by Dave Boling
I was interested in what Nurse Agnes would tell me about my work with girls in camp. I wished Janetta were with me. She would be perfect for this, so open with others, and wise. Because no matter how much the nurse might instruct me, it would benefit none if I was too reluctant to share it. The girls I saw were all thin and worn, so many with dark eyes. I had stopped using Moeder’s mirror . . . my mirror. In fact, I asked Moeder to keep it for me, safe in her bag.
I was not convinced I had the energy to help Sister Agnes, but I would try to make it so. I would pay attention and learn. Caring for others would cause me to be less focused on myself. I brought a page of rules so that I could take down things they might tell me at the hospital.
As I neared, Tante Hannah ran to me. I had never seen her run, and it seemed a painful exercise. She clutched her arms against her chest as she swayed with steps so long that the front of her skirts flew up. She didn’t hug me this time but clutched my shoulders and focused her eyes on mine.
“Your father and Schalk are fine, ” she said.
Vader and Schalk were fine. Her eyes bore in with such force I heard nothing after that.
“That’s good,” I said.
She shook my shoulders.
“Aletta . . . did you hear me? Oupa Gideon’s been killed.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. There was no other way to say it.”
“Schalk and Vader?”
“The last we heard, they are fine . . . as far as we know.”
“Oupa Gideon . . . my oupa?” I yelled. “How?”
“I don’t know. . . . His name appeared on a list. A soldier told Oom Sarel that he was killed in battle,” Hannah said. “That’s all we know.”
“Vader and Schalk?”
“Yes, both alive, at least that day. It was almost a month ago.”
Tante Hannah’s kappie was pinched too tight, or her face was swollen, or my eyes distorted it all.
“I’m sorry, Lettie. Oom Sarel is frantic.”
I pushed her away, hard. I hated her for the news. For being married to Oom Sarel. But I had no air in me to scream.
“Moeder . . . Willem.”
“I would have told them, Lettie, but I knew she wouldn’t talk to me. This was the only way I could . . .”
The women at the front of the tent intruded with cold eyes. I raised my lip to them.
“You had to know . . . Lettie.”
Yes. I had to know. And now they had to know.
Tante’s face shifted again, becoming openings and angles. She talked, but I did not hear. I had to go. I had to tell them. I shuffled, my dress gritty against my skin, my feet slipping inside my boots. I felt the air part against my face as I pressed through it. I had the paper and I should have written down what I would say before I had to speak it, but I could not form the words. I wanted to walk, to trace the fence line, again and again, to wear a path in the ground, deeper and deeper until I disappeared or the entire camp sunk in on itself.
I was afraid to stop thinking about Oupa for even a minute for fear I’d lose his spirit, his immense shadow. Oupa was a part of everything. The smell of his pipe, the scratch of his whiskers, his voice, the things he’d taught me. Hold on to his spirit—that was Bina’s lesson.
I reached the tent and walked to the back side, trying to convince myself that there was no longer a door, that there was no way I could enter. I looked up, imagining Oupa in heaven; he was looking down, watching me. Tell me what to say, Oupa. Help me tell them, Oupa.
I would tell Moeder exactly as Tante Hannah had told me. Word has come. . . . Vader and Schalk are not hurt. Oupa Gideon died in battle. Word has come. . . . How had the words come? They just arrived, heavy and cruel, slow and indirect, but with force. They’d been handled by the British, passed on to the traitors, and then dumped in a small pile at my feet by a sorrowful woman. I had to carry them and put them in order and polish them as best I could before giving them to my family.
That was the best I could prepare. Willem was at Moeder’s side when I entered. I could not speak. She read the look on my face, rose, and led me outside the tent with her hand on my lower back. I whispered it to her, using Tante Hannah’s words. And she responded as I had: Vader and Schalk are well?
“Yes, but Oupa is gone. No . . . he died. He isn’t just gone. He’s dead. He’s been gone a long time, but now he’s dead.” I only confused her with extra words. “Oupa Gideon . . . is dead. Shot dead.”
I turned so that I would not have to look at her face. I knew she’d never loved Oupa the way I had. If she was in pain, I did not want to see it. If she was not, I did not want to see that, either.
“Willem?” I said.
“Lettie . . . no, you walk if you want. . . . I’ll tell him.”
Moeder was strong for us; I would show her that I could be, too. I put an arm around Willem’s shoulders, and he struggled against me. Moeder told him, and his body tensed and began shaking as I held him with both arms. His shaking caused me to shake as well, and his crying made me cry, too.
34
November 1901, Concentration Camp
More stars flashed than I could remember, honoring Oupa or mocking me. Oupa would never be on a stoep with me again; he would not be there to teach my children the history of the stars. He would not lift them from their beds or transport them or, in the whispered voice of God, tell stories of our ancestors sailing ships around the Cape. That would be up to me. But they would not know the smell of his pipe or the scratch of his whiskers or the gravity of his immense faith.
