Mama Namibia: Based on True Events

by Mari Serebrov

  “Of course. My daughter is always welcome. Although I doubt I will be much use when the little one arrives.” He motions for Hanna to sit down, fussing about her as he tries to make her comfortable.

  “We’ve made arrangements for that.”

  “And what about you? You should be here when your child is born.” He looks up at me narrowly.

  “I know, Papa. We can discuss this after I get Hanna settled in.” I pick up the trunk and carry it into my old room.

  I take my time putting Hanna’s things into the wooden cupboard. The hardest part is putting away the baby clothes and blankets she has made. They’re so tiny. And I know our child will have long outgrown them before I get to see him, or her. I have to remind myself, once again, that I’m doing the right thing, that my service to the Fatherland will earn our children the respect of their fellow countrymen.

  I gaze out the bedroom window, absently noting all the things that have changed and stayed the same, as I listen to the pleasant hum of Hanna and Papa talking. The conversation breaks off as Papa coughs, a dry hacking sound that echoes through the small apartment.

  He’s still doubled over coughing when I reach the living room. Hanna offers him a glass of water, but he waves it away. He sinks onto the couch. I kneel beside him, waiting for him to regain his breath.

  “How long have you had this cough?” I finally ask in my best bedside manner.

  “A few months.” His voice is raspy, and his breathing ragged.

  “What does Dr. Goldstein say about it?”

  “What does he know?” Papa says evasively.

  As I kneel there looking up at the feeble old man Papa has become, I sense that this will be my last visit with him. Feeling the tears welling in my eyes, I pat his knee awkwardly. I wish I could just once tell him how much I love him, but the barrier that’s always been between us holds me back.

  Assured that Papa is all right, Hanna excuses herself on the pretense that she needs to rest. But as she leaves the room, she gives me a look, one that says she expects me to talk with Papa about Africa. I swallow hard and walk over to the front window where I can look out at the narrow street lined with Jewish shops. Keeping my back toward Papa, I try to be nonchalant. “You’ve heard about the uprising in South West Africa?”

  “Yes, I’ve read about it in the papers.” His voice is steadier now. “Terrible mess.”

  I remain silent, giving him time to make the connection.

  “That’s where you’re going? To Africa?”

  “Yes, Papa.” I turn to look at him. “And I would like your blessing.”

  “My blessing?” He sits in astounded silence for a few minutes before continuing. “My blessing to kill strangers who have never harmed you? My blessing to die in a land that is not ours? My blessing to break my heart?” Silent sobs shake his frail body as he stares down at the worn rug for moments of eternity.

  When he finally looks up at me, his usual weary dignity has dissolved into raw anguish. “Son, from the day you were born, you became my life – my future.”

  Surprised by Papa’s open expression of his feelings for me, I sit next to him, embracing him. “My going to Africa doesn’t change that. I’m going as a doctor, not as a soldier. I will be healing people, not killing them.” I speak softly. “I will come back. I promise.”

  Ignoring my words, Papa rushes on, “All your life, you had only to ask me for something, and it was yours. But this request, Yaakov, I cannot honor. I cannot give you my blessing to fight a war that should not be fought.”

  “But, Papa….”

  Shaking his head, Papa puts his trembling finger to his lips. The discussion is over.

  SAYING GOODBYE

  Before leaving for Kiel, I visit with Ritter von Epenstein. As I get off the train at Neuhaus, I glance up at Burg Veldenstein standing guard over the village and am amazed at the progress that’s been made. No longer a ruin, the old castle looks as solid as the day it was first built. I quicken my pace, eager to see the restoration up close.

  “Dr. Wolf!” I hear as I reach the courtyard of the fortress. I turn just as Epenstein emerges from the woods, followed by an adolescent carrying a brace of fowl. I wave and wait for my host to catch up with me.

  A servant runs out to take Epenstein’s rifle and relieve the boy of the game. The ritter turns toward me. “Ah, Kov, my friend. It is good to see you.” He embraces me. “It looks like military life agrees with you.” He pats his hunting companion on the back, nudging him forward. “You remember my godson Hermann?”

