Geier and I tour the simple little church and what’s left of the missionary’s house, looking for the best location for our hospital. The church is pretty much intact, but the house has gaping holes in its roof and its doors and shutters are long gone. Broken furniture and debris litter every room. A pasteboard placard hangs untouched above the living room door. “Love Your Enemies,” it says.
Despite the damage, we choose the house – it’s bigger and it’s closer to fresh water. And neither one of us is comfortable with bringing death into a house of worship. We help the orderlies clean the mess and then make up beds of grass and blankets.
Thankfully, the number of new typhus cases dwindles over the next few weeks, but healing is slow for those who already have the fever. Although we have plenty of water, our supplies are almost gone and the men have little to eat. The major consults with us regularly, assuring us that more supplies are on the way. The only other news we get is that the campaign has been halted. All of our divisions have been decimated by illness, and we have too few troops well enough to hold the line or continue pushing the enemy toward the east. We’ll have to wait for the Kaiser to send more men.
That news makes the sick even more despondent. Hopes of a quick victory and a triumphant return home are dashed. “It’s the way this campaign was carried out,” one of my patients says. “If the main division had caught up with us like it was supposed to, we could have ended the rebellion weeks ago, and we’d be home by now.”
Since the Herero have not attacked any of our units following the Easter ambush, I question whether there’s even an uprising anymore. But I keep my thoughts to myself.
Fresh supplies arrive ten days later – mattresses, wine, egg whites, oats, bouillon, cocoa – a real feast. But the provisions do little to lift the spirits of those confined to the hospital. Every day brings another death, and the rants of the delirious sometimes make me question my own sanity. One of the sick, an able-bodied man who has traveled the world seeking adventure, insists that both of his legs have been shot off.
Another fear is that the medical staff will contract the fever or dysentery, which also is making inroads in the camp. Although he’s still nursing his injured arm, Peter has taken on many of the duties of an orderly, but now he’s showing symptoms of dysentery. It’s hard to be optimistic in such surroundings. I feel as if we’re all just shadows of life.
* * * * *
Now that the campaign is on hold and we’re settled in one place, we’re beginning to receive mail more regularly. I watch enviously as the men tear open their letters and pore over every word. Surely by now another letter from Hanna would have gotten through. But mail call after mail call ends with nothing for me. I remind myself that she hasn’t received many letters from me either and vow to write more often.
Peter is riled by a letter one of his friends received. It seems that all anyone back home can talk about is the Russo-Japanese war. There’s little mention of our efforts. And what little there is comes at our expense. If we were better soldiers, we would have whipped the natives by now. The folks back home can’t understand why several hundred well-armed German soldiers haven’t been able to put thousands of ignorant heathen in their place.
When Gerd comes to check on one of the old settlers, Peter shows him the letter. Gerd reads it and laughs. “What did you expect? All they care about back home is novelty. How many wives does the King of Siam have? That’s what good Germans want to know.” He hands the letter back to Peter. “And that’s why the Englanders laugh at us. They couldn’t care less about novelty. Their only interest is ‘What use will this be to England?’ That’s how you build an empire.” Gerd is still laughing as he heads out the door.
Today, I finally get a letter, but I have no time to read it. I tuck it in my pocket, a treat to be savored in private. Just knowing it’s there brightens my rounds, which seem to be taking twice as long as usual. Another man has died. But others are getting better, I remind myself. With Hanna’s letter nestled in my pocket, I refuse to give in to the melancholy that pervades this place. I actually smile – for the first time in weeks.
At last I finish my rounds. I take my worn blanket and head out into the chill air of the evening. I breathe deeply, ridding myself of the foulness of the hospital. I clear some of the gray seedpods from beneath a camelthorn tree and settle down to read Hanna’s letter. I pull the envelope from my pocket and sniff the smell of home. I carefully break the seal and remove the letter. Each word breathes new life into my memories of Hanna. “My dearest Kov, how I long for your return. When you left, I lost not only my husband but my best friend and confidante….” The ink blurs as if a tear has smudged it. I kiss the spot as if it were Hanna herself.