The wind passed the latrines on its way to me, and the sour juices in my stomach bubbled up to my throat. It was happening so often that a sore had burned through back there, making it hard to swallow and causing me to try to clear my throat dozens of times a day, as if I were drying up. It bothered me most when I tilted my head back to look up.
The stars reflected memories this night, so I tried to look beyond them, above the sky. I’d been told by the dominee that the dead were in heaven and they looked down on us. They watched us. They lived through us. Wouldn’t they want me to try to find them? I looked for Cee-Cee’s face, perhaps in the shape of a cloud. One small cloud with soft edges might have been Cee-Cee’s hair . . . and a wispy gray one pulled by the wind could have been Oupa’s beard. Klaas, and Janetta’s brother . . . were they up there watching? Did Ouma van Zyl’s daughter look down at me and wonder about this girl wearing her boots?
In the way I imagined the men all healthy and clean and well fed, singing around a campfire at night, the dead of my acquaintance were once again happy and whole as they looked down. Could they help us? Could they watch out for us? Guide us? Should I pray to them as I did to God, or were they all together listening and watching at the same time? Did they watch me even when I did not want them to?
Looking up grew painful. I focused instead on the land. Cloud shadows raced across the grass like a ghost herd of springbok, taunting me with their freedom. They enjoyed whatever was the opposite of a being fenced in a “place of concentration.”
I started back to the tent. I doubted I would sleep, but I would try for a short time before rising at daybreak to write and help Moeder deal with Willem, and grind more hours from another day.
Within a few steps, I scolded myself for acting the child. This isn’t me, I convinced myself. I would go to the hospital tent in the morning and try to help, to do good work. I would think of a scripture from Oupa about the value of helping others, and it would honor him. Good works give glory to the Father, or something along those lines. I could not remember exactly, but it inspired me.
A whistle blew on the far side of camp. I turned in that direction for just a step or two. I heard a rustle at the closest tent flap, followed by a crash, and I was knocked to the ground.
“Bloody hell,” a man said.
The stench consumed me.
“What . . .”
It was a Tommy guard . . . and the smell . . .
“Blood
y buckets,” he said, scrambling to his feet. He’d stumbled on a slop bucket, kicked it all over me, and fallen at my feet.
“What are you doing?”
“None of your business. . . . What are you doing out?”
“Using the latrine.”
“So was I.”
I got to my feet. It was horrid. I had to use my skirt hem to wipe the filth from my face. My clothes were covered in night soil.
“You’re a liar.”
“A woman needed help.”
“Liar. Sinful liar. Shameful liar. Abuser.”
I fired words as they presented themselves to me.
“That’s enough, you’re lucky I don’t report you.”
“You’re lucky I don’t report you.”
“I was invited to that tent. Go ask her. Go. Go ask her.”
I did not hear complaints from the tent. But that meant nothing. He could not be trusted. But he was off, apparently deciding I needed no further threats. I had no idea what I would do with my clothes until morning. My boots barely cleared the ground with my steps. I tried looking up at the sky again but needed to keep my eyes on the ground in case more pails reached out to me in the darkness.
I did not bother to keep quiet as I returned to the tent and climbed under my blanket. I didn’t care if I was caught and punished. What would be the punishment? Beaten? Fine. I deserved it. It would break the monotony. It would be human contact. Except that I was disgusted by humans and wanted less contact with them rather than more. And disgust was a feeling other than grief, at least. Now, I almost hoped I’d be beaten. But Mevrou Huiseveldt was snoring so loudly no one could hear me
“God . . . make that woman stop snoring,” I said, thinking of Willem’s outburst. No one heard.
I wanted to read, to get lost in a book, and thought about lighting what was left of the candle from Maples. It was hard even to think of him when I smelled as I did. Thank God it hadn’t been him sneaking out of that woman’s tent. And thank God he hadn’t shown up in our tent, given his recent interest in my mother. I had to tell him about the guard I’d just seen. Maybe he would know him and could report him—if anybody cared anymore about guards’ behavior.
I left again at dawn to try to get my clothes washed and bring back water for the family. No sense waiting until they awakened. I could not sleep.
As I hoped, Moeder had questions when I returned.
“I was worried about you,” she said.
“I was getting water. See the bucket?”
“Lettie . . . I can see. . . . I didn’t know where you were.”
“You were asleep. Why would I wake you if you can sleep? You don’t need to keep track of me. I’m an adult.”
“I do need . . .”
“I was out last night, almost all night, and you didn’t know about it, and I got in no trouble.”
My tone begged for discipline.
“I went out to watch the stars. And I can only see them at night. And I can’t see them through a canvas tent. Did you want me to wake you up . . . or try to find a way to look at stars during the daytime? Or don’t I have the right to look at the stars? Is that something they’re going to take away next?”
“Lettie, it’s all right.”
“It is for you. . . . You didn’t love Oupa the way I did.”
“Lettie . . . I loved him.”
“I wanted to look at the sky to mourn him, or to talk to him the way I used to. You couldn’t know. None of you know how close we were. We had secrets. . . . I can tell you now that he’s gone.”
“Lettie . . . respect.”
