RESIGNATION
Walking back to my quarters, I finally make up my mind about the future. I must resign my commission. I have no business serving in the German army. In the past, I made excuses to justify the horrors I silently witnessed, but there are no excuses that can justify the living death of the camps. And my idealistic thoughts about being able to improve the conditions of the prisoners were the stuff of fairy tales.
In the morning, I write to Hanna about my decision. “I can’t be a part of this butchery any longer,” I tell her. “When I signed on to work at the camps, I thought I could help find cures that would relieve some of the suffering of the Herero and Nama. But that’s not the kind of research that’s being done here.
“I find it impossible to work with Dr. Fischer and the other scientists who are using the prisoners like animals. I fear where their studies may lead. Convinced that the Germanic race is genetically superior to all others, Fischer is bent on proving his theories. He takes countless photographs and meticulous measurements of all the prisoners, but he seems most interested in the mixed-race children who are the result of the soldiers’ ‘use’ of the Herero and Nama women. If his research were only photographs and measurements, I could put up with it, even though I don’t find his theories credible. But the more he ‘proves’ the inferiority of his subjects, the cruder his methods become.
“I often wonder how respected men of science can devote precious time and resources to such racial quackery when there are real problems they could be solving. The only answer I can find is that this irrational research is an attempt to provide a ‘scientific’ cover to justify our national chauvinism and greed. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t bode well for Germany’s future.”
I lay out my plans to Hanna, asking her to sell Papa’s property so we can use the money to start afresh someplace in Africa. We will make our own future, far away from such hatred. Maybe then I will at last find peace.
* * * * *
The sun rises early over the veld, waking me with its brightness. Stretching lazily, I listen to the bird chorus singing around me. Odd, I think. In all those months of marching with the marines and the army, I don’t remember hearing bird song. Perhaps I just wasn’t listening. I’m beginning to realize I really didn’t see this land before. In the last few weeks of traveling by myself, I’ve been amazed hour after hour by the country’s wildlife. Its vegetation. Its diversity. Where once I saw desolation, I now see a landscape teeming with life. The giraffes and wildebeest grazing in the distance. A warthog ambling alongside the road. Baboons watching me with their passive curiosity.
I leisurely eat my breakfast and clean up. It feels good to be on no one’s schedule but my own. I saddle my horse and head deeper into the interior, following the trail that’s been forged by settlers, traders, and the army. I have no set destination. This quest, which began with my resignation from the army, has a dual purpose – to find direction for the future and to reclaim the humanity I buried in the desert.
Along the way, I’ve visited with several settlers and missionaries. Their stories convince me I can’t stay in South West Africa. While some of them lament the fate of the Herero and Nama, too many applaud the actions that allowed Germany to “civilize” the territory. And a few of the settlers boast of the part they continue to play.
I was at one of the stations the other day when a group gathered around a leathered man telling how he had rounded up several Herero hiding in the bush. “They were paper thin,” he said, “which made me wonder how many I could kill with one bullet. So I stood them single file, front to back all the way down the line. Then I took my gun and shot at the heart of the first one.”
“How many did you kill?” someone asked.
“How many do you think I got?”
While some of the men began shouting out numbers, a few looked away, apparently discomfited by the conversation. But no one reproached the settler.
He ended the guessing. “Seven fell,” he said. “But I had to waste a few bullets finishing two of them off.”
I quickly paid my bill and left the station.
Thinking back on the incident, I’m once again ashamed by my own silence. These actions stem from the same hatred and bigotry that have fueled anti-Semitism over the centuries. This is a bond I share with the Herero, so why do I keep quiet? Is it cowardice? Or is it the fear that if this hatred were deflected from the Herero and Nama, it would once again be aimed fully at my people? I hope my silence is born of cowardice. I can live with that shame more easily than I can with the alternative.