“You’re always in my thoughts. Until I can hold you again, I will keep you in my heart. You are a good man – one I’m proud to call my husband. Don’t let this war corrupt that goodness.”
My own tears blot the paper as I finish reading the letter. My tears are not so much because I miss Hanna but because I realize I’m no longer the man she remembers. And I know I can never be that man again. I sit there, clutching her letter to my heart. I hear the dry branches in the thicket snapping with cold. And I see the vultures circling in the sunset sky. But my thoughts are far away, in another time, in a little house in Fürth.
The loud wail of a sick soldier brings me back to reality. I watch as two men dig yet another grave in the cemetery. From the camp above, I hear the bittersweet ode of men longing to be home:
But it will never be my fate.
I must wander through the world.
Home sweet home, you are always in my mind.
Home sweet home, to you I give my greetings.
I join in quietly on the final refrain:
Cherished home, hail.
In the distance, hail.
Hail in the distance,
Cherished home, all hail.
MOVING ON
I watch with mixed feelings as the last of the sick are loaded into the train cars at the station in Windhük for the slow trip home. I wonder how many of them will make it to Swakopmund, much less to Germany. A lot of the men have recovered and have already moved on. Peter left with a scouting unit a few weeks ago. Geier is leaving Windhük today to escort the sick to Swakopmund. Some of the other surgeons are going with the major, who vindicated himself in the public eye in the Easter battle and is now the leader of all the Marine Expeditionary Forces in southern Africa.
As the train pulls out of the station to begin the long descent to the ocean, I breathe a sigh of relief. For the first time in ages, I feel clean – at least physically. My stomach is full, and my throat no longer burns. I have a few days of rest before my new assignment begins. I need it.
If only I could cleanse my mind as easily as I wash my hands and uniform. Troubled by the deaths and brutality I’ve witnessed, I long for someone to talk to who could give me comfort. I think of my rabbi from Fürth, of Christof, and of Hanna. The rabbi wouldn’t understand what I’m going through, but he undoubtedly would have some words of advice. Christof, with his knowledge of history, could help me make sense of it all. And Hanna could hold me, soothing away the specters of death that haunt me.
Refusing to give in to the guilt and depression that threaten me, I spend the next few days taking in all the changes that have occurred in the colonial capital since I was here in February. It seems like years, but it’s only been five months. In that time, petrol-powered trucks have arrived on the rough streets, telegraph lines have been strung, new buildings erected, and now telephone lines are beginning to stretch across what’s becoming a boomtown. Yet with all this growth, there are no synagogues and few churches. Ironic, I think, since the colony was first settled by missionaries.
South West Africa could do with a good dose of religious faith and the morality that comes with it. Instead, the colony is attracting adventurers, speculators, people of ill repute – from all over the world. Encouraged by newspaper reports
that, after the war, tribal structures will be destroyed, the chiefdoms abolished, and all weapons confiscated, they want to get in on the ground floor of settlement. Lured by the thought of vast land tracts and free native labor, they hope to build their personal empires on the back of the German empire.
At times, I’m tempted to put down roots here myself. But then I think of my family. Papa’s health is too bad for him to emigrate, and this country is still too wild for Hanna to be at home. White women – especially respectable ones – are scarce. As a result, several of the traders and early settlers have married into the ruling Herero families, something that doesn’t sit well with the colonial officials. Our law requires them to recognize the descendants of legally married citizens – even those of mixed race – as Germans with full voting rights. That’s a hard charge for people who see their race as superior to all others and who are afraid of being outvoted by “inferiors.”
In addition to all the new settlers, thousands of troops have arrived from Germany, along with supplies and a general – Lothar von Trotha. Windhük is abuzz with talk of the general as expectations run high that he’ll capture Samuel Maharero and the other rebellious chiefs within weeks. Arnold and I, along with several new surgeons and orderlies, have been assigned to the field hospital with Trotha’s main division.
