The Covenant: A Novel

by James A. Michener

  There was a law in South Africa which said that BOSS could invade the quarters of any writer at any time without a warrant, and if they found any notes or materials or photographs which might be used to write an article which might be offensive to the government, that writer could be detained indefinitely without any charges being brought against him.

  On the morning of the eighth day one of Malan’s two black informants ran to his apartment, shouting, ‘Get rid of your papers!’

  As a newsman who had watched three of his colleagues imprisoned by BOSS, he required no additional explanation; he destroyed the few papers he had allowed to accumulate, even those not relating to Matthew Magubane, then hastily scanned his bookshelves to see if any of the thousands of books banned by the government were there. Reasonably assured, he waited.

  The BOSS crew did appear. They did ransack his quarters. And they did find one book published by the World Council of Churches in Geneva, and it was this which justified them in putting him in jail, on no charges, with no warrant, and with no right of self-defense.

  News coverage of Matthew Magubane ended. The police were free to continue their probing of his life and beliefs as they wished, except that on a farm near Vrymeer the rebellious young black Jonathan Nxumalo, unemployed now but once a worker at the Golden Reef Mines, had been following in the newspapers the running record of Magubane’s detention. Now he heard of Malan’s arrest and deduced that Magubane was about to be murdered. Convening four friends, he took an informal vote: ‘How many say we try to rescue Magubane?’ All five voted yes. ‘And then flee to Moçambique?’ This time only four voted, the man who refrained explaining, ‘My mother …’

  ‘No explanations necessary. Tomorrow night we could all be dead.’

  ‘Or on the way to Moçambique.’

  Jonathan then cleared his throat and said, tentatively, ‘My brother’s home on vacation from university. I think we should have his advice.’ Someone was dispatched to fetch the professor, and when he stood at the entrance to the small room in which they met, he realized that the men inside represented a conspiracy. To take even one step into that room would make him a part of the criminal movement, with the possibility of a lifetime in prison, or even death. His whole inclination was to turn and run, but the liveliness of their faces made that impossible. These were the young men he had been training, and now they were about to train him. He joined them.

  ‘We’re going to storm the jail at Hemelsdorp,’ his brother said.

  ‘I supposed that might be it.’

  ‘We’ve a cache of guns smuggled in from Moçambique.’

  ‘I wish you could do it without guns.’

  ‘This is the year of the gun,’ Jonathan said. ‘If we get to Moçambique, what do you think we should do?’

  If he had left the room even at this point he might have avoided incrimination, but like other blacks across the nation he felt a growing sense of the future. ‘I would not storm the police station. You could all get killed.’ As soon as he uttered these words he knew they were irrelevant; these men were prepared to die.

  ‘About Moçambique,’ his brother repeated.

  ‘I can’t go with you. My job is to teach young men at the university.’

  ‘Daniel,’ his brother cried. ‘We don’t want you to come. Men like you … stay here to build. Men like us … get out so we can tear down.’

  Professor Nxumalo felt old and out of place; he was alarmed at where his teaching had led, but he was also profoundly excited by the challenge. ‘When you reach Moçambique—and you will, I know you will—you’ve got to consolidate. Make no move till you can rely upon help from all the frontiers. Namibia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, Vwarda, and especially Moçambique. Then move subtly, a push here, a retreat there. In a dozen years, with help from Russia, East Germany and Cuba, the monolith will crumble.’

  ‘We give it the first push tomorrow,’ Jonathan said, embracing his brother. And when the professor was gone, he handed out the guns.

  By separate routes the five young men journeyed to Hemelsdorp, having agreed to rush the detention center at one in the afternoon, when lesser policemen, like Krog, would be at lunch and their superiors, like Krause, so well-fed as to be lethargic. Jonathan’s men would be armed, a fact which almost guaranteed their execution if apprehended.

  Quietly they converged on the barracks, waited an interminable five minutes in position, then without any kind of juvenile exhibitionism, walked resolutely into the headquarters, took possession of the desk and the hallways, and hurriedly searched the rooms till they found Magubane.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked through swollen lips.

