There was a special kind of silence as the performance ended. To our own was joined the silence of the listeners beyond the hall. We had all been a part of the lament for Africa. “Requiem for Geel Piet” was a lament for all of us, the tears shed for South Africa itself.
During the applause Brigadier Joubert rose from his seat and moved to the front of the hall. He raised his hands and the hall grew quiet again. Taking a khaki handkerchief from his trouser pocket, he slowly wiped his eyes and began to speak.
“Tonight, Dames and Heere, we have heard a work of true genius. Whoever this Geel Piet was, we know from his name that he was an Afrikaner who is honored by this music. He was also the spirit of Africa and as Afrikaners we should all honor him.” He folded the handkerchief neatly and put it back into his tunic pocket. “All I can say is that he must have been a great man for the professor to write a piece of music just for him. I now ask you all to stand and to bring your hands together once again for the professor.” I saw that Captain Smit had a big smile on his face and was clapping madly. Even the Kommandant was clapping for all he was worth.
Doc stood with his head bowed and I knew he was crying for Geel Piet. But I also knew Geel Piet would have found this moment very funny.
“Ag, man,” he would have said, “why must a man wait until he is dead for such a clever joke to heppen?”
Then the warders, wives and guests moved into the gym to watch the boxing exhibition.
Captain Smit had worked out a routine that was pretty clever. All the boxers were seated in a row facing the ring and he was in the ring with a whistle round his neck, acting as referee. When the audience had filled the gym he blew his whistle and I climbed into the ring with Snotnose. We shook hands and Captain Smit blew his whistle again and Snotnose and I started to box. The idea was that after every round, one of the boxers would step down and another would replace him. As the youngest I stepped out first and Fonnie Kruger came in. Then Maatie Snyman replaced Snotnose and then Fonnie stepped down and Nels Stekhoven came in and so on right up to the heavyweights, where Klipkop fought Gert and then as a joke I stepped in and fought the final round with Klipkop. It all went like clockwork. The crowd really enjoyed it and there was a lot of cheering.
Afterward I went over to Doc and Mrs. Boxall to tell them that I had to change and would see them at the braaivleis. Mrs. Boxall said that she wanted to have a word with the inspector chappie and that she’d be obliged if Doc would go with her for moral support. As I turned to go she called me back.
“Peekay, I must say I’ve never been too keen on your boxing. But you do seem to be rather good at it and I do believe you will be a welterweight champion of the world someday. Jolly well done is all I can say!”
We were all in the showers changing when Klipkop came in. “Captain Smit wants you all to come back into the gym when you finished. You must be there in the next ten minutes. When you get into the gym only the lights above the ring will be on. Sit in the dark and be very quiet. Not near the door but on the far side of the ring, you hear?” We all nodded and he hurried from the room.
We hadn’t been seated long in the darkened gym when one of the double doors opened, spilling a shaft of light from the passage. Caught in the light were Captain Smit, Klipkop and, standing between them, Lieutenant Borman. The door swung back and we could only dimly see the three men walking toward the ring while they would not have been able to see us. Then they appeared suddenly in the circle of light illuminating the ring.
“Climb in, Borman, up into the ring,” Captain Smit said.
“What you doing, man, what’s happening?” we heard Lieutenant Borman say.
“Just climb in. Everything will be made clear in a minute.” Borman climbed up into the ring and Captain Smit and Klipkop followed. A pair of boxing gloves hung from the posts of each of the two boxers’ corners and in one of the neutral corners was a piece of rolled-up canvas.
Like Captain Smit, Lieutenant Borman was wearing civilian clothes, an open-neck shirt and long pants. Captain Smit removed his shoes, leaving his socks on.
“Take off your shoes, please, lieutenant,” Klipkop said politely.
“Hey, man, what’s going on here?” Borman said, with a hint of apprehension in his voice. “I don’t want to fight nobody. I got no quarrel with you, Smit. I never done anything personally to you. Why do you want to fight me?”
“Take off your shoes or am I going to have to take them off for you, lieutenant?” Klipkop asked calmly.