  “You’ve grown.” I shake hands with the boy as he sizes me up with his ice blue eyes.

  “Yes, Hermann is quite the young man,” Epenstein says. “He’s going to leave his mark on this world. You just wait and see.”

  Hermann seems to take the comments in stride, accepting them as fact rather than flattery.

  “So you’re off to Africa?” Epenstein leads me into the fortress.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be in Kiel for a few weeks, and then I’m heading to South West Africa as part of the Marine Expeditionskorps.”

  “Who’s your commanding officer?”

  “Major von Glasenapp. Do you know him, sir?”

  Epenstein shakes his head. “Only by reputation. But what I have heard is good. He served the country well in China, and the men who served under him truly love him.”

  As we enter the house, my host points out all the changes that have been made since my last visit. The renovations are both artistic and practical. I’m suitably impressed.

  Over lunch, Epenstein prepares me for the journey to Africa. “You’ve never been on a ship, have you?” he asks me.

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you get sick when you travel by train?”

  I smile sheepishly. “Sometimes, especially if I’m looking out the window and we’re going fast. I get over it though by fixing my eyes on something steady.”

  He chuckles. “You’re going to get so seasick, especially if you hit rough seas. When the seas are churning, there’s nothing steady to rest your eyes upon.”

  “I wouldn’t get seasick, Papa,” young Hermann pipes up, giving me a withering look from across the table.

  “You have a hardy constitution, my boy. But even you might be a bit queasy the first time you’re on a ship.” Epenstein looks over at me and laughs. “You should see your face. You’re green already and you have yet to set sail! There’s no reason to worry. All the first-timers will be sick, too. The only difference is that you’ll be expected to take care of them.”

  He sips his wine before continuing. “The key to conquering seasickness is learning the rhythm of the waves. Once you have mastered that rhythm, you’ll be fine. I also suggest you take some ropes to tie yourself in bed, in case you run into a storm.”

  Seeing my expression, he laughs again. “You should have mostly smooth sailing this time of year. Just never take the sea for granted. Even in relatively calm waters, the difference between the trough of a wave and its peak can be several meters. If you’re standing at the bow or the stern of the ship and you’re not hanging on to something, you can go flying into the air when the ship descends. And when you land on that hard deck, it hurts.

  “I remember this one young sailor who loved to ‘soar,’ as he called it, despite the broken bones he suffered when landing. One calm afternoon, he was playing at the stern of the ship with some of his mates. As the boat descended into the trough, he flew at least six meters into the air. But this time, he didn’t land on the deck. Instead, he crashed into the ocean. He was never seen again.”

  “But how could he disappear like that, sir?” I ask, half wondering if Epenstein is joking.

  “Consider that, in all likelihood, only his shoulders and head were above the water. And he was surrounded by an endless sea of two-meter waves that made him virtually invisible to everyone on the boat.” He pauses as he butters a slab of bread. “I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to be careful. If that sailor could di
sappear in the middle of the afternoon, in smooth seas with a boatload of people watching, imagine what could happen at night or in a storm.”

  Epenstein takes a few bites. “It should take you about three weeks to get there – provided you have calm seas. And with the Habicht already on its way, the rebellion could be over before you arrive.”

  I nod. The newspapers are full of reports of the gunboat being redirected from Cape Town to quell the uprising.

  “If I were in charge of the army, the fighting would have been over the week it started,” Hermann says matter-of-factly. “And all those murderous natives would have been executed.”

  Epenstein winks at me as he tousles Hermann’s hair. “Sounds like we have the wrong general in command!”

  He excuses Hermann to run an errand. As soon as we’re alone, Epenstein takes on a more serious demeanor. “You’re a good, kind man, Yaakov. I hope you will find it within yourself to forgive me one day.”

  “Whatever for? You’ve done nothing but help me, sir.”

