The Rift

by H Schmidt

  Johannes avoided Gustav’s eyes. He does not seem convinced, Gustav said to himself. He knew that stolen cattle were quickly killed, leaving no trace.

  Maria noticed that Herr Singh found something to do near the tent. It made her smile. Although of Indian ancestry, the cook had been born in Pagani in the 60s where his father had opened a small restaurant. Herr Singh had moved to Moshi three years ago, which had become a prosperous town as German banks financed the creation of German businesses and coffee plantations in the area. He had decided to work for one of the prominent German families, saving his money for the time when he would be able to open his own restaurant. Like all of his Indian compatriots, he eagerly sought any information which would make him more successful and for the sheer love of knowledge.

  Maria had long ago noticed that Herr Singh would place himself as near as possible to dinner gatherings. She knew he was eavesdropping, but felt it innocent enough to ignore in the face of his marvelous talents as a chef. The children loved Herr Singh. Little Maria would spend hours in the kitchen with him, asking him questions endlessly. Well, she thought, Herr Singh has earned the right to listen to something he wants to hear from this family. Maria continued her part of the story, like Gustav turning to speak to the children.

  “When the caravan was in order, and inspected by the overseer accompanied by Herr Peters, we mounted and took our place in the front. Friederich and Maria, you took your place in the first cart, where they had made a small compartment in which you would be comfortable and had a small amount of room for play. Although the oxen did not move very fast, you were too small then to walk beside the carts.” Maria reached over to touch Gustav on the hand. “Your father and I were mounted side by side, with Corporal Hoffman riding beside your father. I remember looking around at the beautiful, new city of Dar es Salaam. Through the buildings, I could see the harbor and the ocean beyond. The golden aura of the sun was just touching the horizon, turning the sky above us the palest turquoise blue.

  “There were shouts and cracking whips and we turned toward Morogoro. How attached we had become to Dar es Salaam! I had the sense that we were not continuing our journey from Prussia but leaving the city by the sea, named by its sultan founder the Haven of Peace.

  “It was June and the air, even close by the sea, had a morning chill. Only later would we be surprised how cold it can be in the highlands of the north. The first leg of the trip was to Morogoro, a well-traveled caravan route which earlier in the century carried slaves to the coast from Lake Tanganyika. We hoped to cover the six hundred kilometers to Moshi in thirty days if all went well.”

  Gustav spoke to the children. “You must remember that the six hundred kilometers was little more than a guess. We had reports from those who had made the trip before, but they only guessed at the distance. The thirty days of travel time was a good estimate however, judging by others who had made the trip.”

  Maria continued. “The first leg to Morogoro was hard, but without real difficulty other than my continuing discomfort, which I kept to myself as best I could. Father had enough to worry about and I was determined to make the trip as rich an experience as possible for you children.”

  The three von Mecklenburg children were looking closely at their mother now, beginning to understand something they had never understood before. They were looking at their mother’s eyes. They would glance at each other and at Johannes, trying to understand what was being told them.

  “Herr Peters had informed us that we would find Morogoro a pleasant place and we were not disappointed. The countryside was a rich green after the rains, and fruit and vegetables were available in the large market. Where we had expected to see many Germans in Dar es Salaam, we were surprised at the numbers we met in Morogoro; many artisans and peasants from southern Germany determined to find a better life than at home. Rather than choosing the Americas, they had chosen to travel south to Africa.

  “The next three weeks were very difficult for me.”

  Gustav looked at his wife with concern. There was an unmistakable tremor in her voice. As he looked at her again, she reached out to assure him, to tell him that she needed to tell the children what she had felt. They had talked little, before now, about the trip five years ago.

  “Each morning, I experienced the same sickness, but more than the physical sickness in my body was the sadness that pressed on my soul. I found it impossible to hope, to find some spiritual solace to carry me through the long days on the back of my mule. Where each new sight had earlier filled me with delight, now everything took on a sameness, a grayness that overwhelmed me. The Wanyamwezi porters, who carried our belongings in good spirits, whose rhythmic chants seemed to uplift father and the two of you, only depressed my spirit further.

  “I do not remember the day when we passed Dakawa, or Hedeni, or when we worked our way through the passes of the Nguru or came upon the northern trail to Moshi. I was aware of the passing days and I remember your worried looks and Father’s. I tried with all my will to keep my sense of despair from the three of you.”

  “Why did you feel that way, Momma?” Maria was looking at her mother, confident that what she described was a thing of the past, something to be curious about, to be mystified by, a mystery to be solved.

  “I don’t know, Maria. It happens a lot to adults. Perhaps because we come to realize that the things we hold on to like where we were born, our parents, and our friends, are gone when we come to Africa. They had been gone as soon as we sailed for Africa, but sometimes it takes a while to feel the loss and when you do you feel alone, adrift at sea without stars to guide you, without a wind to lift your sails and carry you.”

  Maria looked at her husband and realized that he never really knew. She was thankful for that, because she knew that he had been going through the same experience and faced with an enterprise where there were no benchmarks for achieving success.

  “But you are not sad now, are you Momma?” It was Maria, her look telling her she already knew the answer.