  ‘Off to Moçambique!’

  As they ran from the barracks without having fired a round, the young man who had to care for his mother headed north, where he would function underground. The others concealed their guns and went into exile.

  One of the most gratifying days in Van Doorn’s life occurred on 16 December 1966, when he was invited to deliver the main speech at the Day of the Covenant celebrations at the new housing development that had arisen, under his direction, on the site from which the black township of Sophiatown had been bulldozed. The area had been renamed Triomf and was now occupied by white Afrikaner families who kept their little houses neat and their flower beds flourishing.

  But as Detleef drove along the clean wide streets that had replaced the slum alleys he said somewhat sourly to his white chauffeur, ‘I’ll wager most people in those houses have no idea what the new name means.’

  His chauffeur said quickly, ‘But we know what a triumph it was, don’t we?’

  Van Doorn showed his appreciation for this support, then said, ‘Sophiatown was a national disgrace. Crime, poverty, young tsotsis running wild.’

  ‘A white man would be afraid to go there after dark,’ the chauffeur agreed.

  ‘Tell me frankly, isn’t our new Triomf a hundred times better?’

  Like any impartial judge, the chauffeur had to admit the new suburb was not only better, but was also inhabited by people of a much higher status: ‘You did a wonderful thing here, Mr. van Doorn.’

  Inspired by such approbation, Detleef showed real enthusiasm as he approached the podium in the church hall. Among the other dignitaries on the platform were four ancient men, oudstryders (old fighters), veterans of the Boer War, who nodded approvingly as he lambasted the enemies of the nation. In many ways his speech was a summation of his vision regarding the future of the Volk:

  ‘Our beloved Voortrekkers, Retief, Pretorius and Uys, who answered the summons to freedom, saved this nation when it faced mortal danger. With pride I add my own grandfather, Tjaart van Doorn, who helped in handing to us the precious gem that is South Africa. They gave us more—their vision of God’s will as it guides the destiny of the Afrikaner nation …

  ‘Never forget, this is the land of the Afrikaner, paid for with our blood and held through our faith. When the father of this nation, Jan van Riebeeck, first set foot on this soil in 1652 he found it empty, absolutely empty, of any Xhosa or Zulu, who had not then reached south of the Limpopo. Oh, there were a few Bushmen and Hottentot who died tragically from smallpox and other diseases. But this land was empty and we took it …

  ‘To protect what God gave us in His covenant we have fought and won great battles, and we shall forever be ready to move back into laager to resist any onslaught against us. This we must do, because we were placed here by God to do His work …

  ‘But let us be always mindful that there are vicious forces arrayed against us, eager to break the spirit of our small proud people who sparkle like a diamond among the nations of the earth. These bitter enemies refuse to see the wisdom of what we are trying to accomplish here. Who are these enemies? The anti-Afrikaner establishment. The priest establishment. The English establishment. The press establishment. The wealthy liberalists who still grudge us our glorious national victory in 1948 …

  ‘When we occupied this empty land, we were a pitiful
few, devout Christians unable to stem the entrance of Xhosa and Zulu into our country. Now that they are here, it is our duty to guide and discipline and govern them. When the English ruled, the blacks were like cattle moving over all the land, grazing here, grazing there, destroying the rich veld. We put a stop to that. We put them back in the kraal. And now we move them from places like the old Sophiatown to new quarters of their own …

  ‘But we are told today that civilization means equality and that the Kaffir [his first use of the word] must be raised up and given a free share of everything the Afrikaner worked and died for. I have nothing against the black man. I have deep sympathy for his backwardness, but I do not want him as my brother. [Laughter from the audience] And I certainly do not want to hear him prate about “Africa for the Africans.” This part of Africa is for the Afrikaners, and no one else … [This occasioned wild applause, and Detleef took a drink of water; he was sweating now and very red in the face; his voice shook with emotion.]

