapped my notes with his forefinger. “How old are you?”

  “Seven, sir,” I rasped at the back of my throat. The colonel, Mr. Andrews and Mrs. Boxall turned to look at Marie. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. Her whole face appeared to be frozen in terror. I held up seven fingers to the colonel, who looked stern and cleared his throat.

  “I see, seven. Well, you write very well for a seven-year-old. I think someone must have helped you.” I shook my head. “Umph!” the colonel grunted, and looked at Mr. Andrews. “These alleged swearwords the sergeant is claimed to have said, they would seem an unlikely part of the vocabulary of a seven-year-old child who, you tell me, has a religious background. I am also a little surprised at his knowledge of Latin. Senecio serpens and Glottiphyllum uncatum seem a little esoteric for a small boy who, I imagine, like all small boys, is more interested in getting his mouth around a sucker than a Latin noun.”

  Mrs. Boxall said, “The professor is an amateur botanist and the child has been trained by him to take punctilious notes. Besides, he has almost perfect recall.”

  “Hmm … a bit too perfect if you ask me, madam,” the colonel said.

  “He did it all himself, I seen him do it in the hospital,” Marie said suddenly, her voice quaking with terror.

  “Well, that’s one good thing. Little Miss Florence Nightingale has found her voice,” the colonel said. He turned to me. “Son, I want you to tell me the whole story again, just as it happened.” I repeated the story. Marie had no chance of pronouncing the Latin names of the two succulents, which I then referred to as “blue chalksticks and another succulent genus, which I can write for you, if you want?” The colonel pushed a piece of paper across the desk and I wrote the Latin names on it. “Extraordinary. It seems I owe you an apology, madam,” he said, dipping his head at Mrs. Boxall. When we got to the swearwords Marie refused to say them. “Please, sir, I can’t say them words, I’ve never said words like that in my whole life,” she said fearfully but with absolute resolve.

  The colonel would cut in every once in a while and ask me questions such as “What was the color of the sergeant’s cap and belt?” They all involved some minor piece of detailing, but I had no trouble answering them.

  When I was finished, he told Marie that she had done an excellent job and she blushed crimson and the pimples stood out on her face. Then he turned to Mr. Andrews.

  “The child’s statement coincides almost precisely with that of the prisoner. We have already determined that neither has been in a position to compare notes nor to have a third party coordinate a defense. Mrs. Boxall did try to see him but was not allowed to do so. The prisoner has been visited and interviewed only by military personnel and I am satisfied that the incident took place as the boy has alleged. I am quite sure the court will find for the defendant in all matters except one. I will ask that the charges of assault to a minor and attempted escape be withdrawn. Quite obviously the striking of the provost sergeant was under severe emotional provocation and the court is likely to look upon it as such. Both the army and the prison reports state that the prisoner smelt heavily of whisky but we can easily ascertain whether his coat sleeve is stained.”

  He pulled at the purple tape on the file and opened it up. Inside were two folded copies of the Goldfields News. The colonel held up one of the newspapers. “Really, this kind of hysterical nonsense makes it very difficult for us. The trial of aliens is distressing enough without having the general population turning the butcher, the baker and the music maker into enemies of the state. The only charge Professor Von Vollensteen faces is a technical one, that of not having registered as an alien.” He rose from his chair and smiled briefly at me. “I only wish I could be here to have a chat with you when your jaw is better, young man. I am also beginning to form a healthy respect for the teachings of your professor.”

  When we got back to the waiting room Mrs. Boxall started to laugh. “We won, Peekay, we won!” she said triumphantly.

  But we hadn’t won. While Doc was acquitted of all the charges just as the colonel said he would be, he was charged with being an unregistered alien and the court ordered him to be detained in a concentration camp for the duration of the war. The Goldfields News headline read NO SPY BUT STILL A GERMAN!

  TEN

  Doc was to be kept in custody at the Barberton prison until arrangements could be made to send him to a concentration camp in the highveld. Two days after Doc had been sentenced I went to the library to take a bunch of roses from my mother to Mrs. Boxall. Mr. Andrews had explained to my mother how my evidence had saved Doc from a severe sentence, one that might well have killed a man of his age. My mother decided that the Lord had guided her in the matter and that His will had been clearly wrought through me.

  Mrs. Boxall seemed excited when she saw me come through the door. “I’m so glad you came, Peekay, I have a letter for you.” She placed the roses on a table and withdrew into her office to return with a small sealed envelope. I opened it carefully. “Do hurry, Peekay, I can’t bear the suspense,” Mrs. Boxall said. I withdrew a single sheet of cheap exercise paper. Doc’s neat hand covered the page. “Oh dear, I’m such an awful nosy parker! May I read it with you?” Besides Hoppie’s note, it was the only letter I had ever received. I would have preferred to read it alone but of course I couldn’t possibly say so and I nodded my
agreement.