  He smiles sadly and shakes his head. “I’m afraid that I have done you a huge disservice by getting you a military posting.” He looks down at the table. “This isn’t going to be an easy war. The Herero have every reason to rise up against us; they’re fighting for their homes and their freedom. But there are those Germans who will not be satisfied with a quick victory. They will want nothing less than the total destruction of the Herero people.”

  He raises his hand when I start to interrupt. “Yes, you’re going as a doctor. But you’re also a marine. You may be ordered to do things that you know are wrong. And you will have to follow those orders. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  * * * * *

  The next morning, I wake up early and roll over so I can watch Hanna sleep. Her large belly rises and falls beneath the blue quilt Mama made for me years ago. The hint of a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. Her long eyelashes flutter against her pale cheeks. She is so peaceful and content. This is how I’ll remember her when I’m in Africa.

  Her eyes blink open, and a shy smile plays over her face. I lean down to kiss her forehead. “It’s early,” I whisper. “Don’t get up yet.”

  “Where are you going?” she asks as I kick the covers off.

  “I have to say goodbye to Mama.”

  Dressed in my suit, I walk to the Jewish cemetery at the edge of town. It’s been a while since I’ve visited Mama’s grave. As I reach the graveyard, I pick up a pebble and pocket it. Then I do the ritual cleansing, washing my hands at the pump provided for that purpose. Entering the gate, I recite the customary blessing: “Blessed are You, the Lord our God, King of the universe, Who fashioned you in justice, nourished and sustained you in justice. Who knows your total count in justice, and Who in the future will revive and keep you alive in justice. Blessed are You, the Lord, Who resurrects the dead.”

  Thinking of what Epenstein told me yesterday, I find new comfort in the ancient words. I ponder their meaning before continuing with the proper passages from Isaiah and the Psalms: “Your dead will live again; my corpses will arise. Awake and sing, dwellers of dust! For the dew of light is Your dew, and the earth will give forth the dead. And He is merciful, atones for sin and does not destroy, frequently turns away His anger and does not arouse all His wrath.”

  Being careful not to step on any graves, I walk over to the granite, tablet-shaped stone marking Mama’s resting place. The tombstone is covered with the pebbles Papa has left on his many visits. Seeing how often he’s been here, I am ashamed of my long absence. Placing my left hand on the headstone, I trace the etched menorah and Hebrew lettering with my right: “Here lies Elise bat Eliyahu. May her soul be bound in the bundle of life.”

  I begin the prayers for Mama, but the words seem to apply to me as much as to her: “And the Lord will always guide you, and satisfy your soul in scorched places, and resurrect your bones. And you will be like a watered garden, and like a spring of waters that never fail. From you will rebuild the ancient ruins; the generations-old foundations you will re-establish. They will call you ‘the repairer of the breach, the restorer of the ways of civilization.’ Rest in peace until the coming of the Consoler Who will proclaim peace.”

  After reciting the Psalms, I tell Mama about Hanna, the baby, and my concerns about Papa, asking her to intercede for them. “Tomorrow, I’m leaving for Kiel, and from there, I will be going to South West Africa. I know I’m hurting Papa deeply; I wish you were here to explain it to him. You could make him understand why I have to do this.”

  I choke back a tear. “No matter how far away I go, you will always be in my thoughts. Mama, I miss you so much.”

  Before leaving the grave, I pledge my charity and finish the memorial prayer: “May her repose be in paradise. May the Lord of Mercy shelter her under the cover of His wings forever and bind in the bond of life her soul. The Lord is her heritage. May she rest in peace on her resting place.” I take the pebble out of my pocket and put it alongside all those left by Papa. At the gate of the cemetery, I ritually cleanse myself of death.

  I spend the rest of the day with Hanna and Papa, trying to act like it’s just another day while at the same time engraving every glance, every word, every lingering touch into my memory. Hanna hovers near me, tending to my needs. I should be the one taking care of her instead of traipsing off across the world.

  She laughs at me as, once again, I review the arrangements we’ve made for the baby. “Stop worrying about me,” she says. “The baby and I will both be fine. You just promise me you’ll take care of yourself. Our baby needs his father.”

