All around me, men and horses stumble on the stony path, cursing and snorting in the darkness. At last, the order comes to stop. A scouting party will go on ahead to look for water, but the rest of us can rest. With only a few fires for warmth, we lie beside our horses on the rocky ground. We’re too tired to care.
Several hours later, we mount the rested horses. The scouts have found water. The moon rises over the steppes, lighting our path with its silvery blue glow. We ride silently, shivering against the wind. I try to ignore the dry burning in my throat and the hunger gnawing at my stomach, focusing instead on the stars scattered across the heavens. I remember the wonder I felt as a boy looking up at the night sky. The magical dazzle of the stars. The pearly stare of the moon. The awareness of being a tiny part of this great immensity.
My horse whinnies and picks up his gait. Off in the distance, the limey soil glows like white marble in the radiance of the moonlight. In the midst of it lie three dark pools, framed by a few trees and towering termite hills. The moonglow works its magic, transforming the tiny desert oasis into the ruins of an ancient city square.
The men stir in their saddles as we approach the long-anticipated water. The lead horses whinny as they reach the first hole, but they turn away and move on to the second one and then the third. A few of the men murmur, wondering what’s going on. Then we smell it. Death. The holes are brimming with the rotting carcasses of cattle. The foul odor breaks the spell of the nighttime magic. We slide off our horses, which stand with their heads drooping. The men, fighting fatigue and the weakness of starvation, lean against their guns for support.
“How dare they?” one of the officers rails against the Herero. “What right do they have to contaminate the waterholes?”
I lower my head to hide a tired sardonic smile. We’re pushing them to their death in the desert, and then we complain when they fight back with the only weapons they have left.
The general orders us to move on. With no water, it will be better to ride in the cool of the night and then rest in the heat of the day. So we saddle up and resume our sleepy march, stretching out single file over the steppes. What little energy I have ebbs quickly under the strain of the continued trek. A deep lethargy settles over me as the rocking of the saddle lulls me into a dreamlike state. Occasionally, my horse stumbles, jolting me to consciousness. I jerk awake and look around, trying to get my bearings. The man in front of me slumps precariously to the side. His horse falters and drops to the ground, groaning. Half awake, the man struggles to free himself from the saddle. As the rest of us ride past him, he urges his horse to its feet. But the horse is spent. The man wearily shoulders his pack and pushes onward on foot. Before long, half the troops are reduced to infantry.
All along the path are signs of the desperation of the Herero flight. Embers of small fires. Discarded clothing. Books from the missionaries. Wasted animals slit open to claim their last reserves of moisture. Bodies of the weak and feeble. My eyes take in the desolation, but I’m too emotionally spent to care.
A reconnoitering party comes back with the news that Major von Estorff’s division has surprised the enemy. After a short skirmish, our troops pushed the Herero deeper into the Omaheke. But it’s still not enough for General von Trotha. We will continue our pursuit, he says. Our victory is not yet complete.
The next day we come to the waterholes of Osombo-Windembe and meet up with what’s left of Estorff’s division. Despite the general’s order, Estorff has taken a lot of Herero prisoners. Many of them are too weak to continue their flight. Others surrendered, claiming they weren’t involved in the fight. All of them begged for German mercy.
With Estorff’s reinforcements, Trotha decides to make one last stand to eradicate the enemy, who are at what is reportedly the next, and final, waterhole. After watering the horses and drinking our fill, we rest. Tomorrow we’ll prepare for battle.
The general orders a dress parade the next afternoon so he can review the troops. Trying to ignore a throbbing headache, I join the rest of the officers and troops forming ranks across the broad clearing. Those of us who still have horses mount our thin, shaggy steeds. The others line up on foot. The cannons are wheeled to the center. In our baggy, tattered uniforms, we’re only a semblance of the force that attacked the Herero at Hamakari. It’s hard to believe that was less than two months ago. It seems as if we’ve been marching in the bone-strewn desert for years.
As we wait in formation, the Herero prisoners – men women, and children – are dragged out in front of us. I gasp at their emaciated bodies as they huddle together. The campaign has taken an even greater toll on them than it has on us. I try not to look at their ghastly forms, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I find it hard to believe that any being could still function in such a condition. I stare at their shriveled skin stretching tautly over their bones – a macabre rendition of living skeletons. In contrast, even the sickest German soldier I have treated would look fat and healthy.
General von Trotha rides slowly between us and the prisoners, sitting erect on his horse. “Guten tag, men!” he calls out.
“Guten tag, your Excellency!” we respond.
The general proceeds to rally the troops, praising us for our perseverance, our service to the Kaiser, our dedication to duty. He then stresses the importance of what we’re about to do, the final battle against our enemy. And then we can return home to our families, he says, heads held high, knowing we have fought with honor.
He motions to his aide, who hands him an official-looking document. Turning to the prisoners, he says, “I the great general of the German troops send this letter to the Herero people.”