I come to a fork in the road. If I head northeast, I’ll retrace the path I took with General von Trotha toward Hamakari and Waterberg. I close my eyes, trying to block out the images I’ve tried so hard to keep in check. I have no desire to go there again. So I head northwest toward Otjiwarongo, a place that has no memories for me.
As the sun sinks toward the horizon, I come upon what looks to be a prosperous farm. Following the custom of the land, I stop and ask if I can stay the night. After putting my horse in the kraal and cleaning up at the pump, I join Herr Jurgen and his wife for dinner. Jurgen is asking me about my experience in the war when a Herero servant, dressed in a drab cotton gown with a kerchief tied about her head, enters the room with a heavy tray of meat. Her dark eyes meet mine when she sets the tray on the table. She carefully carves the beef and puts several pieces on my plate. I smile at her before responding to Jurgen. The servant blanches and runs from the room, her multitude of petticoats swishing loudly.
“Petronella!” Frau Jurgen goes after the servant. I can hear her sternly scolding the woman in the next room.
“Please excuse Petronella,” Jurgen says. “She’s afraid of strangers, especially German men. Not that I blame her, given what she’s lived through.”
I look at him questioningly.
“I found her several months ago in the desert. She was hardly alive. She doesn’t say much, but apparently she survived on her own in the desert for two years after her family was killed.” Jurgen shakes his head. “And then last month, a soldier tried to rape her. Here, in my house.” His disgust is obvious.
He butters a big slab of crusty bread. “My wife and I have taken in several Herero and Nama. We see it as our duty to civilize them and raise them up to be good Christian souls. It’s difficult, though, when Germans act like such beasts.”
Frau Jurgen rejoins us, followed by a quiet Petronella. The young woman keeps her eyes on her work as she serves the Jurgens. Out of curiosity, I study her, surprised to see she’s much younger than I had first thought. She’s barely a teenager, and yet she had the wits to survive the nightmare the Germans unleashed on her people. I wish I could hear her story.
Realizing I’m staring, I look away. Now I feel her watching me.
After dinner, I discuss farming with Jurgen. What it takes to start a farm. The challenges. The best methods. Crops that are in demand. He suggests a few places I should look for land.
“This territory is getting a little too settled for me,” I say diplomatically.
He nods in agreement. “I know what you mean. If I were a young man just starting out, I would consider Bechuanaland. It’s an English colony, but they welcome settlers from other countries.”
“Bechuanaland? I heard some of the Herero went there.”
Jurgen misunderstands the reason for my comment. “Yes, Samuel Maharero and the few who survived the march through the desert are rebuilding their herds there. But they’re no longer a threat. We’ve knocked all the fight out of them.”
After a bit of polite conversation, I excuse myself and take my bedroll outside to sleep under the stars. Gazing up at the night sky with its swirling colors of galaxies, I think of the possibilities of Bechuanaland. Perhaps there I could make amends to the Herero for my role in the war that rendered them landless.
With a newfound sense of direction, I rise early in the morning to say my prayers. It’s time for a new beginning.
I’m saddling my horse after breakfast when Petronella comes out to me. She walks slowly, her head held high. She shyly gives me a packet of food. I smile my appreciation and stow it in my saddlebag. As I mount, she tugs at my shirtsleeve. She removes a long leather cord tied around her neck and hands it to me. It’s attached to a small empty apothecary bottle. Puzzled, I examine the lavender-tinted glass before turning back to Petronella.
“Mukuru ngakare punaove,” she says softly.
Recognition dawns as I look into her eyes – those eyes I saw peering up at me through the brambles in the aftermath of Waterberg. I smile and pocket the bottle. It’s the one I had filled with water and left for her in the desert.
“Thank you, Petronella,” I say. “That’s a good name for you – the little rock that endured the desert.”
As I ride off, my vision is blurred by tears of gladness. God heard my prayer that day in the wilderness. And He answered it.