  ‘I am the first to admit that the Kaffir has a place in this country, and our new laws will help him keep to it. We will never allow him to dictate: “White man do this,” or “White man do that,” for if we do he’ll take our head. I say to the Kaffir and the brown man, “Out of the kindness of our hearts, out of our deep study of Divine Providence, we will chart a path for you along which you can find happiness and peace …” [More aplause and cheering]

  ‘My final message on this sacred day commemorating the death of our heroes in Dingane’s Kraal is to our young people. Sons and daughters! Be physically and spiritually prepared for the assaults our enemies will make. Protect your identity as we protected your language. When I was a child they stuck a dunce cap on my head because I spoke Dutch. I fought back. You, too, will have to fight, as these veterans behind me fought back. Allow no terrorist regiments on your soil, no Communist propaganda, no liberalist weakness, no Anglican bishops spreading lies. And when you fight, know that you are doing God’s will, for He ordained that you should be here …

  ‘If you are steadfast, you will triumph, as we triumphed over poverty and slums when we bulldozed Sophiatown to make way for this splendid development you see today with its white houses and neat gardens. In the darkest days of war Oom Paul Kruger said, “I tell you God says this nation will survive. Most certainly the Lord will triumph.” Today, young people, look about you. This is the hour of Afrikaner triumph.’

  As he moved away from the podium, he felt a pain in his chest; he swayed unsteadily, but reached his chair and sat down. Other speakers followed, with one confining himself to ‘Triomf over Sophiatown,’ but it never occurred to anyone present to ask what it was that they had triumphed over when they erased this black spot. Over the old women who had worked in white homes for fifty years and hoped for a refuge in which to die? Over young black children who had begun to learn in Father Huddleston’s missions? Over sturdy black workmen who had long manned essential jobs in Johannesburg and who now had to travel many miles to work each morning and back at night? Over the clergymen who had protested the immorality of bulldozing serviceable homes so that favored whites could be spared the sight of black neighbors? Over the good white women, English and Dutch, of the Black Sash who had tried to protect the rights of black mothers and their children? Over the attempts at reconciliation, which should have prevailed in South Africa and didn’t? Over what had Van Doorn’s system triumphed, except the forces of reason?

  The pains assailed Detleef again, accompanied this time by a heaviness in the chest which he had to recognize as serious. To the Boer War veteran next him he whispered, ‘Damnation! Just as we were getting things truly sorted out.’

  He was whisked to a private ward in the Johannesburg General Hospital, and his family was summoned from Vrymeer. When they assembled at his bed and heard his labored breathing they waited for Marius to speak, but Detleef did not want to hear from that one. He distrusted his son, and as older people often will, leaped a generation and extended his shaking hands toward his granddaughter, flaxen-haired Susanna. ‘Come closer, Sannie,’ he whispered, and when he kissed her hands, a gesture most inappropriate from him, the others realized that death must be near. Marius left the room to call Vrymeer, asking that two things precious to the old man be brought in at once.

  ‘Sannie,’ the dying man said, ‘you must always do the thing that is right for your country.’ This had been the dictate of his life: the honest move, the just act. He felt that the determination of what was just and honest had best be left to the judgment of men like himself, who were above greed or vanity and who acted solely in the interests of society.

  ‘You’re inheriting a noble country,’ he told the girl. ‘Now that people have been told their place and can rely on just laws to help them keep it.’ He noticed that Marius had reentered the room and was wincing at this summary, but he could not understand why. He could not conceive that a son of his might ask, ‘Who assigned the places? Can such allocations be made without consultation with those who are being assigned?’ Detleef was convinced that since well-intentioned men, attentive to God’s teachings, had made these decisions, to question them endangered the republic. He could not believe that his son would peck like a raven at a fabric so justly woven.

  As the afternoon wore on he again began to visualize the enemies who had endangered his land; immortal adversaries, they ranged themselves along the wall waiting for him to die. First were the blacks, who threatened to engulf the nation, cursed offspring of Dingane and stained, like him, with treachery. No! No! First there were the English. Always there were the English enemies, with their clever ways, their superiority of language and class. Two thousand years from now, when Great Pretoria lay crumbled in dust, you could be sure that some Englishman had knocked down the stones. They were the permanent enemy, and he was about to cry out that he still hated them when his mind cleared and he said boldly to everyone in the room, ‘I have never hated anyone. I have acted only from a sense of justice.’

