by Irma Joubert
“I know,” she said. “There’s a group, they call themselves the Stormjaers. They work with the OB. Tell me about them, Boelie.”
He frowned.
“I . . . just want to know more,” she said, “so that I can understand.”
He was still not looking at her. “I can tell you, yes. But remember, Pers, I’m not saying I belong to them, I’m just telling you about them. And it’s better not to mention these things to anyone. It’s . . . safer to say nothing.”
“I can keep a secret,” she said.
“Okay. The Stormjaers are an ultraconservative militant group inside the Nazi party in Germany.”
“Oh.”
“The Stormjaers have a lot of members. In the Transvaal alone there are thought to be about eight thousand, fully trained and armed. These include members of the police force. They say some of the most senior police officers are Stormjaers.”
“Who are they?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Who are the people who say so?”
“Just . . . you know . . . the people who know,” Boelie replied. “The Stormjaers are very serious about the cause. You know, Pers”—for the first time he looked at her, his dark eyes burning and intense—“a Stormjaer has to be willing to lay down his life for the freedom of his people. And if he betrays the ideals of the Stormjaers, they’ll target him.”
She frowned. “Is it worth it, Boelie? Laying down your life for the freedom of your people?”
“It’s what soldiers of many countries in Europe and North Africa are doing at this moment . . . thousands, millions of them,” he said.
“So the Stormjaers are also fighting in a kind of war. They’re also soldiers.”
“I suppose so,” he admitted. “They stand up and fight for what they believe is right. They have their own convictions.”
“It’s important to have your own convictions, isn’t it?”
“Yes, or you’re nothing but a piece of clay,” he said.
“And . . . you agree with them?” she made certain. “With the Stormjaers, I mean?”
“Let me put it this way: I completely understand how they feel. Something must be done! South Africa won’t solve its problems by talking.”
“Oh,” she said. “So you do support them?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I hear what I hear, Boelie. I know your room was raided, your room and De Wet’s.”
“So?”
“I worry about you,” she said. “I don’t want them to put you in a concentration camp.”
“Internment camp.”
“Same thing.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Why not what?”
“Why don’t you want me to be put in a camp?”
“Because . . . you’re my friend,” she said.
He gave her a strange look. “You saw me walk up here, so you waited for me, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
He nodded slowly and smiled. It was the first time she had seen him smile since she’d come home for the vacation, and his face looked a little less tired. “You’re a remarkable girl,” he said. Then he got to his feet. “I’m going back now. Don’t worry about me, I know what I’m doing.”
She watched him walk downhill until his strong figure became one with the veld in the distance.
She felt even more afraid.
“Go buy what you need at Ismail’s,” her ma had said just before she went back to school. “There’s money there.”
Pérsomi thought Gerbrand must be sending money directly to Mr. Ismail’s store.
“I don’t need Gerbrand’s money, Ma,” she tried to protest. “Why don’t you buy food instead—coffee and sugar and flour and stuff? And soap?”
“Oh heavens, Pérsomi, the money is for you and that’s the end of it!”
Pérsomi pondered this as she walked to the store alone. How had her ma known about the money? If Gerbrand had explained it in a letter, Pérsomi would have seen it.
As always, the store was dimly lit after the bright sunlight outside. And it smelled exactly the same. Good.
“Well, hello!” Yusuf’s cheery voice greeted her. “I thought the war had swallowed you.”
“Hello, Yusuf.” She smiled. “The vacation swallowed me.”
“Now it’s back to jail, isn’t it? What can we do for you today?”
“My brother sent some money, I want to buy soap and toothpaste,” she said.
“Wait, I’ll ask my grandpa,” he said. “Look at the nightgowns while you’re here. There aren’t many left and with the war and everything, we won’t be getting any new ones.”
She went to the drawer and opened it. For a moment she stood looking at the soft pink fabric.
“Take it out,” he said behind her. “There’s enough money for soap and toothpaste and that nightgown.”
She gave a puzzled frown. “How much money is there?” she asked.
He gave her a mischievous smile. “Pockets full,” he said.
“Yusuf!” she threatened.
He laughed, his teeth white against his dark skin. “A pound!” he said.
Gerbrand couldn’t have sent that much. What about their ma? And Hannapat?
“It’s all yours, girl,” said Yusuf. “Spend it.”
“I could never spend that much money.”
“Well, buy what you need and leave the rest on the book,” he suggested. “I’ll get the soap and things, you pick a nightgown. The day after tomorrow they might all be gone.”
The drawer represented a new world—the world of real people. She took the nightgowns out one by one and spread them on the counter. Each one was more beautiful than the last. They were all around ten shillings.
“What’s your favorite color?” Yusuf asked.
“I could never spend this much on a nightgown,” she said.
“I can show you day dresses for the same price,” he said.
She shook her head. “We wear a uniform all day. And I’ve got a dress for church.”
“Come on, Pérsomi, spoil yourself,” he said. “The soap and toothpaste come to less than a shilling. If you buy the nightgown, you’ll still have almost ten bob on the book.”
She put her hand out and touched the pink nightgown. Her hand on the soft fabric was red and chapped, like her ma’s hands. “You’re a shrewd salesman, Yusuf Ismail,” she said.
