The Rift

by H Schmidt

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  “Do you recall when we first met, Maria?” “Yes.”

  “Do you remember what you said to me when I asked how you knew my name?”

  They were both laughing now. “Yes, Gustav.” “Did you know what a fool I felt myself?”

  “When your face turned red, I guessed as much.”

  It was moments like this that made Gustav remember why he could not stop thinking about Maria from that first moment. The laughter, the assurance, the kindness behind the mischief that was always on the surface.

  They were quiet for a moment, enjoying the peace around them. Then Maria spoke about their earlier comments about history. “If the Germans treat the people in East Africa as they treat the Poles, I would not expect such harmony to exist for long.”

  “We must be firm, Maria. Germany should be fair, it must be firm. People will come to understand that they cannot defy Germany and not expect retribution.” “There was no reason to punish everyone in the village because of the crimes of some of its members.”

  At dinner parties and other gatherings of the Europeans in Moshi, Maria often expressed sympathy with the views of the Catholic and Lutheran ministers and missionaries that Europeans should not treat whole villages so harshly for the crimes of members of that village.

  “We must teach the villages to control their own members or suffer for not doing so. There is no special pleasure in punishment, but there is no other way to make them respect us. Respect does not come without power.” Gustav thought how often these discussions stimulated his feeling for his wife. He wished at that moment they were in their soft bed at home.

  “Fear teaches them nothing but to respect the weapons we have. It teaches them nothing about justice.”

  “Maria, we cannot change. You can see the benefit of such a policy. We have not had an incident in Kitete in over two years. Before acting against that village, we were having one or more a month.”

  Like so many discussions before, this one ended abruptly, one signaling the other that it was time to talk of or do something else. It was Maria’s initiative this time. “It is time to go to bed. I am sorry to see this all end, Father. It has been a wonderful safari.”

  It had grown late. As they opened the tent flaps to enter where the children were fast asleep, the silence was broken by the sound of an elephant, his roar like the low rumble of waves upon the shore then crescendoing into a high, angry shriek. Outside the tent, the night air was cold and clear, the countryside silver in the light of the full moon, the winds upon the crater top whistling softly.

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  They had taken a seat under a great baobab tree, watching the family in their camp at the crater’s edge. The two knights had watched the von Mecklenburgs scatter to the ends of the earth. South America, North America, all the continents of the world. In the five hundred years since Tannenberg, Sir Gustav and his friend Sir Rupert preferred Europe. Mostly, they liked to observe the von Mecklenburgs who had stayed home at Marburg, the beautiful castle near the Baltic. But when Gustav had chosen Africa, the castle would be empty. They had followed them here.

  “They are really hideous creatures, aren’t they?” Sir Gustav was the first to speak.

  “Which?”

  “The hyenas, Sir Rupert, the hyenas.”

  “Not so hideous as the wild boars in the Rominten Forest. They were much uglier.”

  “I knew you would say that. Everything was bigger, smaller, faster, slower, better, worse. Those animals are grotesque, Sir Rupert.”

  Sir Rupert looked at Sir Gustav and grinned. It always made Gustav angry when his friend did that.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “I was thinking of Dame Hilda.”

  Sir Gustav shrugged his shoulders. Why did he talk to the man? They were quiet for a while, watching the lone Chagga watchman throw wood on the fire.

  It was Sir Rupert who spoke. “Gustav has a wonderful family.” “Yes, indeed he does.”

  Gustav looked at his friend and smiled. He loved the man next to him. He hadn’t changed in five hundred years.

  Chapter Two

  Kibo left her village when the sky was still morning gray.

  As I walked to the edge of the village, only the women of the village moved about, silent, preparing the morning meal. Mother Sibuku was milking one of the family’s goats. One of my sisters, her arms filled with firewood, stood beside the path at the edge of the village, her face sad as she watched me pass.