  He did not hate the English—he pitied them, with their lost empire and their doomed superiorities. Nor did he hate the Indians, either; they were a sad lot huddling in their stores. It was regrettable that they had not been expelled, as the Chinese were; then he smiled, for the vision of Mahatma Gandhi flashed across his mind. ‘We got rid of that one,’ he said. Nor did he hate the Jews, even though they had stolen the diamond mines and the gold. ‘They contaminate our land. We should have expelled them, too.’

  ‘Who?’ his wife asked, but before he could respond, there was a commotion in the hall. An official of some kind, you could tell that from his voice, was warning someone: ‘You can’t go in there. Blacks are not allowed on these floors.’

  Marius hurried into the hallway, offered explanations, and soon brought into the sickroom Moses Nxumalo, who carried in his arms the great brassbound Bible. It was impossible to determine which of these gifts from the country pleased the dying man most. He loved old Moses, who had shared so many of the important moments of his life, and he cherished the sacred Bible which contained the record of that life, reaching back through the generations to the young sailor who had planted this Holy Book, actually and figuratively, on South African soil.

  He held out his hands to both the black and the Bible.

  ‘I’m so glad you came,’ he said weakly.

  ‘I’ve been weeping for you,’ Moses said. ‘But now my eyes are cured, seeing you again.’ They spoke of old days, of meaningful adventures, and it was impossible for the black to acknowledge that it was this white who had done so much to hedge in his sons, who had promulgated so many laws to restrict and emasculate them. Detleef was merely the good master, and to see him so near death was bitterness.

  It was the Bible that brought Detleef back to reality, and he began thumbing its heavy pages, printed so long ago in Amsterdam, its heavy Gothic letters setting for all time the course of right and wrong. It was inconceivable that God had delivered these words in anything but Dutch …

  He s
topped. Not even at the doorway to death could he forgive one insidious enemy who fought both South Africa and God: the infamous World Council of Churches, which refused to see that what Van Doorn and his helpers had done was right and openly made cash contributions to murderous revolutionaries. ‘How can they ignore the good things we’ve done?’

  ‘Who ignores us?’ Marius asked.

  ‘Why do they all persecute us?’ he whimpered.

  And he began to recite the sufferings of the Boers: ‘The Black Circuit. Slagter’s Nek. Blaauwkrantz. Dingane’s Kraal. The Jameson Raid. Chrissiesmeer Camp.’ Bitterly he repeated that infamous name: ‘Chrissiesmeer!’ Then: ‘Where’s Sannie?’

  Impatiently he gestured Moses and Marius aside and reached toward his granddaughter. When he saw her bright face outlined against the stark-white walls he whispered, ‘Sannie, never forget what they did to us at Chrissiesmeer.’

  Mention of that dreadful place so enraged him that blood drained from his brain and he passed into a strange kind of coma: He saw his bed ringed not with members of his family but with the timeless enemies of the Volk: Hilary Saltwood siding with the Xhosa. The man from America giving orders to the hangman at Slagter’s Nek. Dingane giving his bloodstained signal. Cecil Rhodes, implacable foe. Teacher Amberson making him wear the sign: I SPOKE DUTCH TODAY. The Jew Hoggenheimer, who had monopolized the mines. The Catholics who had sought to destroy his Martin Luther church. Officials from the United Nations talking sanctions. Was ever a nation so beset by enemies? And among the shadowy figures he saw his own son, who had chosen a scholarship at contaminating Oxford rather than a captaincy of the Springboks. Enemies all.

  Then blood returned to his fevered brain and a light seemed to enter the room, illuminating past and future. He rose on his arm and began shouting, ‘Laager toe, broers—Draw the wagons into a circle!’