“You have to sleep in something,” he smiled, carefully folding it. “What do you hear from your brother?”
“He doesn’t write very often,” she said.
“My brother is in Egypt now. He went there in June. To think he has actually seen the pyramids, and the Red Sea and the River Nile! I feel like joining up myself. ‘Join the army and see the world,’ you know? Anything else for you?”
She hesitated a moment. “Do you have . . . cream? For . . . the skin?”
“Oh yes, all kinds,” he said and took her to another counter. “Different colors, scents, everything. They say soap and cream and stuff will soon be in short supply, but at the moment we still have lots.”
“I think I’ll buy some cream too,” she said.
“I can give you an expensive cream,” he said, “but the best cream is the kind my granny mixes herself, and it’s better value for the money.”
“Maybe you’re not such a great salesman after all, Yusuf. I would have bought the more expensive cream!”
Monday morning during math Reinier passed her a page from a newspaper. She looked at the date at the top of the page: Friday 18 July 1941. “Daring Theft of Dynamite—Nocturnal Incident in Stone Quarry.”
Relief flooded her. The story was about South Africa, not Gerbrand’s Abyssinia.
Wednesday morning a large supply of dynamite and explosives was stolen from a quarry belonging to Iscor seven miles outside Pretoria. The quarry is protected by armed guards.
During the night nine men arrived in three cars. They overpowered the guards and locked t
hem up. Dynamite was removed from a storeroom and detonators from another. The stolen items were loaded into the cars and the perpetrators drove off.
She looked up, shrugging. “Read on,” whispered Reinier.
Soon after they left, one of the cars left the road and landed in a ditch. The occupants stopped a passing truck and asked the driver to assist them. The three cars disappeared without a trace.
The police are looking for the truck driver to help them identify the offenders. The guards were relieved of their firearms and one of them was slightly injured.
She gave the paper back. “And?” she asked softly.
“They were OB members, Pérsomi, Stormjaers,” he whispered.
She understood. “They stole dynamite to blow things up?” she said, shocked.
“Shh! Yes, I think so. My dad says with the Nazis achieving one victory after another, the antiwar faction in South Africa is gaining ground.”
“If they steal,” she whispered earnestly, “they’ll go to jail.” She feared for Boelie. The incident was so close to Pretoria.
“And if they blow up things.”
“Reinier and Pérsomi, stand!” the teacher said.
Guiltily they got to their feet.
“Didn’t I tell you to carry on with your work?”
“Sir, we’ve finished our work, sir,” Reinier said.
“Well, do some more,” the teacher said.
“Yes, of course. Right, sir.” said Reinier.
“Yes, sir,” said Pérsomi.
All day long worry gnawed at her belly.
When they were walking back to the dormitory after school that afternoon, Pérsomi heard Irene say to her friends: “Imagine! Sitting at the back, chatting away with Reinier. Mr. Van Wyk had to tell them off. With Reinier, of all people! I wonder if she really thinks she has a chance. With those grasshopper legs?”
Pérsomi slowed down. But Irene’s voice still came to her on the wind. “She crawls out of a hole, man, believe me, I know. Why my dad didn’t chase the whole lot off the farm years ago none of us can understand.”
That evening she wrote Gerbrand a long letter. She wrote as small as she could because she didn’t want to tear more than one page from her exercise book.
Gerbrand,
Thank you very, very much for the pound you sent Mr. Ismail. I bought soap and toothpaste, and a pink nightie. Maybe you think I should have bought a day dress, but see, we wear our uniform all day and I already have a dress for church. And a girl likes to feel good when she goes to bed. And I bought cream to make my hands soft.
She told him about the farm and their ma and Hannapat, and about Sissie who was working now and living in a kind of hostel. She made no mention of Piet and the longdrop.
She wished she could tell him about Boelie and how worried she was, but she couldn’t, because she had promised not to say anything. And Gerbrand had said their letters were censored.
At the end she wrote:
Gerbrand, will you please write to me? Please tell me what you are doing and please tell me why you joined the army and if you are happy.
Look after yourself. Because I really miss talking to you.
Best wishes.
Your sister,
Pérsomi
She folded the letter neatly, wrote the address on the envelope, and put a stamp on it. She would mail it on Friday.
Then she took her Bible and read from the gospel of Luke.
But when she finally fell asleep she didn’t dream of Gerbrand behind the rolls of barbed wire with his rifle and round tin hat. Her mind turned to Boelie, sitting in a barbed-wire cage, his face like a mask, his eyes staring straight ahead without any expression.
Just after the short recess Tuesday morning the school secretary came to their history class and spoke to their teacher. The teacher frowned slightly. Her hand went to her mouth, and she shook her head.
“Irene, please go to the office with Mrs. Olivier,” the teacher said. “Take your books along.”
Pérsomi felt her entire being sink to the pit of her stomach.
“It’s Boelie,” she whispered to Reinier.
“Boelie?” Reinier asked, puzzled.
OB, Pérsomi penciled in her history book.
Stormjaers? Reinier wrote.
Pérsomi nodded and took care to erase the words.
