The sons of the middle classes managed to defer their call up by going into university. Some emigrated, a few deserted and a tiny number pleaded conscientious objection and went to jail. But the great majority of young men went into the services and found the tedium quite lethal. Deaths from drink and drugs rose steadily; motor car accidents became more and more frequent and the number of deaths through careless, one might say carefree, handling of fire-arms, a form of suicide traditionally associated with the police in the old days, grew so alarmingly that the annual mortality rates actually overtook those inflicted by the Total Onslaught. In a notorious case, a young man named Gussie Lamprecht, a draftee lance-corporal in a coastal barracks, was enterprising enough to draw attention to this problem by telephoning a local newspaper, giving his name, rank and number, and promising that if their crime reporter would come to the beach he would see ‘something very interesting’. As the reporter walked along the pier, he related at the inquest, he saw before him a figure on the beach, whom he now knew to be the deceased, lift a pistol to his temple and fire. He remembered that the incident had terrified an Indian fisherman catching shad nearby. He had taken a picture which his newspaper was refused permission to publish, photographs of Defence Force property being forbidden, and young Gussie Lamprecht though deceased was still regarded as Defence Force property. The case caused an outcry, worried mothers of draftees demanded that the Government take action. The Regime responded by forbidding publication of any further figures relating to accidental death caused by firearms and a delegation of mothers thanked the Minister concerned from the depths of their hearts.
A problem more intractable was the increasing shortage of manpower. To ameliorate the imbalance caused by the giant call-up, the Regime suggested a new deal, a kind of leaseback of uniformed labour at army prices. The army would liaise with various businesses and industries and Government bodies which would state their requirements which would then be assessed in terms of manpower available and then where possible specialised labour would be leased back to organisations in need. Contingents of soldiers were deployed whose training in civilian life approximated to the skills required. The word ‘approximated’ covered a wide range and so cooks and engineers might find themselves spending the period of their military training working through files in the Department of Inland Revenue and young accountants could spend years knocking in fence posts to take the electrified wire surrounding the Independent Homelands in which the ethnic identity of each black tribe was so fiercely protected.
‘Is it true, in that place called Overseas, that white people and black people can meet as they please? You come and go when you like? No one tells you what to do? Everybody is equal?’ Joyce asked.
‘I have never been there, but I believe so,’ said Blanchaille.
‘Stop and consider, Blanchaille,’ Makapan was pleading with him now, ‘We haven’t got on well, I know that. But if you stayed maybe we could work something out.’
‘What do you fear, Father?’ Joyce demanded.
Blanchaille’s answer was intended to be brutally direct: ‘Destruction.’
He saw the shadow shift across her eyes like a bird dipping across still water, felt her dissatisfaction at his answer, for it told her nothing, or rather it told her what she already knew, what everyone knew. What he had been expected to say was in which scenario he anticipated that destruction. There were three main scenarios with which every South African was by that time so familiar that they referred to them by numbers, rather as Americans will talk of ‘taking the Fifth’, meaning the Fifth Amendment, or university students will say they’re hoping for a ‘good second’, South Africans would commonly talk of ‘going for One’, which translated meant that they favoured the first scenario for the end of things; this envisaged black hordes from the North sweeping down, joining the local Africans and obliterating the whites. While this view was still accorded some respect by traditionalists, being the most ancient of the nightmares, it was widely discounted. More people believed in the Second, in which the hordes would still sweep down, the local population would revolt but the whites would resist, fight them to a standstill and some sort of uneasy truce would prevail – until the next eruption. A minority of daring dreamers contemplated what they called No.3, which imagined the unimaginable, a defeat for the white forces who would retreat to the sea burning all behind them and die on the beaches, shooting their women and children first. It was this scenario which appealed so directly to the Azanian Liberation Front that their so-called Strike Kommando added No.3 to their designation. More recently another vision of the future conflict had begun to circulate in whispers and rumours and this scenario was doubly terrifying since it gave credence to No.3 while seeking to reassure the population that the white nation had found a defence against its possible defeat. Known as the ‘Fourth Option’ or more colloquially as ‘the Smash’, it suggested that nuclear weapons were being secretly prepared and if the worst came to the worst would be deployed, destroying the entire Southern Continent in an instant. Whispers of the Fourth Option had first begun to circulate at the last congress of the ruling National Party at which President Adolph Bubé had declared in his characteristic throaty growl: ‘We wish to live in peace – but if attacked we will resist and we shall never surrender. We will never leave this Africa we love but if by some misfortune we are forced to go, rest assured we shall not go alone . . . This is not a threat but a promise!’ The promise was met with wild applause from the party faithful and the newspapers interpreted the speech in the usual imaginative fashion with headlines ranging from PRESIDENT PLEADS FOR PEACE! to BUBÉ TALKS TOUGH! ‘WE’LL TAKE YOU WITH US’ WARNS PRESIDENT, to SOUTH AFRICA HAS NO NUCLEAR STRATEGY – OFFICIAL! This last referring to an off-the-record meeting between Bubé and various reporters after the speech in which he categorically denied that the Republic possessed nuclear weapons, or intended to manufacture any. The fact that he pronounced the first and the last b in bomb was regarded as highly significant and analysed at some length. Some papers suggesting that by putting peculiar emphasis on the word ‘bomb’ the President was signalling to hostile states to the north that they shouldn’t take his denial too seriously, while still others argued against attaching too much importance to peculiarities of pronunciation pointing out that Bubé had been talking English, which was not his first language, and he had, in any event, an emphatic, gutteral way of speaking. Subtle observers reported that the fact that he had used English showed that he intended his warning to carry as far as possible. He had closed the meeting by consulting with a flourish his gold hunter, a time-piece of great beauty and fabled accuracy manufactured in Cologne, closing the case with a decisive snap which left no one in any doubt of his determination to protect the country’s security at any cost.
