Tonight, we bury twenty-six men in the dirt beneath a tree.
In the morning, our entire cavalry – 200 men – ride out on half-starved horses with orders to pursue the enemy into the desert. Armed with guns and heavy clubs, they’re told to show no mercy. No prisoners are to be taken. The general is determined that the Herero will not escape their God-ordained fate in the desert. It will serve as a lesson, he says, to the other tribes of the futility of rising up against the great German emperor.
The rest of us stay in camp, going silently about our tasks. I spend long hours taking care of the sick and wounded, but all I can think about is when I’ll get my next ration of water. By now, I should be used to the constant burning of my throat, of my mouth feeling as if it’s rusted shut. I can hardly remember a day when I wasn’t wracked by thirst, when I had clean clothes and a comfortable bed. I try to think of home, of Hanna and David and Papa. But they’re the memories of another man.
Four days later, a lone rider returns to camp. He’s bent over his mount, an East Prussian horse that looks as if it will drop with every faltering step. “Water!” The sentry calls as he eases the rider from the saddle just as the horse stumbles to the ground. Arnold rushes forward with a lid of water. Major Stuhlmann and I step up to see if the man is wounded. It’s Peter.
After taking a slow, long drink of water, Peter gasps, “I’m all right. But the others ... they’re back there….”
“What happened, Corporal?” the major asks.
“No water, sir.” Peter takes a deep breath. “Four days ... no water. The men walking ... most of the horses ... dead.”
“And the enemy?”
“Gone. Or dead.” Peter shivers convulsively.
The major calls for wagons to be sent out to retrieve the rest of the cavalry. Arnold and I help Peter to the hospital tent where he instantly falls into a deep sleep. I wish I could sleep too, but if the other men are in worse shape than Peter, they’re going to need medical help.
We “rest” four more days, feeding on rice and the oxen that have died. Our other provisions are gone. And the little water that’s left is vile, spreading dysentery throughout the camp. Thinking the war is over, the men yearn to go home. They’ve had their adventure. Now it’s time to return to civilization.
Although there’s been no mail since we left Ombatuatipiro and it’s hard to say when we’ll see the mail camel again, I write another letter to Hanna, letting her know I survived the battle. “Physically, I’m still whole,” I tell her. “But I’m not the man who left you all those months ago. My hair and beard have grown long and matted. My clothes hang on my thin frame. I can’t remember what it is to have a full belly. But the biggest changes are the ones that aren’t visible. Being surrounded by death and killing does something to a man. I only hope that I can return home to you, and if I do, I hope you can still love the man I’ve become. Please forgive me my stubbornness and my selfishness. I should never have deserted you, my love.” I close with the blessing of Elul: “Ketivah vachatimah tovah.”
This morning, the news arrives that the Herero, what’s left of them, have found some waterholes in the east and are camped by them. Enraged, General von Trotha orders us to break camp. “We will force them northward, deeper into the Omaheke and death,” he vows. “Only then can our colony be assured of peace and prosperity.”
And so we march, with our large supply train, devoid of supplies, into the broad steppes to the east. No white man has explored this region, so all we know is that there’s little water. The trail is littered with death, testifying to the harsh power of the desert. The bloated carcasses of cattle. Decaying bodies of goats and dogs. Dead and dying Herero. The ever circling vultures. And the brazen hyenas that look up from their twilight meals to stare at us curiously before returning to their carrion feast. But we march on, trampling over the corpses and, too often, giving death a helping hand.
It’s late and teeth-chattering cold when we stumble across a few waterholes marked by the glow of a small fire. From my wagon perch, I watch as the general and a few other officers ride over to the flames. One of the officers dismounts. A few shots ring out, and then we’re ordered to make camp for the night.
We use the original fire to stoke small fires throughout the camp. As I bend to pull a burning branch from the flames to carry back to start my own campfire, I see the frail bodies of two Herero women, their faces wrinkled by time. Their story is clear. Feeble with age, the women could go no farther. They had lit the fire for warmth while they waited for death, which we obligingly delivered. The firelight plays over the blood trickling from the bullet holes in their heads.