  Now little Willie came around the table and sat beside his mother. Placing her hand on his small shoulder, she pulled him toward her, feeling the softness of his thick black hair upon her body.

  Maria continued, “Although we were barely into the month of July, the area we traveled through now had already begun to show patches of brown. In the distance, dust clouds signifying Masai cattle herds or herds of wild animals appeared to the west of the caravan. The porters, who had personally experienced raids during their journeys, began to talk nervously among themselves.”

  Gustav helped Maria with her story. “When he saw the dust swirls, Corporal Hoffman immediately sent his soldiers among the porters to assure them they were protected by the German Army, that they had nothing to fear. The corporal was a veteran who had served in the War with France in 1870. When the opportunity to come to Africa presented itself, he had volunteered. In the five years he had been in German East Africa, he had mastered Swahili and could communicate with many of the tribes. Carl had assured me that we were in good hands, far better than with some of the younger officers whose connections had gotten them to the colony. Carl said he had gotten himself in some sort of trouble with an angry husband in Germany, but was considered a reliable soldier.

  “Corporal Hoffman told me that he had acted because he had seen porters suddenly drop their cargo and disappear, leaving it where it stood. He told me that many of the porters were from the coast, and that they were less reliable than the Wanyamwezi from south of Lake Victoria. When I had mastered Swahili, one of the porters who had been in our caravan told me much later that the corporal had not told me the full truth, that he had his men threaten to shoot the first man who dropped his cargo and any thereafter, that he would hunt them down in their villages. Whatever was said seemed to work and the excited chatter ceased. The porters still shot quick glances to the west, their anxiety obviously still with them.”

  The mood was broken by the chilling rapid fire sounds: oo, oo, yip, yip
, yip, yip, the latter high-pitched sound so rapid yet distinct that it appeared to be the hysterical laugh of a crazed person enjoying some ghoulish joke. Suddenly, the camp was alive.

  Johannes spoke quickly. “Hyenas. They will be after the mules.”

  Often thought of as scavengers, hyenas could also be deadly hunters, and Johannes would often regale the von Mecklenburg children with stories of hyenas killing children or isolated natives who might have drank too much tembo and wandered alone away from the village. From the Chagga campfire, men came quickly to the tethered mules, calming them while urging Bwana Gustav to bring one of his hunting rifles. Burana, the head guide, pointed down the trail to a clearing not fifty meters away. There, the hyenas circled, eyes shining in the moonlight, looking up to the mules whose scent they had captured on their nightly rounds.

  Ghostly animals the size of Rottweilers with huge heads and shoulders and small hindquarters which cause them to run as if they are dragging the backs of their bodies, Gustav always felt a chill in their presence, as if in the presence of some supernatural evil.

  As he walked toward Burana, he fed shells into the chamber below the barrel, silently sliding the bolt back then forward to place one round into the firing chamber. Fingering the safety to be sure it was on, he moved beside his chief guide. Fifty meters with a nine millimeter shell; there was no question that he could make a kill. If he did so, the animals might return to eat their own, as they commonly did. If he fired to frighten them, there was no assurance that they would stay away. He decided to place one shell into the hind legs of the best target. There was no sound below as he raised his rifle. The light of the moon made the rifle sights visible as he lined the chosen animal up with the front and back sights. Taught to shoot as a boy, once the line between the three points was completed, he squeezed the trigger. Below, the force of the bullet slammed the backside of the large hyena to the ground while the animal stayed upright on his front paws. His back legs useless, the hyena struggled down the trail away from the mysterious force that had struck him. The pack disappeared.

  Burana spoke. “He will not go far. They will eat him. They show no mercy to any animal, even their own.”

  As the two men stood, they heard the distant screams and snarls. They nodded to each other and turned away. As they walked back to the camp, Gustav could see from the faces of the children that they were not afraid, but the conditioning of the boys had kicked in and their eyes were shining with excitement. He went first to little Maria, who looked concerned. “Don’t worry, Maria.

  Pretty Girl is safe. They will not be back. Is that not true, Burana?”

  Burana looked at the small girl, at her wide eyes. His soft smile assured her. “They will not be back, Maria. For sure.”

  Gustav’s shot had brought a stillness to the land around them, ridding them of every distraction. Looking to the campfires beyond, Maria could see that the natives no longer sat by the campfire, but now lay still under their blankets as the fires began to contract into glowing, flickering coals. The mules stood quietly. Even Herr Singh, understanding the personal nature of the family’s talk, retired to his tent. Within minutes, the oil lamp in his tent flickered then the tent became the color of the night. Willie’s head began to nod as it rested beneath his mother’s breasts. She looked across the table at the bright faces of the three children, still alert, waiting for father and mother to tell the story they had never heard before.

  “We never knew what was in those dust clouds. They did not come any closer and a rain shower off to our west seemed to rid the air of the great swirls we had seen. I remember that day, and the next, because they were unlike any we had experienced before. After the rains of April and May, the skies stay blue, until you began to view the sky like the earth, unchanging or changing so little that it always seems the same. But that day the high, flat cloud blanket began to turn from cotton white to gray, and grew steadily darker. A fine rain began to fall, and the mist closed around us making us feel as if we were encased under a great bowl, locked away from the world around us.