He reads from the document: “The Herero are no longer German subjects. They have murdered and stolen; they have cut off the ears, noses, and other body parts of wounded soldiers. Now, out of cowardice, they no longer wish to fight. The Herero people must, however, leave our land. If they do not do this, I will force them with the cannon. Within the German borders, every Herero, with or without a gun, with or without cattle, will be shot. I will no longer accept women and children. I will drive them back to their people or I will let them be shot at.”
Trotha hands the document back to his aide as his eyes sweep over the prisoners. “These are my words to the Herero people. The great general of the mighty German Kaiser.”
The general nods to the chaplain to begin a religious service. A big, strong man, the chaplain stands behind a wagon chest draped with a red cloth. In addition to his uniform and riding boots, which are in much better shape than most of ours, he wears a gold chain with a cross. As the other men sing “We Come to Pray Before a Just God,” I awkwardly try to mouth the unfamiliar words. I don’t know why I try to fit in anymore. They all know I’m Jewish. And, frankly, I don’t care. I close my mouth and sit in silence as the singing continues, steadying myself as I sway in the saddle. Alexander gives me a worried look. I smile weakly in response.
At last the hymn ends, and the chaplain begins to speak, justifying the war and tomorrow’s battle. “Savage by nature, the Herero have rebelled against the civilizing authorities that God has set over them,” he says. His words come to me as if through a dense fog. “And in their rebellion, they stained themselves with blood – the blood of German martyrs brutally murdered in their beds and fields. Now, the Almighty has given us the sword, which we are to use to punish the enemy for rising up against the superior race He has sent to teach and guide them. May every one of us wield that sword honorably to the glory of God and the Fatherland.”
I try to sit erect in the saddle as the throbbing in my head and a sense of lethargy make it harder and harder to focus on what is being said.
“We are coming to a serious hour,” the chaplain continues. “It may be that some of us will not live to see another day. So let us prepare today to seek the face of God that He might bestow on each of us His eternal holiness. Let us commit ourselves to Him who promises the faithful everlasting peace and rest. And in so doing,
let us strive to become better and braver before all the nations of the earth – for the world belongs to the noble. Thus saith the Lord.”
Ignoring Alexander’s insistence that I rest, I spend the remainder of the day, along with the other medical staff, tending to the men weakened by the long, waterless march. Several of the men are severely dehydrated and aren’t fit for another march, let alone a battle. A few are showing signs of typhus. Short of a long rest and plenty of food and water, there’s not much we can do for them.
Despite my pounding headache and deepening lethargy, I spend the evening hours in somber preparation for battle. Alexander brings me some dinner, but I wave it away. Even though I’ve eaten little that day, I have no appetite.
“You’ve got to eat something, Kov,” he tells me sternly.
“Yes, Doctor,” I say jokingly. I take a few bites. “Satisfied?”
He shakes his head and stokes up the fire.
In the last light of the day, I write another quick note to Hanna, assuring her of my love and begging her forgiveness. Although I love her as much as ever, the memory of her is fading. With every day that passes, I’m more convinced that I’ll never hold her in my arms again nor look on the face of my son. I’m resigned to this fate. It’s what I deserve for abandoning my family.
The moon has risen, lighting our way, as those of us with Trotha’s division set out in the night. Estorff and his men are to stay at the camp a few more days before heading south to garrison some of the other waterholes. The general ordered Estorff to hang the male prisoners at dawn and then force the women and children into the desert. At least I’ll be spared that spectacle.
Riding along the top of a low ridge, I see the shady lines of hills, rolling out in the soft moonlight from the broad valley that lies below us. The sandy bed of the Eiseb River forms a bright stripe wending its way through the valley. We ride for hours, searching for signs of the Herero. With each new summit, we’re sure we’ll see them.
The moon sets, and the sun rises. And we ride on, continuing our hunt. The sun climbs higher in the sky, its heat radiating around us, making our throats ache for water. Yet still we ride, single file, pressing toward the next height. In the heat of the day, I begin to shiver, confirming what I’ve feared for the past week. I have typhus. But this is no place to be sick, so I keep quiet, forcing myself to push on with the rest of the men.
As I approach the highest peak yet, I see the gunners up ahead removing the dust caps from the artillery. In the distance, a few shots repeat against the hills. We pick up the pace, sure the battle is on at last. At the top of the peak, I look out over the barren valley. It appears to be devoid of life. Then in the distance, I see it. A small dark cloud of dust swirling swiftly toward the horizon, marking the passage of what’s left of the Herero into the deepest reaches of the Omaheke. There will be no final triumphant battle. The Herero, like the Sicarii besieged by the Romans at Masada, have chosen their own path to death.
We rest by their still-burning fires and the waterholes they recently abandoned. Once again, we’re sure the war is over. There’s no need to chase ghosts in the desert. But General von Trotha isn’t satisfied. We must make sure the Herero die in the Omaheke, he says, otherwise, we’ll never be able to live in peace. We must continue our pursuit, he orders.
So after filling our watersacks and resting a bit, we once again mount our weary horses and trek deeper into the desert, hoping the general soon sees the folly of our chase. Late in the afternoon, we cross over the sandy Eiseb. It had seemed so much closer when we were looking down on it in the moonlight last night. Close to the riverbed, we come to some old dried-up waterholes. The ground is scarred with at least a hundred fresh holes dug by the Herero in a desperate search for water. Some of the holes are more than twelve meters deep, but they’re all dry.