I want to cover their bodies, to give them a respectful burial, but I dare not. I wearily return to my campsite and light the fire, trying to silence my conscience in the routine. But as I drift toward sleep, the realization of what I’m doing hits me. This isn’t a war, nor is it purgatory. It’s a modern-day crusade – as vile and violent as the ones that killed my forefathers. But this time, there will be no memorbuch. There will be no one to bury the Herero dead, to remember their names, to memorialize their lives. And this time, I have joined the crusaders. How can I ever atone for this evil?
THE END OF REASON
I wake early in the morning and lie quietly watching the last stars blink out as the grayness fades to the first pink of dawn. I don my military hat and beg forgiveness for praying without my tefillin. I begin to recite Psalm 27, the Psalm of Elul:
“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When evildoers came upon me to eat up my flesh, even mine adversaries and my foes, they stumbled and fell. Though a host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war should rise up against me, even then will I be confident…. For He concealeth me in His pavilion in the day of evil; He hideth me in the covert of His tent; He lifteth me up upon a rock….”
I stop as a slight movement just beyond the edge of the camp catches my eye. That bramble bush a little way off – I swear I saw it move. I stare at it through half-closed eyes. There, it moved again! Then I see her, a Herero girl, stick thin, lying on the sand next to the corpse of a man. Watching for any sign of movement in the camp, she slowly pulls the thorny bush over her. A horse whinnies in the kraal, and the girl stops, feigning death. As silence returns, she once again inches the bramble over her body. At last, she lies still, her cover complete.
I admire her courage and wonder how long she can remain motionless with the finger-length thorns digging into her young skin. I know the general would expect me to report her, but I refuse to be responsible for her death. Let her have a chance at life, I think. One young girl left alone in the veld is hardly a threat to the mighty German empire.
As we prepare to break camp, I discreetly keep an eye on her hiding place. I hold my breath as a soldier wanders over to the bush and relieves himself on it. When he’s done, he bends down to pull the beads from the corpse of a woman next to the girl. With his souvenir in his pocket, he whistles as he joins other soldiers rummaging the bodies strewn about, looking for signs of life to snuff out and mementoes to take home to loved ones. Another soldier finds a young Herero woman still breathing. He calls to the others as he lowers his pants and forces himself on the woman. She doesn’t have the strength to whimper. I turn away as the others join him.
I help load up all the water we can drain from the waterholes, knowing we may not come across another one for days. As I bend down to lift up a barrel, I look out over the veld toward the soldiers. They laugh as they finish with the woman. One of them picks up his bayonet and jabs it into her limp body, slicing her open. I quickly turn back to loading the water.
Just before we leave, I wander over to where the girl is hiding and make a pretense of urinating. I bend down as if I’m picking something up, but instead I shove an apothecary bottle filled with water and a little packet of stringy ox meat and a bit of plinsen under the bramble. It isn’t
much, but it’s the most I can do. As I start to stand up, I freeze. Inches away, a black mamba rises up within striking distance of the girl. I slowly pull out my revolver and shoot. The deadly snake trembles and then lies still. I look toward the girl. Her dark brown eyes peer up at me through the brambles. It’s a look I will never forget.
As I turn away, I quietly say the Tefilat HaDerech for her: “May it be Your will, Lord, our God and the God of our ancestors, that You lead her toward peace, guide her footsteps toward peace, and make her reach her desired destination for life, gladness, and peace.” Somehow, I find comfort in knowing that this girl, at least, may live.
Toward midday, we come upon a place where the Herero had abandoned a herd of goats that were too weak to go on. A young Herero boy, about ten years old, sits dejectedly near the animals. Apparently he’s lost his way. When he cries out in hunger, Timbu offers him some food. “No!” one of the lieutenants barks. “What are you thinking?”