  “Because the weather had turned cool without the sun, we moved all of that day. Like the incident with the dust clouds, the weather seemed to make the porters uneasy. Only the animals seemed to relish the coolness and they wanted to pick up a beat on their steady pace. The day changed quickly to night. We camped beside a small lake, I remember. That night, as I went to bed, I could hear the steady staccato of the rain. The wind had increased until the walls of our sleeping tent began to pop.

  “I went to sleep with the sound of water dripping onto the small table in front of the tent opening. The sense of sadness that had remained with me during our journey stayed with me. I remember falling into fitful sleep, still struggling with the demons that had tormented me since Morogoro. That night I woke several times to the tapping of raindrops and the wind, which had begun to shriek and howl, like an angry maenad.

  “I must have finally fallen into a deep sleep by early morning, because I was awakened by the shouts of the two of you, by the porters who seemed highly excited by something, and by the crackling of a fire in front of the tent. Father, I know you had allowed me to sleep because the sun was fully above the horizon and the sides of the tent were golden with light. I dressed quickly and stepped outside the tent. Everyone was looking to the northwest. For some reason, the first thing I did was look up. The sky was the blue of Dresden china, not a single blemish. I looked at the sun, golden, its orange edges still clearly separated from the blue sky in the early morning.

  “I remember you, Friederich, and you, Maria, grabbing my hands. “Look Mother, look.” For a moment, I wanted only to enjoy your rapturous faces. And then I turned to where you were pointing. There, sitting on the plains was the great mountain, Queen Victoria’s gift to her nephew, Willie. Not a cloud covered Mt. Kilimanjaro. At her top, snow. In Africa, so close to the equator, a great alpine mountain capped with snow.”

  “Good spirits live on the mountain. They are good to the Chagga.” Johannes seemed delighted with the story, for the Chagga had thrived on and around the great mountain. It made him feel good that Frau von Mecklenburg understood the power and magic of the great mountain.

  “I thank the spirits of Kilimanjaro, Johannes, because at that moment I felt transformed, as if the demons that had possessed my spirit had fled at the sight of the great mountain. I sometimes ask myself if it is possible to love nonliving things. Perhaps it is your spirits that I love.”

  ----

  Gustav and Maria watched the children go into the sleeping tent. Willie was already asleep. The girl and two boys were talking excitedly about what they had heard. It would take a while for them to fall asleep.

  “It is so easy with children, isn’t it?” Maria said. “Children are so much alike.” “There is so little history for them to deal with, Maria. It is as if we are given a fresh start. How long have we been killing each other in Europe? Five hundred years, a thousand, two thousand? Five hundred years ago, my namesake Gustav was fighting the Poles and Lithuanians. If a war starts in Europe, who will the Prussians be fighting? Beneath all the scientific discoveries, we have not changed. In Europe we believe and act the same as we did five hundred years ago. Look at those children. Their minds are not poisoned by the past.”

  “Let us hope they never are.” Maria always spoke forthrightly to Gustav. While her manner had often raised eyebrows, it was this about Maria that first attracted Gustav. Newly graduated as an engineer from Berlin University, he met Maria at Kiel during the Kaiser’s yachting races. He was one of the Kaiser’s crew; she, the daughter of the ship’s captain. Maria had been raised near the sea, and sometimes accompanied her father when the Kaiser’s yacht was being transported to participate in international competition.

  ---

  Gustav was home for the summer where he worked aboard the yacht since he had been fourteen. Now eighteen, tall, sandy haired, most of the young girls of the Junker families thought him handsome. The great event of
the summer was the ball in honor of the Kaiser’s visit to Kiel. Gustav was there because his mother expected him to go and his father commanded him to go. Determined to be bored, he joined his friends, who talked about many things, trying to appear oblivious to the music and gaiety around them. They were talking about a boar-hunting party for the Kaiser and his generals at the moment Maria danced across the floor in front of them. She was not the most beautiful girl at the ball, Gustav thought. There were others more beautiful. But from that moment, he could not take his eyes off the slight, dark-haired girl.

  “You have been staring at that girl for the last half hour, Gustav. Please spare us and ask her to dance.” It was Fritz who was smiling at him, looking around to have the others join in the fun. He knew Fritz was hoping to engage them all in a little fun at his expense. Well, he would show them. He stood, smiling at his crowd.

  “You are right, my friend.” With that, he walked across the room, where Maria sat with her friends. She appeared not to notice him as he stood before her.

  Then Maria turned to face him, merely nodding her head. Struggling to control his voice, he said, “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  She looked at him coolly. Her voice flat, she said, “I would be delighted, Gustav von Mecklenburg.” The dance was one of the waltzes of Bach, and Gustav did his best to impress Maria.

  “How did you know my name?” Gustav tried to ask the question in as casual a manner as possible. Maria looked at him, and for the first time, a genuine smile, the shining black eyes full of laughter.

  “Several of my girlfriends pointed you out because you have stared at me for most of the evening. One of them told me who you were.”