“Keep your hands off me, you hear,” Borman snarled. “I am your superior, Oudendaal! You should show me respect or you on report, you hear?” Klipkop shook his head slowly and started to move toward Lieutenant Borman. Borman pulled one shoe off and dropped it on the canvas, then removed the other and placed them both in the neutral corner right next to the rolled-up piece of canvas.
From the moment Captain Smit had stepped into the ring he had remained silent, and I could sense this was beginning to unnerve Borman. Klipkop lifted the gloves from the post nearest to the lieutenant and walked over to him.
“Give me your hand, please sir,” he said.
Lieutenant Borman folded his arms. “No, man! No way! Let Smit tell me first what I done.” Captain Smit had retrieved the gloves in his corner. “Jus’ tell me, you hear!” Borman shouted. Captain Smit looked straight at Borman. Keeping his eyes fixed on the lieutenant, he walked over to the neutral corner and picked up the roll of canvas. He held the roll up to his chin so that it unrolled. My heart gave an enormous leap. The canvas sheet was covered with dry blood. Borman pulled back in horror but then as quickly recovered himself.
“What’s this, man? I never saw that before in my life.”
Captain Smit began to roll the canvas up again. I had been terrified, when I climbed into the ring earlier, that I might see signs of Geel Piet’s blood, but the old canvas had been removed and the ring re-covered. The sight of Captain Smit holding part of the old bloodstained canvas brought back the shock I had felt, and without realizing it I began to sob. Suddenly a large hand covered my mouth and Gert’s arm came around my shoulder and drew me in to him.
Captain Smit put the canvas back in the corner. Klipkop pulled Borman’s arms open and slipped his gloves on. This time the lieutenant made no move to stop Klipkop, who laced up the gloves.
“I don’t know what you talking about, you hear! I swear I was at home the night the kaffir died. I can prove it! My wife had an asthma attack. Everybody saw I wasn’t at the kaffir concert. You’re mad, I’m telling you, I never done it. I never killed that kaffir!”
Klipkop finished tying Captain Smit’s gloves and he walked to the center of the ring. “No butting, no kicking, fight like a man,” Klipkop said, and climbed out of the ring, leaving Smit and Borman to fight.
Captain Smit started across the ring, but Borman held up his glove open-handed. “Look, I admit I phoned Pretoria about the kaffir concert. Orright, you got me on that. I thought I was right, I done my duty, that’s all.”
Captain Smit brushed the open glove aside with a left and drove a hard right into the soft roll of gut that spilt over Borman’s belt. The lieutenant doubled up, clasping his stomach with both hands, trying to catch his breath. Smit stood over him, waiting. Without warning, Borman suddenly smashed his gloved fist into Captain Smit below the belt. The captain staggered back, then sank to his knees. Borman was on him in a flash, and catching him on the side of the jaw, he sent Captain Smit crashing to the canvas. Borman shouted, “You kaffirboetie, you nigger lover!” He kicked Captain Smit in the ribs just as Klipkop, who had climbed back into the ring, reached him and brought his arms around him. But Borman was a big man, and he jerked free as Captain Smit was attempting to rise. He caught Smit another solid blow to the side of the head, putting him back on the canvas. Klipkop tried to hold Lieutenant Borman again.
“I killed that yellow nigger, you hear!” Borman shouted. “He wouldn’t tell me who gave him the letters, who brought the letters in. I caught
him red-handed, two letters, man! Two letters in his pocket. He wouldn’t tell me. I broke every bone in his face. I pounded him to pieces with my sjambok. He wouldn’t tell me!” There were flecks of foam at the corners of Borman’s mouth and he began to sob.
Captain Smit had dragged himself to his feet and stood facing Borman, who was no longer trying to get out of the bear hug Klipkop held him in. Bringing his gloves up, Smit signaled to Borman to come and fight. Klipkop released his grip and Borman rushed at Smit, walking into a straight left that stopped him in his tracks. Borman charged in again and Captain Smit stopped him again, repeating the straight left into the face. It was obvious that Borman had never been a boxer. Blood ran from his nose and he brought his arm up to wipe it. A smear of blood covered his arm and he stared down in horror at it. “Shit, I’m bleeding!” he cried.