  I reach over to kiss her cheek. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” I murmur.

  “Nothing,” Papa grumbles.

  “I know that, Papa. No one has to tell me,” I say agreeably. Today is not a day to argue. It’s a time to store up memories – of Hanna laughing, her hazel eyes twinkling in the candlelight; of Papa chanting his prayers, his fingers stroking the tzitzit of his prayer shawl as his voice rises and falls with the Hebrew syllables. I cling to every moment, wanting each one to last forever. But I can’t ignore the ticking of the mantle clock, counting off the few hours I have left with my family.

  All too soon, it’s time to go. With tears in my eyes, I hold Hanna one last time. Then I turn to Papa. He embraces me in his awkward way. “I love you, Papa,” I whisper almost inaudibly into his grizzled beard.

  His hold tightens. “I cannot give you my blessing, son,” he murmurs with a sob in his voice, “but you will be in my prayers.”

  Hiding my tears, I bend down to pick up my rucksack. As I step out the door, I can no longer hold back my emotions. When I reach the street, I look back. Hanna and Papa stand, arm in arm, tears streaming down their cheeks, watching me from the window. I wave sadly and resolutely turn toward the train station.

  I have never felt more alone.

  BOOK 2

  Jahohora

  WORDS OF WAR

  Tate stays home now, but Mama is still sad. I see her glance across the veld several times a day. She is afraid. I don’t know why. We are all safe. The white people leave us alone. They haven’t come to our village since the cattle sickness. Besides, Tate and uncles are here to protect us.

  After my work is done, I play with my cousins. We take turns racing. I am the fastest now, so the others want to try to beat me. I’m far ahead of all the others when Mama calls after me, “Don’t leave the village.”

  My cousins stop. I pretend I don’t hear. I’m tired of staying in the little circle of huts. I run into the veld, but I can still see my house. I slow to a walk, listening to the birds singing to each other. I smile. It feels good to leave the quiet sadness of the village. I stop when the birdsong quickly turns to a loud screeching of warning cries. I look out across the veld. In the distance, I see a dust cloud rising from the ground. Horses. Someone is coming toward me. I turn around and run as fast as I can back to the village.

  “Mama ... Tate!” I shout as I gulp
for breath. “Someone ... is ... coming ... on horses.”

  Tate tells all the women and children to go to their huts. Uncles get their weapons. Most of them have kirris or knives. A few have boom sticks. Tate doesn’t need clubs or boom sticks. He has words. He says words, even the softest ones, are louder than boom sticks, harder than clubs, and sharper than knives. And they have more power. Tate and uncles gather by the holy fire and wait for the visitors.

  Two Herero men ride into the village. They are headmen sent by the chief. It’s been many days since anyone has come to our village or left it, so we don’t know what’s happening in other parts of Hereroland. As uncles and Tate talk with the headmen, Mama stands close to the doorway of our hut, listening. I want to stand by her. She shakes her head and tells me to play with Karemarama.

  Tate and uncles talk with the headmen for a long time. I hear their voices rise and fall, but their words are a mumble. I watch Mama’s face. She is very worried. And angry. She looks like she wants to cry and shout – all at once. She turns her face when she sees me watching her. I can still see her hands making hard fists.

  “J’hora, tell me a story,” Karemarama demands. “Tell me about first day.”

  “Not now,” I say.

  “Then I’ll tell you the story.”

  I only half listen as he tells how Njambi Karunga called Mukuru and Kamangarunga, the first Herero tate and mama, out of the omumborombonga tree into the darkness of the first day.

  “Then Njambi Karunga called the first ancestors of all the tribes and all the animals out of the tree. But he didn’t call the tate and mama of white people from the tree,” he says. “Njambi Karunga told the tate and mama of the white people they had to live in the tree until now. Njambi didn’t want white people to come to Hereroland.”

  I laugh. “That’s not what happened.”

  Karemarama sticks his bottom lip out. “It’s what should have happened,” he says. “Do you think we can make white people go back into the omumborombonga tree?”