  Dear Peekay,

  What a mess we are in. Me in this place where they tear down a man’s dignity and you with a broken jaw. But things could be worse. I could be a black man and that would be trouble and a half. I have been placed under open arrest. It means I can go anywhere in the prison grounds and my cell is not locked. Best of all, it means I can have visitors. Will you come and see me?

  I do not think of myself as a German. To say a man is a German, what is that? Does it tell you if he is a good man? Or a bad man? No, my friend, it tells you nothing. Also, because I am German, I am well treated by the warders. This also is stupid. Have you planted the Senecio serpens? Perhaps Mrs. Boxall will take the books in the cottage and put them in the library? In the meantime I am treated well and whisky is getting easier not to have. Please come soon.

  Your friend, Doc

  “We will call the prison at once,” Mrs. Boxall said.

  The superintendent of Barberton prison, Kommandant Jaapie Van Zyl, told Mrs. Boxall that Colonel de Villiers had said Professor Von Vollensteen should be allowed access to the boy within the normal rules of the prison. He added that he had heard of my bravery and wanted to meet me himself. That if Mrs. Boxall cared to have me bring Doc library books this would be permitted. The professor was a musician and a scholar and Barberton prison was honored to have him.

  Mrs. Boxall selected three botanical books and I set out with a note from her to visit Doc.

  I arrived at the gates of the prison, which were locked with a huge chain and padlock. It was the biggest lock I had ever seen.

  I decided that escape from inside the wall would be impossible. Set high up to the side of the gate was a church bell and hanging from it a rope. A sign fixed onto the wall said “Ring for attention.” My heart beat wildly as I tugged on the rope and the noise from the bell cracked the silence. Almost immediately, a warder carrying a rifle slung over his shoulder came out of a guardhouse some twenty feet from the gate and walked toward me. His highly polished black boots made a scrunching sound on the white gravel driveway. I handed my note to him through the bars of the gate and he opened it suspiciously. He looked at the note for a bit, then looked at me.

  “Praat jy Afrikaans?” he asked.

  I nodded my head. While my voice sounded a bit gravelly I could talk quite clearly through my wired-up mouth. The young guard started to talk in Afrikaans. He asked me to read the note as he didn’t have much English. “It says that I am here to visit Professor Von Vollensteen and have permission from Kommandant Van Zyl,” I told him.

  “I will get on the telephone and ask. Wait here.” He walked over to the guardhouse and I could see him talking on the phone. Finally he stuck his head out of the door. “Kom!” he beckoned to me. But the gate was locked and he shook his head and disappeared to return with a very large key. The gates opened smoothly and closed with a clang as he locked them behind me.

  The young warder told me to report to the office in the administration block and pointed it out to me. “Totsiens and thanks for reading the note. You are a good kêrel,” he said.

  The area between the gate and the administration block was a parade ground of sun-hardened red clay. The strip of green lawn on either side of the pathway was a brilliant contrast to the baked earth and the blue-gray walls of the buildings. I could see a warder’s head in the window of a little tower jutting out from the wall. There was a walkway on either side of the tower. Two guards with rifles slung over their shoulders paced up and down it. I seemed to be the only person on the ground below them and I wondered how, on my way out, they’d know I wasn’t a prisoner trying to escape. Maybe they’d give me a white flag to carry.

  I could sense the oppression of the place, the terrible silence. Without trees, no cicadas hummed the air to life. No birds punctuated the stillness. My bare feet on the gravel made an exaggerated sound. There were tiny dark windows arranged three stories high. Each was divided by two vertical steel bars. I imagined hundreds of eyes hungrily devouring my freedom as they watched from the prison darkness.

  The door of the administration block was open. Inside was a small hallway with three benches. A window with bars was set into the wall. Through the bars I could see an office. I sat on a bench and waited.

  A door opened and a big man followed by another younger man came out. They led me into the office and after taking my name, address and age the older man made a phone call and asked to speak to the Kommandant. “The Kommandant wants to see you but he’s doing an inspection now, we have to wait twenty minutes.” He turned to the younger warder. “Klipkop, get Peekay here a cup of tea and a biscuit.” I wondered how someone could be called Klipkop. In Afrikaans it means “stone head.” But then I suppose I had been called Pisskop and that was far worse. Come to think of it, when I glanced at the tall, blond man, his rawboned features looked as though they could well have been carved out of stone.