Then Captain Smit stepped up and smashed his glove into Borman’s face. He dropped to the canvas. Covering his face with his gloves, he wailed, “Don’t hit me, please don’t hit me!”
Captain Smit signaled to Klipkop to get Borman back onto his feet, but the man refused to get up. His eyes were wide with terror. Then, crawling on all fours toward Captain Smit, Borman held Smit around the legs. “Please don’t hit me, captain. I don’t understand why you doing this to me. It was only a kaffir, a dirty yellow man. Why you hitting a white man over a kaffir?”
Captain Smit kicked his legs free of Borman’s embrace. “You can’t even stand up and fight like a man!” It was the first time Smit had spoken since they’d entered the ring. He turned and extended his hands to Klipkop, who unlaced and removed the gloves. Then Smit went over to the neutral corner, picked up the canvas roll and unrolled it beside the sobbing officer. Together Klipkop and Captain Smit lifted him and placed him on the bloodstained canvas and rolled it around him. “This kaffir’s blood will haunt you till you die,” Captain Smit said. Then he and Klipkop climbed from the ring. Klipkop moved over to the switch and plunged the gymnasium into darkness.
In the darkness from the direction of the swing doors there came a sudden shout, “Abantu bingelela Onoshobishobi Ingelosi!” The people salute the Tadpole Angel! The door opened slightly and in the shaft of light we saw a black figure slip quickly out of the gymnasium. The people knew. The curse was fixed. Borman was dead meat.
When I got outside, the tiekiedraai was going full swing, with someone on the Mignon hammering out the Boeremusiek, accompanied by the man with the piano accordion and a banjo player. Outside, on the parade ground, warders and their wives stood around the barbecue fires now burned down to glowing embers.
Doc and Mrs. Boxall were nowhere to be seen. I was watching the guy beating the Mignon, thankful he wasn’t using Doc’s Steinway, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Gert. “How you getting home?” he inquired. I explained that Mrs. Boxall had brought us in her old crock, which made a fearful racket, and I was doubtful that it had long to live. “You know where the professor and that lady is, don’t you? I seen them going into the administration building with the brigadier and the Kommandant.”
Gert always seemed to know what was going on. “Maybe the professor will get a medal or something for the kaffir concert.” Then he giggled. “I hope the brigadier never finds out that Geel Piet was only a broken-down old lag.” He punched me lightly on the shoulder. “Sorry, man, about shutting your mouth back there.” I hung my head, the memory of the bloodstained canvas still sharp in my mind.
“You did right,” I said softly.
“So long, Peekay, I’d better kick the dust,” Gert said.
At last Doc and Mrs. Boxall came out. I could see Mrs. Boxall was excited.
“By Jove, Peekay, miracles will never cease. I do believe we’ve done it!” she exclaimed.
“Done what?” I asked.
“Have done what?” she corrected automatically. “We have been given permission to start a letter-writing service. Isn’t that grand news? The brigadier says that every prisoner may send and receive one letter a month. It’s the first time it has happened in South Africa.” She grabbed me by one hand and Doc by the other and we danced around to the sound of the tiekiedraai music coming from the hall. “You’re going to be needed because you speak three African languages as well as English and Afrikaans. Every Sunday morning after church we’ll come out for two hours and take dictation from the prisoners. I say, it’s a real victory for the forces of good. The brigadier was most impressed when I told him that it would be done under the auspices of the Earl of Sandwich Fund,” she giggled. “The Kommandant assured the brigadier that the Earl of Sandwich Fund was a very respected organization with worldwide contacts.” We all started to laugh. Doc finally said, “Madame Boxall, you are absoloodle the best. For this I give you eleven out of ten.”
She did a small curtsey and gave Doc one of her extraspecial smiles. We hung around for a while longer and finally made our way to the car. As we approached we saw a pair of boots sticking out from under Charlie. Gert got up sheepishly and wiped his grease-blackened hands on the sides of his khaki shorts. He bowed awkwardly to Mrs. Boxall.
“Does mevrou speak Afrikaans?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “I’ll translate, if you like?”
