Tears flow down my cheeks as Hanna’s love uplifts me from across the miles. I hadn’t realized how much I needed the steadfast assurance of that love.
My newfound optimism is challenged the next day when the soldiers bring in another group of Herero. Word quickly spreads through the town that there are a number of children among the new prisoners. Settlers and soldiers pour into the camp to inspect the children, especially the boys. They claim the healthiest ones to serve as their Bambusen. The young children cling to their mothers as the Germans pull them away. The mothers watch helplessly as their young sons and daughters leave the camp, knowing they will never see them again. The children are to become slaves to their German masters. At least they are spared the death of the camp, I remind myself.
I’ve heard stories about the Bambusen. Some of them are educated and treated well. But others are used harshly in their new homes. The attractive ones are often forced into the sex trade and are in demand in a thriving pornographic business.
I find myself having to turn a blind eye more and more as time passes. Soldiers and settlers have free access to the girls and women, who make up the largest portion of the concentration camp. Some of the girls get pregnant, but many develop gonorrhea, which they then spread to the few Herero men who manage to elude the gallows. Soon, most of them are sterile. General von Trotha welcomes the development; in his eyes, it’s the continuation of his plan to exterminate the tribe.
With thousands of Herero packed into the confines of the Windhük camp, potential troublemakers and the strongest of the prisoners, along with many of the new arrivals, are sent on to the concentration camps in Swakopmund and Shark Island. I see the fear in their eyes when they learn their destination. While death is a reality at the Windhük camp, it is a near certainty at Swakopmund and especially at Shark Island, an outcrop of rock near Lüderitz buffeted by the harsh Atlantic winds.
In Windhük, there’s some hope. The climate is more what the Herero are accustomed to. And if they escape, they’re closer to their traditional lands. But Swakopmund and Shark Island are far removed from the interior Hereroland. And from what I hear, the German soldiers at those camps are as brutal as the weather.
News of the harsh conditions at the concentration camps has spread to Germany, but it’s greeted more with curiosity than with protest. Hanna mentions it in her next letter. She has seen a postcard showing ten “Hottentots,” as the Germans often call the Nama, being hung on a single gallows. I know which one she means. I’ve seen it in the stores in Windhük. The popular postcard shows some of the condemned men, nooses about their necks, standing stoically on packing cases as they wait for a soldier to kick the wooden boxes out from under their feet. Others writhe in the prolonged death struggle caused by the short drop. A German soldier tugs at the legs of one of the men in an effort to hasten death.
“What crime did these men commit?” Hanna asks. She mentions some of the other postcards she has heard about, like the pornographic ones of young Herero girls. “I don’t understand the attitudes that encourage such pictures. Although I’m sure these images make the good German frauen uncomfortable, they laugh about them. It’s as if these girls aren’t human because they’re of a different race.
“I mentioned this to Captain Bayer when he visited the other day. He chuckled and said I sounded just like my husband. He had the kindest words for you and spoke of your high principles. I must confess, I swelled with pride.” She thanks me for the scarf and then tells me of a newspaper article questioning why the German troops aren’t following the Geneva Convention in their treatment of the Herero and Nama prisoners.
It’s a good question. According to the Hague agreement, which the Kaiser signed a few years ago, only combatants can be confined to camps – and then only as an “indispensable measure of safety.” That means women and children can’t be treated as prisoners of war. The agreement also dictates how prisoners must be treated. They’re to be paid regular wages for their labor. Their work can’t be excessive or related to military operations. And they are to be housed, clothed, and fed on a par with the soldiers. If German soldiers were treated the same as the Herero prisoners, Germany would have no army.
General von Trotha repeatedly justifies the camp conditions. “It goes without saying that war cannot be waged according to the Geneva Convention,” he insists.
But we’re no longer waging war. The Herero and the Nama have surrendered. They’ve asked to live in peace. Our idea of peace is condemning them to death camps.
RETURN TO SWAKOPMUND
Seeing an opportunity in the number of infectious diseases afflicting the prisoners, the medical community in Germany petitions the government to set up research laboratories in the camps. Given my university work in bacteriology and experience in the colony, I’m assigned to the new lab being built at the concentration camp in Swakopmund.
I travel to the coast with Alexander, who’s shipping out for home. His company makes the train journey over the mountains far more pleasant than the one that first brought me to Windhük. Although the train cars still aren’t that comfortable, more stations have been built along the tracks, so food and water are plentiful. There’s also no danger of attack.
It’s evening when we step off the train to spend the night at one of the stations. I breathe in the high mountain air, welcoming the evening coolness after the heat of the day. The setting sun softens the harsh landscape, draping it in subtle shades of pinks and purples.
“This country does grow on you,” Alexander murmurs.
“Yes, it does,” I agree.
We get our food and head back outdoors to eat under the evening sky. I look up, spotting the first star of the night. “You know, after all the months of living in the open, I sometimes feel too confined inside. It’s almost like being in a prison,” I say.
“I know what you mean. I’m not sure I will adjust to living in Berlin again,” Alexander murmurs. “There’s something to be said for living off the land. I think it makes one stronger and healthier.”