Captain Gansser, who’s part of our new unit, says things will be different now that the general is in charge. A career officer, Trotha is known for his ruthlessness in quelling the Boxer Rebellion and in suppressing several uprisings in our other African colonies. “It will take someone like General von Trotha to end this revolt,” the captain says. “The Herero will only bow if they’re forced to.”
Müller, one of the home guard assigned to the division, nods in agreement. Most of the old settlers blame the uprising on Governor Leutwein’s lack of firmness. Like the settlers, the governor believes in the colonial “law of existence.” Simply put, that means the natives’ right to exist is only justified by their usefulness to Germany. And of course, in the eyes of most of the settlers, their only usefulness is in giving up their land and cattle and accepting their role as laborers and servants.
But Leutwein wanted to let the Herero gradually get used to their new position. Urging the settlers to be patient, he insisted that, in time, the tribe’s former independence would be just a distant memory. His plan was to sever tribal ties and to rule firmly but with some compassion.
“Any fool could see that wouldn’t work,” Müller says. “If we’re going to take their land, we just need to get it done with.”
“That’s apparently what Trotha intends to do,” Gansser says, repeating a report he heard of the general’s first exchange with Leutwein. “When Governor Leutwein urged restraint, the general put him in his place, saying the Kaiser has ordered him to crush the uprising with any means necessary. Trotha reminded him that he knows the tribes of Africa, and they only respond to force. The general’s policy is to use force with terrorism and brutality. He promised to annihilate the revolting tribes with streams of blood and streams of gold.” Gansser smiles broadly. “That’s the kind of leadership we need.”
Müller nods approvingly. “The general understands lebensraum,” he says. “If Germany is to remain strong, it must have more land for its people to settle. And if the natives won’t give it to us, then we have no choice but to take it. It’s survival of the fittest.”
I ponder their words long after the captain and Müller leave. When they think of “streams of blood,” they interpret is as the blood of the Herero, not of German troops. What they’re forgetting is that Trotha, and the Kaiser, are willing to spend anything, including thousands of German lives, in their quest to destroy the tribe. My last conversation with Friedrich echoes through my mind. “Even if 2,000 German graves have to be dug here, the Kaiser will not give up South West Africa,” he had said. Now Friedrich’s bones are rotting in one of those graves. How many more graves will Trotha have us dig? Given the general’s vow, there could be thousands more – both German and Herero. And what for? So the Fatherland can stand among the nations, head held high, and say, “Look at our great empire!”
* * * * *
It’s in the height of winter that we prepare for Trotha’s campaign against the Herero. Several months have passed since they last attacked a German settlement or military outpost. If it weren’t for the general’s grand scheme to cleanse the colony of their presence, I’d say the uprising is over. But what do I know? I’m just a doctor.
Headquartered at the fort in Okahandja, Trotha spends weeks drilling the troops and plotting strategy with his top officers. The general seems to revel in the irony of quartering in the home of Samuel Maharero and in the town that was the setting for the start of the uprising. It also was here that Göring first signed the treaty with Samuel’s father, promising to protect the Herero from their enemies. It was here that Mr. Störmer opened a beer garden next to the Wecke & Voigts store, knowing he was encroaching on the sacred burial grounds of the Herero chiefs. And it was here that, according to some accounts, Lieutenant Zürn pushed Samuel and his men to take up arms against the settlers.
Regardless of its history, Okahandja is a good place to prepare for the final battle, as we have plenty of water and many of the conveniences of civilization. Best of all, the camel riders deliver mail on a regular basis to the town’s post office, so I can catch up on my letters to Hanna, knowing I may not have the opportunity later.