  Klipkop rose and held out his hand. “We might as well introduce ourselves. Oudendaal, Johannes Oudendaal,” he said formally in the Afrikaans manner. “This is Lieutenant Smit.” He indicated the older warder. I wondered whether Lieutenant Smit was related to Jackhammer Smit, but I didn’t have the courage to ask. After all, Smit is a pretty common Afrikaans name. “Come, I’ll show you where we make tea,” Klipkop said. “There’s a kaffir who makes it but if we want a cup in between we make it ourselves. You got to watch the kaffir, or the black bastard pinches everything. I’m telling you, man, this place is full of thieves.”

  I followed him into a small kitchen behind the office and he put water into an electric jug and plugged it in. “Peekay, that’s a name I haven’t heard before.”

  “It’s just a name I gave myself. Now it’s my real name,” I said.

  “Ja, I know, man, it’s the same with me. They call me Klipkop because I box and can take any amount of head punches. Now I sometimes find it hard to remember my born name.”

  For a moment I was stunned. “You box?” I asked.

  “Ag ja, man. In this place if you want to get on you have to box, but I like it anyway. On the weekend we travel all over the place to fight.” He took three mugs from a cupboard. “Lieutenant Smit is the boxing coach. He used to be a heavyweight.” He spooned tea into the pot. “Next month I have my first professional fight.” He poured the water from the electric jug into the teapot. “Do you box, Peekay?”

  My heart was pounding as I spoke. “No, but can you teach me, please, Meneer Oudendaal?”

  He looked at me in surprise and must have seen the pleading in my eyes. “First your jaw has to get better, but I think you’re a bit young anyway. Lieutenant Smit teaches also the warders’ kids but I think the youngest in the junior squad is already ten years.”

  “I’m ten in class already. I could be ten in boxing easily and my jaw will be better soon,” I begged.

  “Hey, whoa! Not so fast! Ten is ten. On the form we wrote you were seven years old.”

  “If you fight first with the head and then with the heart, you can be ten years old,” I said.

  “Magtig, you’re a hard one to understand, Peekay. You’ll have to ask Lieutenant Smit. He’s the boss.”

  “Will you ask him for me?” I rasped. The excitement made me overproject so that my throat was strained.

  “I’ll ask him, man, but I already told you what he’ll say.” He poured tea into the three enamel mugs, then went to the cupboard, took out a tin and prized it open. “That blerrie kaffir! We had a packet of Marie biscuits in here, now they all gone. It’s time that black bastard went back into a work gang.”

  “Please, Meneer Oudendaal, you won’t forget to ask the lieutenant? You see, I’ve got to start boxing because I have to become the welterweight champion of the world.”

  I said it without thinking. Klipkop whistled. “Well, you’re right, man. With an ambition like that you’ve got to get started early. Me, I’ll be happy if I can beat the lieutenant’s brother in Nelspruit next month.” He turned and looked over his should
er at me. “You can call me Klipkop if you like. I won’t mind, man.”

  I followed him back into the office where Lieutenant Smit was working on some papers. Klipkop put a mug of tea down in front of him. “Peekay wants to ask you something, lieutenant,” he said, and turned to me.

  Lieutenant Smit gave a short grunt. “Please, sir, will you teach me how to box?” I asked, my voice down to a tiny squeak.

  He didn’t look at me but instead lifted the tea to his lips, and took a sip. “You are too young, Peekay. In three years come back; then we will see.” He looked at me. “We read about you in the paper. You have lots of guts. That’s a good start but you are not even big for seven like a Boer kid.” He ruffled my hair. “Soon you will be ten, just you watch.”

  At that moment an African came into the room. He was quite old and very thin, wearing the coarse knee-length gray canvas pants and shirt of a prisoner. “I have come to make tea, baas, but the pot she is not here,” he said slowly in Afrikaans. He stood with his head bowed. In two bounds Klipkop had reached him and, grabbing him by the front of his shirt, he lifted the African off his feet and gave him a tremendous swipe across the face. The man fell at his feet, whimpering.

  “You black bastard! You stole the Marie biscuits. You piece of dog shit, you stole them all!” He gave him a kick in the rump.

  “No, baas! Please, baas! I not stole biscuit. I good boy, baas,” the old man pleaded.

  The warder turned to Lieutenant Smit. “Please, lieutenant, can’t we transfer this black bastard to the stone quarry? First he steals sugar, now the biscuits.” He looked down at the whimpering African.