We sit quietly as the sky darkens. A full moon hovers on the horizon, its glow reflecting against the smooth face of the mountains. As the stars pierce the darkness with their intense points of light, they seem to be just overhead. “Look!” I point as a falling star streaks across the sky.
Alexander sighs. “I will miss this. I can understand why you want to stay in Africa.”
* * * * *
We taste the salt air of Swakopmund long before the train pulls into the station a few days later. As we leave the depot, we look around in disbelief. The sleepy town on the water’s edge is not so small anymore, and it’s bustling with activity. A train station that could rival many German depots is nearing completion. The main road is lined with new stores, banks, and hotels. The tired wooden houses that greeted me a year ago sparkle with bright colors and new red roofs. Stately manors are under construction.
I’m so busy taking in the sights that I don’t notice the truck speeding toward me until Alexander pulls me to safety. “Where did that come from?” I ask, trying to compose myself.
Alexander laughs. “This is definitely not the quiet little town I remember.”
Agreeing to meet for dinner, we part ways. He heads toward the busy pier, while I make my way to my new quarters near the Swakopmund concentration camp. The first thing I notice are the gallows, strung with five naked men. The condition of the corpses suggests they’ve been hanging there for a few days. I want to look away. But the grotesque image, presented as normality, draws my gaze every time I try to glance at something else. I hurry into the makeshift barracks and stow my bags in the quarters reserved for the medical corps.
Knowing that we may never see each other again, Alexander and I share a somber dinner. We focus on small talk, reminiscing about the months in the desert and old acquaintances. As we lift our steins, the conversation turns to the future.
“I envy you the work you’ll be doing,” Alexander tells me. “Who knows, you may
discover a cure for tuberculosis – or better yet, a vaccine.”
“That would be great,” I say. “But all I care about is improving the life of the poor people condemned to those camps. If I can help save even one life, I’ll not think my work here has been in vain.” And then maybe I could forgive myself, I think, for the man I shot and all the times I stood by silently, watching the Herero suffer the basest inhumanities.
Alexander puts his stein down a bit loudly and leans toward me. “The camps are inhumane. There’s no excuse for how we’re treating the prisoners. And there’s no reason to imprison the women and children.”
I nod in agreement. “Why is no one doing anything? We would never treat English or French prisoners like this.”
“Major von Estorff and some of the other officers have started to protest. And the missionaries are stirring up fervor in Germany with their reports. They also are getting German churches to send clothing and supplies for the prisoners,” Alexander sighs. “Surely the Reichstag and the Kaiser will yield to the pressure and set the Herero and Nama free. They’re a broken people and pose no threat to the colony now.”
“I hope you’re right,” I say as we leave the restaurant to walk toward the pier.
“I’ve heard rumors that General von Trotha is being recalled,” Alexander says quietly.
“But when? I’ve heard those rumors for months now. Tomorrow wouldn’t be too soon.”
“The question then is who replaces him. A change in leadership isn’t always a change in direction. Many of our career officers share his ideas. They look at this as a race war that can only end with the destruction of one of the races. They claim co-existence would be impossible after all the hostilities,” Alexander says.
“But they’re the ones that made this into a race war,” I protest.
We’ve reached the harbor. Strings of lights twinkle on the water, outlining a number of steamers and ships. The waves crash rhythmically against the pier. The long beam of light from the lighthouse plays across the jagged coastline, warning ships to keep their distance.
Alexander smiles as he shakes my hand. It’s hard telling him goodbye. We’ve had our disagreements, but we have shared much over the past year. It’s as if I’ve known him a lifetime.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“For what?” he asks.
“For saving my life. For helping me keep my sanity. For understanding.” I laugh, trying not to get too emotional.
“Just doing my job, Doctor.” He also seems to be trying to hold his emotions in check. “Keep in touch, Kov.”
I nod. “You too.”
As I start down the street, Alexander calls after me, “Kol tuv.”
I turn and wave. “Shalom,” I respond.
* * * * *
I quickly learn that my idea of medical research is far from the reality of what’s happening in the Swakopmund camp. I had thought we would be taking samples from the sick prisoners to look for cures for them. Instead, the researchers are infecting the “healthy” ones with smallpox, typhus, and tuberculosis. The aim is not to relieve the prisoners’ suffering. Rather, it’s to reinforce the German ideas about race while finding medical solutions for the troops and the people back home by using the Herero as lab animals. The scientists can do research here that they’d never be permitted to do in Germany.
The Swakopmund camp is smaller than the one in Windhük, but the death toll is just as high, if not higher. Most of the prisoners are Nama, who surrendered following negotiations that guaranteed them peace in their homelands. But as soon as they laid down their weapons, they were rounded up and sent off to the camps. Many of their leaders were executed for treason. Others were shipped off to Shark Island after a few months here. The ones who remain in Swakopmund are forced to work in the icy waters of the Atlantic, hauling rocks to build a better harbor.