Blanchaille’s second answer to Joyce and Makapan at their dawn meeting was more specific. ‘I am retiring.’
‘Father is weak now. Joyce must carry his bags.’
Blanchaille was aghast. ‘You want to come with me? When things got tough you went over to this man here. Now you’ve thought better of that and you return to me. What sort of behaviour is that?’
Joyce was not in the least abashed. ‘I didn’t know Father was going overseas.’
Makapan turned round and stalked off shouting: ‘Overseas! What the hell do you know of overseas? No good can come of this. And you Joyce – don’t make a fool of yourself. Stay with us. We will look after you. This man is mad. Don’t listen to him. Don’t go with him.’
But Joyce had now actually wrested one of Blanchaille’s cases from him and was carrying it down the road. She took no notice of Makapan.
And so I saw how Blanchaille and the woman went on together. And in my dream I heard Joyce question Blanchaille, saying: ‘Mr Makapan is a good man, but he is thick. He is thick in his head. He said Joyce must come to his side. If Joyce comes to his side then Father Rischa will come back and we will be happy again. Every night I sleep out in the cold waiting. I am tired
of waiting. Why is Father going overseas?’
‘I believe I will find a better place there.’
‘And who told you of the better place?’
‘It is written in a book.’
‘Ah,’ Joyce seemed pleased. ‘In the book of the Lord?’
‘No, it is in the book of the President.’
‘Of the President Bubé?’
‘No, of another President, of old President Kruger.’
‘Has he also been overseas?’
‘Yes. He was the only President who had been overseas until President Bubé went.’
‘I have heard something of him. And the words in this book – are they true?’
Blanchaille hesitated. ‘I cannot say if they are true, indeed it is said by some that this book does not exist. But if they are not true, these words, then they are interesting.’
‘And what do they speak of, these promises in the book?’
‘It is written that there is a place for hopeless souls who are tired of too much wandering. Good souls, African souls, who seek rest will find it in this special place.’
Joyce seized his elbow with such a powerful grip that he gasped. ‘And what else?’
‘There all people will be equal, there will be no segregation, no pass laws, no black and white skins, no separate lavatories, no servants’ quarters, no resettlement camps. In that place friends who have disappeared will be found again and even some we thought were dead will greet us. There will be no police stations, no torture, no barbed wire, no guns, no soldiers and no bombs.’
‘And in this place,’ Joyce yipped excitedly catching the spirit of his peroration, and relying no doubt on her Bible reading, ‘will we wear white clothes and golden crowns?’
‘White clothes, certainly,’ Blanchaille replied with all the conviction he could muster, ‘but I cannot say about the crowns.’
‘Yes. Golden crowns!’ Joyce insisted with an expectant smile as if she were feeding clues to a not very bright child. She tapped her head. ‘But not for wearing, maybe.’
At last he understood her. ‘You mean coins. Golden coins! Krugerrands?’
Joyce nodded, satisfied to hear the words. ‘That is what I remember of that old President, golden coins,’ and she skipped before him like a child down the dirt road, despite the heavy suitcase she carried. ‘Come on then. Let’s go, my Father.’
My Father? Her temerity enraged him. First she had attached herself to Father Rischa, the sprinting Syrian, entranced by his popularity, then she left Blanchaille for his lack of it; she went over to the Parish Consensus Committee and now without a blink she had deserted them and returned to her original master in the mistaken belief that after all perhaps he offered the better deal. Look how she skipped ahead of him! Why she even lifted the suitcase onto her head in the way women carry water from the well and with it wonderfully balanced there she danced and jigged! It would do no good to talk to her of the difficulties of leaving without permission, without a ticket or passport. This was scarcely the time for discussion. But there were other ways perhaps. He had no intention of leaving before paying a few last calls, to Bishop Blashford in particular, perhaps to Gabriel. Ecclesiastical authority might do to Joyce what he could not. A momentary access of charity afflicted him at this point and he thought that he might have misjudged her, that perhaps she was a poor weak creature, easily swayed; but commonsense reasserted itself to tell him that this was nonsense, she was a ferocious woman determined on escape and mere legal detail would not deter her; that she had no permission or papers was no obstacle, for while she was with him, he was her permission, her passport, and her ticket. Her heavy body shook under her white skirt and blouse. Her head-dress was beautifully ironed. She endeavoured to look like a nun of the old sort, from the days before nuns began dressing like traffic wardens. If ever the situation changed and revolutionary firing squads roamed the streets executing their enemies, Joyce would be there, praying as the bodies hit the ground: ‘He let me down, but forgive him, if you can.’