Gert nodded. “Tell her she’s got more power now. You only had three cylinders firing, but you still got a bad knock in the diff.” He turned to Mrs. Boxall. “If you can get it here tomorrow, I’ll borrow the Plymouth and drive you home and I’ll fix the car up for you.” I introduced Gert to Mrs. Boxall and translated what he’d said. Mrs Boxall was very grateful and called Gert “a dear, sweet boy,” which I didn’t translate.
“Oh dear, I have no idea what a knock in the diff is. Is it something very bad?”
“It’s the differential. I think it’s pretty bad,” I replied.
Pulling up his socks, Gert stammered, “Goodnight, missis,” in English and then walked quickly away into the dark.
We zoomed away. The difference in Charlie was amazing. We dropped Doc off at the bottom of his hill. I think the new four-cylinder Charlie could’ve made it easily but Mrs. Boxall had never been invited by Doc to his cottage and she said as she drove me home, “This wasn’t the right time”—whatever that was supposed to mean.
FIFTEEN
Mrs. Boxall promised to talk to my mother about the new letter-writing arrangements in the prison. I had real doubts about being allowed to partake in them. Sundays were difficult for me: it was a day filled with taboos, beginning with Sunday school and church in the morning and ending with evening service. I wasn’t allowed to do anything except the Lord’s work on a Sunday, like reading the Shangaan Bible to Dee and Dum. Reading the Bible was regarded as the most superior type of work for the Lord. I was required to read three pages of the New Testament every day and ten pages on Sunday.
So getting to the prison for two hours every Sunday to take dictation wasn’t simply a question of Mrs. Boxall asking my mother. A great deal of toing and froing to the Lord would have to take place and my fear was that the Lord was going to be hard put to see that taking dictation from a bunch of criminals was the best possible use of my Sabbath.
My fears proved to be correct and the scheme had to be delayed a month. A major investigation such as this one would begin by looking for a precedent in the Bible. In this regard I scored a direct hit when I pointed out that St. Paul, in his Epistles, had written from prison in Rome. This was just the sort of material my mother liked to take with her when she had a chat with the Lord. My granpa said later that my St. Paul research was a stroke of genius. But, it turned out, the Lord wasn’t all that satisfied because Paul was a born-again Christian, converted on the road to Damascus, and he was in prison under an unjust Roman regime. The prisoners in Barberton prison were criminals being punished by a just regime. The point here was that Paul was doing the Lord’s work while I was potentially aiding the devil writing letters from hardened criminals.
To my wife, Umbela,
I send you greetings in my shame. W
ho is putting food in the mouths of our children? It is hard in this place, but one day I will come to you again. The work is hard but I am strong, I will live to see you again.
Your husband,
Mfulu
I wasn’t able to tell my mother how innocent the letters really were because she didn’t know about the previous letters or the tobacco, sugar and salt. So for the next week I read the New Testament like mad. There had to be something in there to help me.
I took the problem to my granpa, who, after my telling opening move with St. Paul, seemed anxious to see that the debate was conducted fairly. We sat on the steps of one of the rose terraces, my granpa tapping and tamping and staring squinty-eyed through the blue tobacco smoke into the distance. After a long while he said, “The only time I ever heard of the Bible being useful was when a stretcher bearer I was with at the battle of Dundee, when we were fighting the Boers, told me that he’d once gotten hit by a bullet in the heart, only he was carrying a Bible in his tunic pocket and the Bible saved his life. He told me that ever since he’d always carried a Bible into battle with him and he felt perfectly safe because God was in his breast pocket. We were out looking for a sergeant and three troopers who were wounded while out on a reconnaissance and were said to be holed up in a dry donga. Alas, a Boer bullet hit him straight between the eyes.” He puffed at his pipe. “Which goes to prove that the Bible is good for the heart and not for the head and that God is in nobody’s pocket.” He seemed very pleased with this neat summary, which nevertheless wasn’t a scrap of help to me.
However, on Sunday night three weeks after Mrs. Boxall had first approached my mother, my granpa elected to play a part in the supper debate. Marie was always there for supper on Sundays and she joined in as well. My mother opened by saying the Lord was “sorely troubled” over the whole issue.
The Power of One Page 25