She was right. Rumors soon spread throughout the school.
That evening she said to Beth, “Now I know that prayer doesn’t help. I prayed so often for Boelie not to get into trouble, especially during the past few weeks. Now look what has happened.”
“We don’t understand the ways of God,” said Beth, “but He knows what He’s doing.”
“I won’t pray anymore,” said Pérsomi firmly.
“Whether you pray or not, He is in control,” Beth said. “He will always be there for you.”
There was a long silence. Then Pérsomi asked: “Beth, will you please pray for Boelie to get through this thing? And . . . for Gerbrand, too, for his safety, and happiness. I really miss him.”
On the last day of school she received an award for being the top achiever in Form II. She beat Reinier by a whopping 2 percent. She’d worked hard for it, so she walked proudly to the stage, stood tall among the other achievers, and looked out over the sea of black-and-white uniforms and upturned faces in the school hall. She shook the headmaster’s hand before returning to her place among the other Form IIs. Afterward, Beth put her arm around Pérsomi, and Reinier came over from the boys’ side to congratulate her.
But when she walked into the dormitory, she overheard Irene say: “Not bad for the daughter of a jailbird.”
“Jailbird?” one of her friends asked. “Who’s in jail?”
“Her father, more than a year already,” said Irene.
“And you’re only telling us now?”
No one spoke of Boelie’s arrest.
“Oh, you know.” Irene replied sweetly, “one doesn’t like to speak about that kind of thing. They are our bywoners, after all.”
SIX
THE FLIES BUZZED LAZILY AGAINST THE WALLS, BUNCHED together on the tabletop, whirred aimlessly around the mattresses under the table, huddled black on the burnt porridge scrapings.
The early morning sun blazed down on the exposed tin roof, mercilessly scorched the open plains around the small house, trapped the occupants in a bottomless oven.
“It’s very bad at the Big House,” said Hannapat the first day. “Aunt Lulu cries all the time and Mr. Fourie is very cross, worse than ever. It’s because of Boelie being in jail, that’s why.”
“It’s an internment camp, not a jail,” said Pérsomi.
“Oom Attie and Auntie Sis say it’s a jail,” Hannapat argued. “Boelie was in court, Auntie Sis told me, and now he’s behind bars. Are you saying Oom Attie and Auntie Sis are lying? Huh?”
Pérsomi had no idea how long Boelie would be interned.
She walked down to the Pontenilo. It was a muddy, shallow pool. The rocky ledges, submerged when it rained, were dry.
Pérsomi waded in, ankle deep. The water was lukewarm and slimy, the bottom slippery. She kicked away the slimy threads, bent down, and washed her face. In the late afternoon, when it was cooler, she would go upriver to find a cleaner pool to bathe in.
Slowly she waded to the opposite bank. At its deepest, the water reached just below her knees. More than ever she missed the clean dormitory, the dishes filled with cabbage and samp and pumpkin at lunchtime, the bathrooms, and her bed with the stiff white sheets. She missed the library with its books and newspapers, the town, and Mr. Ismail’s store. She missed Beth and their whispered conversations after lights-out. She missed her conversations with Reinier, who thought she was different from other girls.
It felt as if she no longer belonged here.
From the front of her dress she took the gray envelope. She knew the words of the two letters by heart. She always kept them close to her heart and held the words in her heart. She read
the letters almost every day, because they were her letters, something tangible to which she could cling.
Dear Pérsomi,
I can’t write much because we’re at the front now and very busy. But you must keep writing because we look out for mail every day it’s nice to get a letter.
I’m still in Abyssinia, near Adis Abeba it’s their capital city. We have defeated the Eyeties completely in Abyssinia and we have put Emperor Haile Selassie that’s their leader back on the throne so we’re their liberators. The Abyssinians I mean. He’s not much to look at you know that Haile Selassie he’s a short thin little man with a face like a raisin. We take all the Eyetie prisoners to the harbor but we don’t have to guard them. They guard us because they want to reach the harbor safely to get out of the country they’re so afraid of the Abyssinians from here they go to the Union. Tonight they sang to us they sing really well almost like on the records.
Last night we drank an awful lot. My friend Jakkals and I and two more guys had a keg of Aquavit we took from the Eyetie prisoners. It looks almost like water but it burns all the way to your stomach and it has a good kick. This morning my head was bloddy sore but now I’m alright. Don’t tell Ma this I’m only telling you.
We’re done here in East Africa at the end of the week we’re going further north to Egypt. That’s where the pyramids are and the River Nile. Our headquarters will be in Cairo I’m looking forward to it.
I’m going to hand in the letter now it will go to the Union by ship. Tell Ma I send my best wishes.
Oh and don’t thank me for the pound I didn’t send old Ismail a pound for you I don’t trust him.
I like it in the army now I’m going to hand in the letter.
Your brother,
Gerbrand
Pérsomi smiled. She could hear Gerbrand speak. The words went from his round handwriting to her eyes and straight to her ears.
If Gerbrand didn’t send Mr. Ismail a pound, where did it come from? She had asked her ma but she only said, “Heavens, Pérsomi, stop asking so many questions.”