A NEW LIFE
I nervously watch as the passengers of the English steamer spill out onto the pier in Walvis Bay, searching for Hanna and little David in the growing crowd. I wonder if I’ll even recognize them, but then I realize there probably aren’t too many young women traveling alone with a toddler.
I wanted Hanna to wait until I had a farm established in Bechuanaland, but she would have none of it. “My place is with you,” she wrote. “If we are to make our home in Africa, we will build it together.” I still have my doubts about exposing her and David to the hardships of wilderness life. But I know from experience that Hanna is capable of anything she sets her mind to.
An elegant young woman in a stylish walking suit catches my eye. Surrounded by settlers and harbor workers, she looks out of place. But she walks confidently, drawing more than one admiring stare. She nods politely as a knot of men parts to let her pass. That’s when I see the little boy toddling beside her, his small hand firmly clutched in her gloved one.
I watch a moment longer, taking in the serene beauty of my wife and the wonder of my son. Then I push forward, madly shouting her name. Hanna looks up and smiles brightly.
Forgetting my nervousness, I hug her. I hadn’t realized how lonely I was or how much I missed her until this moment.
Hanna is the first to break the embrace. She steps back slightly, straightening her hat. Noticing that some of the men are watching us, she blushes and laughs softly. “You need to meet your son.” She bends toward the boy. “David, this is your father. Remember the man in the photographs?”
He nods at her solemnly and then looks up at me with big eyes. They are Papa’s eyes.
I reach down to pick up my son for the first time. He strokes my face with his hand and then rests his head on my shoulder. I smile at Hanna. With my free hand, I wipe a tear from her eye before extending my arm to her. “Shall we go, Frau Wolf?” I ask brightly.
After checking in at a hotel near the harbor, we explore Walvis Bay together. I carry David, who squeals at the flamingoes that flock around the shallows like herds of cattle. We marvel at the scarlet salt flats. Hanna’s gaze is captured by the rusted orange dunes rising up on the horizon. “This land is so strange ... and yet so beautiful,” she murmurs.
Over dinner, we discuss our plans. We’ll take the steamer to the Cape and then travel inland to Bechuanaland. It will be a long journey, but fortunately, it’s winter, so it shouldn’t be too hot. And we’ll have plenty of food and water. Hanna’s eyes dance with excitement. I hadn’t realized how adventurous she was. I smile across the table at her, marveling at her capacity for life and the miracle of her love for me.
It’s late when we go to our room. Tonight, I am once again a clumsy bridegroom, and Hanna is my blushing bride.
* * * * *
Creating a farm in the wildness of the veld isn’t an easy task. Hanna and I work from dawn to dark taming our land and building a small house. Although we’re anxious to move from the confines of our Cape wagon into a real house, we take a much needed break so I can begin the real work that brought me to Bechuanaland – offering my medical services to the Herero. I set up a meeting with the old chief, Samuel Maharero, at his hut in Serowe.
Having never met the chief, I’m not sure what to expect. Will he consider me an enemy? Or another condescending German intent on taking something from him?
When I arrive at Samuel’s hut, he greets me warmly. “It’s good of you to visit, Doctor,” he says in perfect Deutsch.
“Please, call me Yaakov,” I respond.
Samuel offers me tea, and we engage in small talk. “So you’re a German?” he asks.
“No. I was born in Germany, but I’m not a German.”
Samuel smiles approvingly. “I thought not,” he says. “You don’t use fancy titles and try to make yourself better than the Herero.”
“We’re all just people,” I say, “regardless of what titles we claim or the color of our skin. It’s a lesson too many never learn.”
The chief nods in agreement.
I take a deep breath and plunge into the reason for my visit. “What the Germans did to your people was wrong. I’m sorry to say that I helped them by serving as a doctor in their army. I can’t undo what has been done, but I would like to make amends in the only way I can. I want to work as a doctor for the Herero.”
“What price must we pay?” Samuel asks.