Disease is rampant, largely because of the design of the camp, which is located next to the military stables. All the excrement from the stables flows into the prison camp, along with the waste from the medical lab. Flies infest the place, carrying germs from one person to the next. It’s as if the intent is to kill as many of the prisoners in as short a time as possible.
Unlike last year, I pay little attention to the High Holy Days. A few mornings, I wake early enough to say the prayers of repentance. But what good are prayers when I can’t change my actions? My fate is already sealed for another year. I’ve resigned myself to that fact. But I haven’t entirely given up hope.
The news I’ve been waiting for comes in November. Now that the war is officially over, General von Trotha is being recalled. He’s to be replaced by Governor von Lindequist, who served under Leutwein, the former governor. Perhaps Lindequist will be more compassionate.
When the new governor arrives from Germany, he assembles all the prisoners at Swakopmund. Dressed in his best uniform with his stout chest covered with bright medals, Lindequist addresses the starving, half-naked people.
“His Excellency, the Governor of German South West Africa, greets you,” he calls out pompously.
The prisoners stare straight ahead.
He ignores their passionless faces and promises that the innocent ones – those who did not murder farmers and traders – will be set free again as soon as all the Herero still in the bush surrender.
“I guarantee they will be treated fairly,” he says. “And those of you who work hard and show good conduct also will be treated well.”
After the speech, I return to the lab. It would be great if conditions improved in the camp. But I have come to put little stock in the words of colonial leaders. “We’ll see,” I murmur under my breath.
* * * * *
I peer into a microscope at a slide of a tissue sample taken from a woman who died from tuberculosis. One of the other researchers opens the door. The foulest odor I’ve ever smelled fills the room. I gag, covering my nose with my handkerchief. “What is that stench?” I mumble.
One of the new assistants smiles wryly. “Dr. Fischer has returned.”
“Dr. Fischer?”
“Eugen Fischer. He’s a scientist from one of the universities back home.”
“I know who he is,” I say. “I met him when he first came. But what does that smell have to do with him?”
“He wants to take some Nama and Herero skulls home for his eugenics research,” the assistant says. “He’s having the women prepare them for shipping.”
I’m familiar with the bone shipments. Several anthropologists have requested native skulls and other body parts. One of them, Professor von Luschan, director of the Ethnology Museum in Berlin, even put together guidelines for soldiers and German travelers on how to properly pack the bones they pick up in the desert or unearth from Herero graves.
But that doesn’t explain the smell. I rub my eyes, which are tired from straining through the microscope. I stand up and head for the door.
“You don’t want to go out, Doctor,” the assistant says. “It’s not a pretty sight. And the smell is even worse out there.”
I shrug, opening the door.
“Just remember, I warned you,” he calls after me.
Ignoring him, I head into the camp. I almost double over from the foul odor. Once again, I cover my nose with my handkerchief, but the smell is overpowering. I hold my breath, taking quick gulps of air only when I absolutely have to.
Following the stench, I come to a group of women sweating over a large pot of water that’s boiling on an open fire. What I see stops me dead in my tracks. One of the women is dropping the severed heads of prisoners into the boiling water. After awhile, a few other women pull the heads from the pot. Most of the flesh has boiled away, but bits of meat still cling to the bone. And the eyeballs bulge garishly from the skulls, which are given to other women to finish cleaning. Using shards of glass, they dig out the brains and cut the eyes and remaining tissue from the bone – all under the watchful gaze of Fischer. The skulls are left to dry in the hot sun.
> I look back at the pot of boiling water as one of the women cries in agony. The head of a little boy is lowered into the pot. I leave as quickly as I can, trying not to vomit until I’m out of sight of the women and the guards. I knew that child. He was born from the German rape of his mother. Like other mulatto children, he was chosen for one of Fischer’s medical experiments. I had watched him try to play even as the sickness Fischer infected him with slowly destroyed his small young body. I had seen his mother starve herself so she could give him a little more food each day. When he died, she had no tears to shed. She just sat there, holding his lifeless body until a soldier tore him from her arms and forced her to go back to work.
I shake my head in disgust. What kind of men kill children in the name of science? What kind of men make women do such a thing to the bodies of their loved ones? And what kind of nation lets them do it?
Hoping to wash the macabre image from my mind, I head back to my quarters for a shower. I scrub my skin until it’s raw, but I still feel unclean.
In the evening, I take a long walk past the German cemetery at the edge of town. In a sandy, windswept field beyond the cemetery is the burial ground for the concentration camp. Row upon row of unmarked mounds form a sharp contrast to the neatly tended colonial cemetery with its ornate headstones and mausoleums. The desolate field is a silent memorial to the senseless tragedy of the Kaiser’s colonial policy.
This past year, the Swakopmund camp has averaged about a thousand prisoners. According to our medical records, eight hundred have died, and their bodies – at least the parts that haven’t been shipped to German universities – are buried here in this veld. Until today, those numbers were just statistics to me.
I shudder as the image of the little boy’s severed head flashes before me. The thought of our brutality overwhelms me as I turn away from the burial ground, blinded by my tears. I have lived too long if this is what the world has come to. I bow to the ground, feeling very old and very helpless.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 37