CHAPTER 4
And now I saw in my dream how the road which Blanchaille and Joyce followed took them past a great township on the edge of the city. Perhaps this was the township in which Blanchaille’s friend Miranda had died, but if so he gave no indication of it. And outside this township, beside the usual scrolls of barbed wire so ornate they took on the look of some lean and spiky sculpture, the priest and his housekeeper saw police vans and Saracen armoured cars crowded in at the gates and armed policemen in positions on the roofs of the houses and in trees and on any high vantage point, training their guns on the township.
And then I saw a short, stocky man with a sub-machine gun under his arm step forward and introduce himself to the two travellers as Colonel Schlagter. This Schlagter was a burly capable-looking man, but that he was under some strain was clearly apparent from the tight grip he kept on the black machine gun, jabbing it at them and demanding to know their business.
‘We are on a journey,’ Blanchaille explained, indicating the suitcases.
Schlagter jerked his thumb at Joyce. ‘Does this girl have a permit to be here? No one is allowed without a permit. Why is she outside? Why is she not inside with the others?’
‘She’s with me. She’s my servant,’ Blanchaille explained.
‘O.K., in that case she can help you.’ Schlagter turned to Joyce. ‘I hope you got strong arms, my girl. There’s lots of work for you here. Now both of you listen to me. This is the position. I’m commandeering you in terms of the State of Emergency, which gives me the right under the regulations to commandeer any civilians who in the opinion of the military commander or senior police officer on the scene may contribute to the safety of the State.’
‘But what has happened? There’s been trouble here, hasn’t there?’ Blanchaille demanded. ‘I thought the townships were peaceful.’
Now this was a telling point because one of the proudest boasts of the Regime at that time was of the peace to be found in the townships. Full-page advertisements appeared in international newspapers: they showed happy scenes, a group of children playing soccer; a roomful of smiling women taking sewing lessons; a crowded beer hall full of happy customers, and over the photographs the headline: YOU ARE LOOKING AT A RIOT IN A SOUTH AFRICAN TOWNSHIP. Trudy Yssel’s Department of Communications ran this campaign with great success.
‘The townships are peaceful. Don’t you bother about that,’ Schlagter snapped. ‘Come along with me please.’
He led them into the township where before the huge and fortified police station a bleak sight met their eyes. In the dust there lay scores of people, very still, with just an edge of clothing, a corner of a dress, the tip of a headscarf lifting in the gentle breeze which carried on it the unmistakable heavy smell of meat and blood. Joyce put down the suitcase and drew close to Blanchaille, seizing his wrist in her terrible grip.
‘Where have you brought Joyce? I believed in Father and where has he brought me?’
‘We must do as he says,’ Blanchaille whispered.
‘We are caught here. Stuck forever,’ Joyce replied.
‘Less talk, more work my girl.’ Schlagter indicated the fallen people in a matter-of-fact way, lifting his arms and drawing with his two forefingers an imaginary circle around them. ‘The people you see here are guilty of attacking the police. Believing themselves to be in great danger my men, after several warnings, returned fire. Just in time, I can tell you. The Saracens held their fire. They were not called or the damage would have been far greater, particularly to peaceful people in their houses. I’m proud to say these officers contained the charge with rifle fire and well-directed barrages from their sub-machine guns, even though this is a comparatively new weapon, extremely light and portable but inclined to jam when fired in haste due to the palm-release mechanism which must be squeezed simultaneously with the trigger. It takes some time to get the knack of it. But it’s no more than a teething problem, I can assure you. Now these casualties must be removed. You
have a free hand. You and the girl will be covered throughout the operation so there’s no cause for alarm’ – this last was directed at Joyce who had begun sobbing. ‘To your right you will see the front stoep of the police station which at the time of the murderous attack was occupied by only four black constables. Lay out the people there in orderly rows to facilitate counting and identification. Any problems, call on me.’
Priest and servant wandered among the fallen people, men, women and children tumbled into heaps or sprawled alone. Blanchaille noticed the remnants of clothing, several old shoes, a petticoat and even an old kitchen chair scattered about. Most of the people had been shot recently for they were warm still and bled profusely. He’d never realised how much blood the human body could contain and how the violent perforations of heavy, close-range fire will make the blood gush and spread. And then, stranger still, there were others who showed no signs of blood, or wounds, not even a single puncture. But there was blood enough, soaking into the dust, making a pungent sticky mud which Blanchaille and Joyce stirred up still further with their feet, though they tried to be as careful as possible. The policemen from their vantage points sighted down their rifles.
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