  “Goodbye, Wanezi,” I said. “I will return soon. It is not good to be sad. Soon you will find the men of the village and all the villages around Marangu asking for Wanezi. There is none stronger or more handsome in all the land around the great mountain. Your husband will own many cattle and will be the wisest in the village”

  “Goodbye, Kibo. I hope you can bring little Willie to see us again.” Wanezi tried to smile at her beloved sister, trying to hide the fear she felt for her. She looked at the large, dark eyes of Kibo, which seemed to be trying to look into her soul, as if puzzled by the mood of her younger sister.

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  Wanezi watched her sister walk away. She could not explain her feeling, recalling that it had come in a dream last night…

  Kibo was holding little Willie in her arms. She was talking to someone, a tall man in long robes. I could not see his face. Kibo was crying and the little boy was screaming, but I could hear no sounds. I was standing near the village well calling to her but she did not look at me. All around Kibo and little Willie, there was blood. Then Kibo raised her hand, pulling the little boy closer to her. Suddenly the tall man raised his great knife. Kibo raised her hand, terror on her face. The man brought the knife down. I woke then, soaked with sweat. I trembled uncontrollably, my heart pounding as if it would burst through my chest. Everyone was still asleep. Beside me, my beloved Kibo slept peacefully. Now, as I watched my sister disappear, my spirit was filled with dread for her. I turned to the great mountain, Kilimanjaro, and looked upon the twin peak Kibo. I asked the spirits of the mountain to protect my sister, who I knew was in great danger.

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  The morning was cold, and I could feel the frost on the grass beneath my feet. Already, the path was busy with villagers carrying their goods to the market in Bitu. The morning sun would still be close to the treetops when I reached my family’s home. As I walked, I thought about my visit to the village.

  The night before, I had visited with each of my relatives and friends, saying my goodbyes. It had been three months since my last visit to Marangu. In the last week, everyone gathered around me as I told them stories of my work in the von Mecklenburg household. Evenings were always the best times in the village. Each evening, just before dusk, the villagers would gather around the great baobab tree to talk among themselves. A great fire would be built in the street, lighting the faces of the villagers and casting dancing shadows against the new, white government building that had been built by the new ferenji Deutschlanders.

  Since I had returned, children would often gather around me and listen and ask questions about life with the mysterious ferenjis who had come in great numbers in the last several years. The elders would sit among themselves, listening expressionless to the tales I would tell, sometimes nodding as if acknowledging something I would say. In another group, the women of the village would listen raptly to the stories, talking among themselves in a steady, low chatter as I talked. Only the young men kept their distance, signaling the lack of importance of all that the ferenjis did and said. Some, as slyly as they could manage, would place themselves nearer me, catching words of my conversation, yet hiding the wonder inside them.

  Among the young children, those who had not passed by ritual into manhood and womanhood, there was great excitement as I recounted the daily rituals of the family; the preparations for meals, the meals with the many dishes and tools they used to eat, the gatherings of people who came to the house, the great square in Moshi where all the ferenji families listened to the
band that played its great horns and drums. Even the older people’s eyes seemed to shine with wonder as I described the box that had captured the singing voices inside, and the newest of wonders, the great picture frame where people and animals moved! But what excited the children the most were the stories of the rides in the family’s carriage and the visits to the shops in Moshi.

  “Did you go to the souks with them, Kibo?” Bininga asked. My youngest sister was always the most curious. She had told me secretly that she would like to go to the Lutheran school like me and someday work for a family in Moshi.

  “Yes,” I said, “I looked at all the things which Frau told me had come from where she was born in Prussia. There were dresses of beautiful colors with much, much material sewed together. Frau already has many more than one such dress, but sometimes she would buy another one. There were also things for little Maria, Friederich and little Willie.”