“No . . . he used to sneak in and carry me out onto the stoep at night and teach me about the stars when everybody else was asleep. He wanted me to know so I could pass it on through the family. He picked me. I was the chosen one.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“We could hear you.”
“You knew?”
“He used to do it with Schalk when he was younger, too. They loved the time together. They acted as if it was their secret, too.”
He did it with Schalk? Neither ever said a word.
“He used to say that was their special time together,” she said.
“Bastard.”
She gasped, but I kept going.
“Did Schalk get to everything first? Did Oupa do all the same things with him? The way Oupa used to say, ‘Let’s watch the stars,’ rather than ‘Let’s look at the stars,’ as if they were about to perform. Did he say it that way to Schalk, too?”
“Aletta.”
“He lied to me,” I shouted. “Oupa was a liar.”
“Aletta . . . respect the dead.”
“Why?”
“Lettie, calm. . . . Praise the Lord. . . . Be good.”
“Be good? Be good? Or what? Be good for what? What will I get if I don’t? How will I be punished? Bad food? Lice?”
“Lettie . . . no . . .”
Across the tent, Rachel Huiseveldt began singing a repetitive song to the doll to mask the sounds of our dispute. I boiled at the disrespect and snatched the doll from her arms. I marched to Moeder and held it in her face, just inches away, and shook her into a crazed dance.
“How could you give this to her without asking me? She’s not family. This was my doll. It was made for me. I gave it to Cee-Cee. . . . It was MY present to Cee-Cee. My doll . . . my decision who should have it . . . not yours. It should have come back to me. Don’t you think I would have liked it? A reminder of her? A reminder of me? Something to keep in the family.”
“I thought you were too big . . .”
“You could have asked. . . . You should have asked. . . . But you always think being silent means being strong. Well . . . sometimes we need more from you.”
Rachel froze.
“What else do I have of Cee-Cee? Nothing. What else do I have of me when I was little?” I pulled the doll from Moeder’s face and hugged it to my chest. It had been months since I had said so many words at once. “What else do I have?”
“Go lie down.” Moeder said it calmly. “Take your doll and lie down. We’ll talk later. Go . . . it’s all right for now. Lie down with Lollie. You’re right; she was your doll. She is your doll. I should have asked.”
Mevrou Huiseveldt grasped the sobbing Rachel by the shoulders, and they turned together toward the tent wall.
I took the doll and crawled under my blanket. I turned away and held the doll close. I told the doll a story that she’d heard before.
MOEDER’S BROOCH WAS IN my hand when I left the tent. I suppose I lifted it from her private things, but I could not recall thinking through the decision to take it or completing the act. I did not pin it at my throat, as Moeder wore it, because the collar of my dress was so slack. I pinned it to my pinafore, at my left chest, like a war medal.
I wanted Maples to see it and compliment me. But he did not notice. The magic it worked on Vader did not translate to an English guard.
“Betty,” he said, his voice a whisper. He stared at me.
“It’s Lettie . . .”
“Lettie . . . that’s what I said.”
“Are you all right?”
“News . . . don’t know if you should tell your mother. You can if you think you should.”
“Tell her what?”
“About your uncle . . .”
“Tell me. . . . I’ll decide.”
“Some guard . . . talked with prisoners. . . . Your uncle wasn’t wounded. . . . Broke his shoulder when he was thrown from his horse . . .”
“I know . . .”
“Came in under a white flag.”
We suspected.
“Had bones sticking through the skin. . . . Out of his mind with pain. They wouldn’t treat him unless he gave information.”
“And he did?”
“He did. . . . They already knew the commando was nearby since he could not have ridden far. But he pointed in the direction. . . . They found the commando the next day.
”
“The commando unit with our men in it?”
“Don’t know who, but that makes sense.”
“Boers, though?”
“That’s the story we got.”
“Does that mean he gave up the location of our men, his own brother and father?”
“Maybe, but it’s possible he sent our men into an ambush. . . . The Boers were behind rocks and came out firing when they got there. Could have been either, I suppose.”
“Don’t tell my mother,” I said. “Not yet. She doesn’t need to know this. . . . It would do none of us any good. Maybe he was trying to help.”
“I want to tell her.”
“No, she’ll go try to kill Oom Sarel.”
“She wants to, anyway, and I’m going to help.”
“How?”
“Can’t tell. . . . Working on it.”
“No, nothing good can—”
“Has to be soon,” he interrupted, voice lower still. “I’m leaving.”
“A transfer?”
“Leaving.”
“Where?”
“Home . . . to Betty.”
“But Betty said . . .”
“I know, but she’ll want me when I show up. She’ll see. She’ll feel different when she sees I would quit the army and come all the way home to see her. Even her father will be impressed.”
“Not if you quit like this.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Not yet . . . not now. . . . Maybe it will end soon.”
“I’ll escape.”
“You’ll escape? That’s not an escape. You’re a guard.”
“A prisoner . . . too,” he said.
He repeated himself and rocked quickly, shifting his weight.
“I’ll just leave my rifle and go . . .”