Then we get the news we don’t want to hear. These aren’t the last waterholes, after all. Our scouts report that the Herero are camped by a watering place five hours from here. They assure the general that it is, indeed, the last water in the Omaheke. So in the cool of the night, we mount our horses again and ride on, intent on forcing the Herero even deeper into the desert while replenishing our own water supplies.
As we ride in the moonlight, a stifling heat rushes over me. I pull at the collar of my uniform, trying to loosen it. If I could, I would strip my clothes off so the night wind could cool me. Almost in a daze, I look at the men riding near me. They take on dreamlike proportions, growing and shrinking in size. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. We’ve left graves all along our trek. I don’t want mine to be the next. But perhaps this is what I deserve – a final resting place in these desolate steppes that give no rest in life. I laugh out loud at the irony, surprising myself with the strange, shrieking sound that echoes through the valley.
Alexander rides up beside me. “Are you all right, Kov?” he asks hoarsely.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
We reach the watering place in the morning, eager to refill our water sacks and slake our thirst. But like the previous waterholes, these too are dry. We stand on a lonely hill, looking out over the Omaheke. In the distance, two dust clouds mark the trail of the Herero as they plunge deeper into the vast wasteland. They have split into two groups, one heading north and the other northeast. Death lies in both directions.
I fight back a surge of emotion as I gaze out over the sandveld, watching the remnants of this once-great nation vanishing into the horizon. Many of the men around me cheer hoarsely, thinking that this means they can go home as triumphant heroes. I lower my head in shame, feeling neither heroic nor triumphant.
Alexander gently slaps me on the back. “Why so glum?” he asks. “It’s over. You’ll be holding that son of yours in no time.”
I try to smile, but I don’t share his enthusiasm. Considering General von Trotha’s ruthlessness, I’m not so sure the war is over. And I still have four months left on my tour of duty. Besides, even if I could go home tomorrow, I’m not sure I would make it. I’ve seen typhus claim too many men. I’m also not sure I should go home. I can’t go back to my old life pretending I’m the same man who left there in January. I’m afraid that every time I embraced Hanna, my mind would be filled with memories of Herero women being raped and murdered. And how could I look my son in the eye when he asks me about my service in South West Africa? I would be haunted by visions of thousands of Herero children dying in the desert.
We sit wearily around the dried-up waterholes while the officers discuss our next course of action. The break is sorely needed. A fourth of the men have come down with one illness or another, but we have no medicine to give them. Everyone is exhausted. Half of the horses have fallen. And the men who have been forced to march have worn through their boots. Their feet are bleeding, pulpy masses of flesh. Since the nearest waterholes are a twenty-four hour trek behind us, more men are sure to fall ill. And some will die.
Trotha finally yields to the pressure of his officers and advisers. We will give up the pursuit. But he asks for volunteers to pursue the Herero even further into the desert. I’m amazed at the number of men who step forward. The general chooses the healthiest ones with the best horses for the mission, giving them what little water can be spared. He orders them to poison any waterholes they find and then wishes them godspeed.
Even though there’s no water, the rest of us are to set up camp here in the desert where we’ll wait for the scouts’ return. Our presence here, Trotha says, will keep the Herero from returning.
I join the other surgeons in setting up a makeshift field hospital. Beads of sweat drip from my forehead as I begin to make my rounds. My hand trembles as I examine my first patient.
“Doctor, you don’t look so good,” the man tells me.
“No, I’m not….” I collapse to the ground.
* * * * *
The next thing I know Alexander is lifting me into a wagon. I try to sit up, but he pushes me back. “It’s good to see you’re still among the
living,” he tells me. “You had me worried for a few days. I hope you have the strength to make it back to Windhük.”
I fall back against the hard floor of the wagon. “Please write to Hanna,” I ask him.
He nods.
“Tell her I died. It will be easier that way.”
BOOK 4
Jahohora
RESURRECTION
The man picks me up and carries me to his wagon. I’ve never been in a wagon before. He tells me to lie down. He puts his coat around me to keep me warm when the sun sleeps. The wagon begins to move. It shakes so much I think it’s going to break. My body bounces against the wood. It hurts. I can feel the pain in my bones. I bite my lip so I don’t cry out.
The man talks to me in Herero. I try to open my ears to hear him. Maybe it will help me forget the pain. But his words are lost in the noise of the wagon wheels hitting against the rocks. I close my eyes, hoping I can sleep.
The wagon hits a big bump. I bounce into the air and fall back down, screaming with pain. I open my eyes. If that was a dream, it was too real. The wagon stops. The man turns around and looks at me. He holds a jar with a fire in it so he can see in the darkness. It’s like the jar the snake hunter gave me. Only bigger. And with two shiny sides. This must be what Tate called a lamp.
“Are you all right?” the man asks me in Herero. “Can you sit up? It might be easier.”
I slowly sit up and crawl until I’m leaning against the side of the wagon. It hurts so much when I move.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 32