“All I want is your permission. My wife and I are starting a small farm here in Bechuanaland. It will be enough to support us.”
“How many cattle do you have?” he asks.
“Ten to start with.”
“You’ll need many more,” he says.
The chief studies my face while he ponders my offer. He finally speaks. “You will become my doctor. My heart has not been strong since we were driven into the desert. And you may be a doctor to the other Herero – not because they need it, but because you need to do this thing. For your services, I will give you my red cow with the white band.”
I know better than to protest, so I accept his cow, which, to a Herero, is the greatest gift that can be given.
Samuel pours another cup of tea and then settles back on his stool. “The Germans think they have defeated me,” he says softly. “They’ve killed most of my people. They’ve taken our cattle. And they’ve stolen our land. But I am still Samuel Maharero, the son of Maharero. Some day, I will be gathered with my people in the land of my ancestors. These are things the Germans can’t take from me.”
I’m surprised at the lack of bitterness in his voice. “You don’t hate the Germans?” I ask.
“I’m an old man who has become wiser with age,” he says. “German, Herero, Nama, even the English – not one of us is different when it comes to greed. But in the end, each of us chooses his own path in life. I choose not to be eaten by hatred.”
Riding toward the homestead Hanna and I are carving out of the wilderness, I reflect on Samuel’s words. I, too, have chosen my path. “I am Yaakov,” I say loudly, laughing when I startle a flock of weavers. “It’s a good name for a Jew who happens to live in Africa.”
I can almost hear Papa chuckling in the distance.
* * * * *
Hanna’s eyes shine in the flickering candlelight as she waves her hands over the candles, welcoming the first Shabbat in our new home in Bechuanaland. She covers her eyes with her hands as she says the traditional prayer: “Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam asher kidishanu b’mitz’votav v’tzivanu l’had’lik neir shel Shabbat.”
“Amein,” David and I say together.
As my father before me, I turn to my wife and chant the Eshet Chayil. “An accomplished woman, who can find? Her value is far beyond pearls,” I begin. The words of Proverbs 31 take on new meaning as I look at Hanna’s sun-freckled face and calloused hands. She has never looked more beautiful.
As I continue reciting the verses, I think of all the weeks she has been here beside me, building our home in a strange land. After a full day of back-breaking work, she would go to bed in the
wagon, kissing me goodnight with a smile. There were times when I wanted to quit, but her calmness kept me going.
Only once did she complain. That was when she discovered some of her mother’s china had broken on the long trek into the interior. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she held the pieces in her hands. She smashed them into the ground and ran toward a cluster of sweet-thorn trees.
I checked the rest of the china and found most of it was intact. I showed the dishes to her when she returned about twenty minutes later. “Thank you,” she said with a tired smile. “But they are just things. What is important is that I am with you and David.”
I watched while she cleaned up the broken pieces. “Stop lazing around,” she said, blushing. “We have a home to build!”
My voice breaks as I think about how blessed I am to have such a wife. I swallow and continue with the proverb:
“Strength and honor are her clothing, she smiles at the future. She opens her mouth in wisdom, and the lesson of kindness is on her tongue. She watches over the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise and praise her, her husband lauds her. Many women have done worthily, but you surpass them all. Charm is deceptive and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears God shall be praised. Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her works praise her in the gates.”
The candlelight plays over Hanna’s contented face as I stand behind David to give him the Shabbat blessing. Laying my hands on his head, I pray, “Ye’simcha Elohim ke-Ephraim ve’chi-Menashe.” Hanna joins me for the rest of the blessing:
“May God bless you and watch over you. May God shine His face toward you and show you favor. May God be favorably disposed toward you and grant you peace.”
As we’re going to bed, Hanna reminds me that Elul starts next week. “And by the way,” she says, “you’re going to be a papa again.”
Holding her close to me in bed, I look up at the ceiling, smiling broadly. God has indeed blessed us. And next year is sure to be a good year.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 38