  Bininga always laughed when I talked about Willie. Whenever I would return to the village, I would spend hours talking about little Willie. It was Willie who brought me to the family house from the Lutheran school. I remembered the day the headmaster asked me to come into his great room where he always sat. I remembered how frightened I was when Frau Heinrich told me that Herr Mueller wished to see me. I had never been in the great room before. I would pass by the room on the way to the classroom, and whenever I thought no one was watching, I would glance quickly into the room. What had I done to displease Herr Mueller?

  “What did they buy for little Willie?” Biritu, one of her girlfriends in the village, asked.

  “Many things. Before they left on their journey to Ngordato, they brought Willie a fine hat to protect him from the sun, and boots of thick leather. The boots were made at the leather shop where Taradu works but they were given to the souk so that they might sell them. The Herr told me that Uncle Taradu has become an excellent boot maker and his boots would be sent by boat to faraway places, even where the family lived before they came to Moshi.”

  There were nods among the elders of the village, who sat on the ground near where I spoke. Even among the young men, who had pretended not to be listening, I could hear Taradu’s name. Like other men of the village, Taradu had gone to Moshi where he worked for the ferenji, and with the paper he was given he was able to buy many fine gifts for his wives and children. They recalled the first time Taradu had returned to the village. He wore the clothes of the ferenji, proudly pointing out the fine cowhide boots which he had made. His family boasted that he was the first in their village to wear the ferenji shoes and ferenji clothes.

  But the young girls wanted to talk about the little white ferenji who had visited the village two harvests ago. “How tall is Willie now?” Bininga asked.

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  Now, with the morning light creating colors along the path, men and their families from small villages began to appear on the path. It was a market day in Bitu, and all carried something to sell or barter with in the bazaar. One wizened old man, who was known throughout the countryside as a cunning hunter, carried Colobus skins on his back, their black-and-white coats glistening with the first rays of the sun.

  As Kibo walked, she thought about Willie’s visit. The Chagga girl had been in the household for three years when Friederich and little Maria persuaded their parents to take them to see Kibo’s village. The visit of the family had become part of the storyteller’s repertoire in Marangu, reciting each and every thing that transpired on the visit. With great dignity, the village elders had welcomed the family. One of the fattest calves was slaughtered, and along with the fattest goats, became part of a great feast in which all of the village shared in honor of their visitors from Moshi. And of course, the proud Kibo was allowed to show young Willie to all of her relatives, to carry the young boy proudly, as if he were her own. She thought how much she missed the little boy, and the two older children.

  He is much taller now. I smiled at the thought of the black-eyed boy with the fair skin. I am sure he will be taller than when I left on the visit to the village. He will be tall like the Herr. Nineteen years old now, Kibo was well beyond the age when most girls of the village marry. Many of the families of Marangu and other villages nearby had come to Botatu suggesting that their son would make a fine husband for someone’s daughter, that the son owned many cattle and goats and could provide for a wife. But Botatu had noticed that Kibo seemed to have no interest in being possessed by a husband, but that she was happy working with the ferenji family. She also was very generous to Botatu, and had helped him purchase many cattle from the Masai. He was in no hurry to give her to someone else.

  Kibo had the fine features of a noble family, for she had the blood of chiefs in her veins. She carried herself proudly, and some thought she had grown distant since she had gone to Moshi. From a very young age, she was the brightest of all the girls in the village. Mother Sibuku had noticed that she had been restless after the visit to the village of the white missionary. He spoke of the school in Moshi where girls were taught to read and write and to learn about the wonderful God, Jesus. When the missionary had talked to the family about sending their child to Moshi to go to the Lutheran school, Botatu had given his consent. Many in the village were surprised by what Botatu did, for Kibo would be worth many cattle to the man who wished her for his wife. But Sibuku, who had been Botatu’s wife the longest, knew that her husband loved the little girl more than all of his other children. When he saw the look in his daughter’s eyes when she talked about the school, he had said yes.

  She thought about the time five years ago when she was selected to work for the family. Willie had not been born, but the Frau had decided that they must have a nurse for their new child. I was only fourteen years old. I had been playing with my friends on the grounds of our school before classes had begun. We saw Frau Heinrich coming toward us. Frau was very strict with us, and she seldom smiled.