“He’s just a boy, sir,” Timbu says. “And he’s starving.”
“He’s the enemy. And we’re all hungry,” the lieutenant responds. “We should just kill him.” He draws his revolver.
“Killing him would be a mercy,” another officer says. “Why waste a bullet? Let the desert take him.”
The lieutenant laughs in agreement as he holsters his gun. Some of the soldiers gather up the goats that are still alive or are freshly dead. We can use what little meat they offer. And so we trudge on through the deep sand and the scorching sun, hunting the living and killing the dying.
Consumed by hunger and a maddening thirst, we push on over this no-man’s land, faint shadows of the men we once were. We move as if in a daze, going through the motions of life without really living. When I look around at what we’ve become, I once again wonder who is the more civilized. The German? Or the Herero? Yes, we Germans build houses and empires. But we rape and murder women and children. We kill the aged and the infirm. We trample their bones and leave their flesh for the beasts. All because we see them as an inferior race. One that stands in the way of our progress. Is this who I so desperately wanted to be? Is this why I left my family?
The sun is still high in the sky when we come upon a waterhole. Despite the earliness of the hour, we’re ordered to make camp. We have no voice to cheer, but we drag ourselves to the hole to wait our turn for a drink of the water. We satisfy our thirst, ignoring the weak cries of a Herero baby lying nearby.
Turning away from the waterhole, one of the men stumbles on the baby. He stoops to pick it up. “Lookie here,” he croaks. “A baby baboon!”
His comrades laugh hoarsely.
“Here, catch!” he hollers, tossing the baby like a ball to one of his friends. The friend almost drops the baby, who cries pitifully. “Throw it here!” another man says. The game ensues as more soldiers join to form a circle, throwing the baby from one to the other as if he were a ball. I start to say something, but one of the surgeons puts a restraining hand on my arm. “Let them have their fun,” he says. “Besides, it’s too far gone to feel much pain.”
“He is a baby,” I scream silently to myself, “a child as human and as feeling as yours.” But I stand passively in line, waiting to get water for some of the men who are too dehydrated to get their own.
Eventually, the baby’s cries stop, and the men grow weary of their sport. As a few of them begin to walk away, the one who started it all grabs his bayonet. “Throw it here,” he calls. “Let’s see if I can catch it with this.”
A few of the men lay odds on whether he can make the catch. Then the soldier holding the baby laughs and tosses the infant in the air toward the point of the bayonet.
I turn away in disgust, both at myself and the soldiers.
In my dreams that night, the soldiers are once again roughly tossing a baby from one to the other, but this time I join them. One of the men misses, and the almost lifeless infant falls to the ground. The soldier laughs as he picks the child up and throws him to me. I smile in triumph as I catch him. Then I look down into the bloodied face of my little David.
I wake in a cold sweat, too disturbed by the dream to even think of sleeping again. The rest of the camp slumbers as the fires grow dim. I quietly get up and creep to where the body of the mangled baby lies. And just as silently, I hurriedly dig a hole in the sand with my hands – barely big enough to hold the infant. I lay him to rest, covering his broken body with the gritty dirt and a little bit of brush. I search for the words to say. All I can remember is: “And the Lord will always guide you, and satisfy your soul in scorched places, and resurrect your bones. Rest in peace until the coming of the Consoler Who will proclaim peace.”
I scrub my hands with sand and return to the embers of my campfire. The burial can’t undo what has happened, but at least I feel a little more human. I have a lot to repent of this month.
At last, a supply train catches up with us, bringing us fresh horses, provisions, and medical supplies. But best of all, it brings mail, including a letter from Hanna. So starved for news of my family, I rip open the envelope, barely noting that it was sent two months ago. With the first sentence, I know this is the letter I’ve been dreading since I left home. Papa has died. “He went peacefully in his sleep,” Hanna writes. “I think he knew his time was near. In his last days, he had so much to tell me – stories about you and your mother, his dreams for David. He loved you very much, Kov. It troubled him that he wasn’t able to see you one more time to tell you how proud he was of you.”