Responding to the German residents’ concerns that their Herero workers will run off, Trotha sets up a prison camp just outside the Okahandja fort for all the Herero living in the area. Whenever they’re not working, they’re imprisoned in the small camp that’s bordered by barbed wire and the spiky branches of the camelthorn tree. And when scouting parties encounter peaceful Herero, they bring them in neck chains to the prison camp that lies within view of Moordkoppie, a rock outcropping where a band of Herero were slaughtered half a century ago while defending their lands from other invaders.
Soon, the small prison camp, located next to the stables, becomes a festering ground for dysentery as no thought was given in its creation to sanitation and proper drainage. Venereal disease also becomes rampant, thanks to our soldiers who freely use the Herero women.
As I see one of the officers emerging from the camp with a smug look on his face, I turn away, trying to hide my disgust. To hear most of the men talk, they view the Herero as little more than cattle. Yet they force the women to lie with them and then boast about their conquests. The conflicting standards make no sense to me.
Alexander Lion, one of the surgeons who recently arrived in the colony, tries to explain it to me. “It’s a natural hunger they have,” he says. “And like any hunger, it must be filled. Since they’re separated from their wives and sweethearts, how else are they going to satisfy themselves?”
“We’re not animals. We should be able to control our urges,” I argue.
“Different forces are at play in times of war. These men are sacrificing their lives for the Fatherland. They’re going to indulge themselves once in awhile.” He smiles.
“But what about the women and young girls who are being raped night after night? Do they not matter?”
Alexander looks down at the ground. “I wish it could be otherwise. Unfortunately, it’s the price of war. Their chiefs brought it on the women by rising up against the Kaiser. If anyone is to blame, it’s the Herero headmen.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I’ve been here longer than you, and I’ve witnessed some horrendous acts on the part of the Germans. I often wonder which is the civilized race and which is the savage. If we keep making these excuses, we’re in danger of losing our humanity.”
Sometimes I think we’ve already lost it. The officers seem to be looking for reasons to kill the Herero prisoners. Any minor infraction or sign of disrespect is enough for the death penalty. The punishment is carried out on a makeshift gallows within view of the prison camp. The “g
uilty” are forced to stand on a wooden crate while nooses are tightened about their necks. Then a soldier kicks the boxes out from under them, leaving them to dangle a few feet from the ground until the next hanging. When we run low on rope, the soldiers use barbed fence wire to form the noose.
As the prison camp fills, the scouting parties stop bringing in new prisoners. Instead, they return with boastful stories of killing Herero. Today, one party came in after a few weeks in the mountains. They told one tale after another about how they shot a couple in the back, killed elderly women in their sleep and gunned down several women and a few men at a watering hole. They showed their “souvenirs” to back up their stories – fetishes, skin water bags, a few bones, and the brass and beaded hide bracelets and anklets from some of the women. I shake my head at such stories, not knowing whether to believe them. Sometimes, I think the men are just trying to outboast each other. But that doesn’t make sense. These are stories of brutality, not valor. Why would anyone brag about such deeds?
Before we leave Okahandja, Trotha assembles the troops to tell us what’s expected of us. Divided into seven units, we’ll trap the Herero at Waterberg, where most of the tribe has sought refuge. The other units are already en route to the north and west of the region. We’ll come up from the south. Together, we’ll form an ever-tightening cordon that will keep the Herero from returning home.
“No quarter is to be given to the enemy,” Trotha says, riding in front of us on his spirited horse. “We’ll take no prisoners. All Herero, regardless of age or gender or guilt or innocence, are to be killed. We must exterminate them to ensure they never rise up against us again.” Shivers run down my spine, but not from the cold. Surely this is just a rallying cry. He can’t mean that we’re to destroy an entire race of people.
A few days into our march, I realize that’s exactly what he intends to do. We come upon what appears to be an abandoned village of Herero huts. One of the officers sends some troops to search the village. A few minutes later, a soldier reports that several old women are in one of the huts. A few of them are blind and one is so lame she can’t stand.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 28