  “Mistress Kibo, Herr Mueller would like to see you in his office.” My heart began to race and I was afraid to ask why. We never asked why. I remember the look of concern on the faces of my playmates and I walked beside Frau Heinrich. What could I have done?

  As we had walked from the grounds, I forced my heartbeat to slow, and collected myself as much as I could. Mother had often told me when I am frightened to remember that on her side of the family there were chiefs and great warriors and that they had become so by being brave. It helped me then.

  I knocked on the door. “Come in.”

  How loud the headmaster’s voice seemed. As Frau opened the door to let me inside, the headmaster sat behind his desk looking very stern, and the Herr and Frau sat to his left in a window seat. I cannot remember all that was asked that day. I remember that the Frau seemed kind and the Herr looked closely at me when I spoke, causing my heart to beat. I still remember the question the Frau asked. I knew that most of the older children were given jobs in the ferenji houses. But I wanted to be a teacher. Only the very best were chosen as teachers. Already, some of the teachers in the Lutheran school had been students there.

  The Frau asked, “Kibo, what would be your first choice of all the jobs the students are given after attending our school?”

  I had answered honestly, “Frau, I wish most to be a teacher.” I remember the answer seemed to please both the Frau and the Herr.

  The Herr spoke to the headmaster. “Herr Doktor, we would be happy to have Kibo in our home.”

  The headmaster, who did not act like a peacock in the presence of the Herr, stood as he spoke. “Yes, mein herr.” Then Herr Mueller turned to me, his manner changing. Back was the imperial look of the headmaster of the German Lutheran School.

  “You may go, Fraulein Kibo.”

  I knew then that I was not to be a teacher, but I said nothing. It seems such a long time ago. I have been happy with the family. The Frau brings me books to read and we talk about them. Someday I would like to be a teacher.”

  As the sun told her it was midmorning, Kibo could see the white build
ings of Moshi, the billowing clouds from the east darkening their red tile roofs. Soon, Kibo hoped, the rains would be coming.

  Chapter Three

  The rains were late. The great herds of elephants, zebra, and wildebeests pressed against each other near the highland lakes. Dust devils played on the great plains to the southeast. Each day the settlers and the Chagga would look anxiously to the east. Their seed lay inert in the ground. They worked from early morning to sunset watering the shaded coffee seedlings, and fretted over the wilting coffee trees. They prayed to the spirits on the mountain, to Allah, and the new African God Jesus to bring water from the sea. Each day the great billowing clouds formed on the horizon, and then vanished.

  Used to year-round rains, the German settlers needed time to grow used to the rhythms of the highlands. Each year the rains came in March into May, great deluges dumping water upon the hard soil. Higher on the mountain, hail would fall so thick that it covered the ground like snow, cooling the air like a Baltic winter breeze. For ten months, relieved only by occasional rains in November and December, the rich harvest of water from those two months must serve the highlands for the full year.

  Like all Europeans, the German settlers sought to change what they found, to find ways to make the rich volcanic soil around Mt. Kilimanjaro produce more. It was the reason why Professor Stuhlmann, the director of the Department of Agriculture, stood on the verandah with Gustav that morning. They stood with their hands on the railing, looking at the great mountain. Above them, the sister peaks of Kibo and Mawenzi hid behind a cover of thick white clouds. Below the clouds, a mist clung to the blue-gray mountainsides. Gustav looked at the billowing clouds, tinged golden by the sun, and found himself, like all the settlers, looking to the east in the direction from which the rains must come. Behind him, he could hear Mutuyu humming softly as he poured coffee for the two men.

  Dr. Stuhlmann had been an overnight guest, arriving from Wilhemstal the previous day. This morning he was speaking to Gustav of his dream of an agricultural research institute in German East Africa. One of the men he must convince was Gustav von Mecklenburg, an officer of the East African Company.