The words sear my heart. I have done nothing to make Papa proud. Had he seen me standing by, condoning with my silence the atrocities we have committed against an innocent people, he would have turned away in shame. I have brought disgrace on my family.
In mourning and in torment, I rip the left side of my uniform, not caring that it represents everything I’ve lived for. If I could, I would strip these cursed khakis from my body and run naked into the desert, begging God to cleanse me from the touch of death that covers every inch of my flesh. Instead, I whisper the prayer of mourning: “Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam, dayan he-emet.” I bow in grief, dry-eyed. I have no tears to shed.
* * * * *
The long trek and the polluted water are taking their toll as once again typhoid rages through the troops. We set up camp on a high plateau where there’s a little water. General von Trotha stations small units to guard the known waterholes that border the Omaheke and sends out a cavalry to push any remaining Herero into the desert. The smaller units, many without doctors, are strung across the veld. In a gesture of personal atonement, I volunteer to ride from unit to unit, caring for the sick.
“Whoaa,” Alexander tells me. “That would be suicide, given the shape you’re in. You’ve been out here twice as long as the rest of us, and it’s taken quite a toll on you physically.”
I shrug. “Somebody has to go. It might as well be me. Besides, I’d rather be healing people than trampling over their bones.”
I pack my saddlebags and head out in the morning with Arnold and one of the Bastards, who will serve as our guide. We face into the bitter wind that blows incessantly across the veld, whipping the sand into our faces. Even as leathered as my skin is, the sand feels like stinging needles. I pull a kerchief up over my nose and mouth to protect them from the sand. Conversation would be pointless, even if we had the voice for it. As we ride, we’re constantly reminded of the desperation of the fleeing Herero. Fresh waterholes have been dug as deep as twelve meters, but from the looks of them, most of them came up dry. The bloated carcasses of cattle and goats litter our path. And too often, we come across the bodies of Herero, mutilated by the vultures and other wild creatures.
Day after day we ride, from one parched unit to another, tending the sick soldiers. The worst cases are loaded into wagons for the long tortuous haul back to Windhük. “What’s the use?” I wonder. Many of them will be corpses long before the wagons arrive in the capital.
At night, I sit silently
by the campfire, watching the flames struggle against the wind. I hate the nights. Too cold to sleep, too exhausted to do anything else, I lose myself in my thoughts. At times, I feel as if I’m standing on a precipice with one foot reaching into the abyss of madness. All I have to do is step forward and let myself fall – blissfully and irretrievably – into the innocence of insanity. It beckons like a sweet endless sleep, a realm of no guilt or accountability, so inviting ... so enticing. As I lean forward to escape reality, to escape myself, someone always pulls me back. Standing firmly on the precipice, I turn toward my rescuer. It’s Papa.
“You must not do this,” he says as he relentlessly pulls me toward safety. “Think of Hanna and David.”
“I am thinking of them,” I cry. “They would be better off without me. Hanna should be free to love a man deserving of her.”
He ignores my outburst. “And what about your forefathers? Is this how you honor us?”
I hang my head in shame. Papa lifts my head and looks into my eyes. “Yaakov, you can’t undo what is past. Neither can you escape its consequences. But you will find peace in repentance and forgiveness. I forgive you. Now you must forgive yourself.”
“I wish I could, Papa. But I have witnessed too much. And with my silence, I have condoned it. How can I repent when every day I must stand by and watch such evil without saying a word? My fate is sealed. Now I must live with the choices I have made.”
I fall into a dreamless sleep.
With Rosh Hashanah almost upon us, I rise long before the sun streaks the sky with its dawn light. I find a spot in the veld, not far from our small camp, where I will be undisturbed. Standing alone in this vast expanse of land, I wrap the tefillin about my skinny left arm and my forehead. I cover my head and mechanically say the prayers of repentance in preparation for the new year.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 30
