by Irma Joubert
“I don’t have a license either, but I know how to drive,” she said. “My brother taught me, first in the tractor and then in the decrepit old Opel we keep in the barn. And was he strict! I know how to drive in loose sand and on bad farm roads and I know how to back up. I just can’t drive on paved roads.”
“I plan to drive chiefly on paved roads,” Jakób said seriously, though his eyes were twinkling.
“Yes, I know. Maybe we could go for our licenses together. Maybe we could go in the town where I live, because my dad knows everyone . . .” She stopped. She couldn’t take Jakób to her hometown.
“What were you saying about your dad?”
“Maybe we should rather get our licenses in Pretoria,” she said.
He frowned and gave her an inquiring look, but she ignored it and changed the subject.
At Schoeman Street they got off the bus and walked the two street blocks to the cathedral.
The big stone building stood on a corner.
Suddenly Grietjie was filled with apprehension. Waiting inside were the beautiful music and the scent of candles and the tall, stained-glass windows. She remembered the tranquility and the sense that God was truly present, the solemn movements of the priests and the ancient sacred rituals. And she longed for them, for their familiarity, for the memories they held, especially for the peace they brought.
But inside there would also be a cross and images of the crucified Savior. The beautiful windows would have pictures of the Holy Virgin, of a baby with a halo, of a man with a cross on his shoulders and a crown of thorns on his head.
“Why is the Catholic Church wrong, Daddy?” she had asked her father years before. They were out in the veld, as they often were when they discussed serious matters.
“The Protestant churches believe the Catholics are on the wrong track, Grietjie,” her father had explained. “You know about Martin Luther, the German monk who initiated the protest against the Catholic Church?”
“Yes, I do.” But she’d also known from a young age about the battle the small monastery of Jasna Góra waged three hundred years ago against the Protestant king of Sweden to protect the Catholic faith. She knew this because she’d attended the convent school at Jasna Góra. Just as the Voortrekker leader Sarel Cilliers had recited the Covenant night after night, and God had helped the Voortrekkers, Jasna Góra’s Father Kordecki had prayed every morning at the painting of the Black Madonna, and the great hand of God had helped the handful of Catholics to fend off the Protestant multitude.
Would God have helped them if they had been on the wrong track?
“I don’t really know the Catholic rituals,” her father had continued, “but we Protestants don’t believe in graven images or any kind of portrayal of our Holy God. We also believe that the rituals are unnecessary. We don’t need the Virgin Mary to intercede with God. We just have to bow our heads and He will hear us.”
She understood. But what about the nuns? Dearest Sister Zofia, devoted Sister Margaret. The impressive cardinal of Łódź . . . Jakób—were they all on the wrong track?
“I suppose there are good Catholics as well,” she had dared to say.
“Yes, of course, Grietjie. One of the best men I’ve ever known was Father James. At the time of the depression he did wonderful work among Johannesburg’s poor.”
“Then why is it called the Catholic Threat, Daddy?” That was what bothered her most. “Surely they’re not dangerous?”
“Oh, but they are, Grietjie. They’re false prophets, especially to people who don’t know any better.”
She didn’t really remember the rest of the conversation. But she had great respect for her father. And she knew she could trust his judgment.
Now here she was standing in front of the Catholic Threat. And she knew God was waiting inside. Much more than in the sweltering bushveld church, where the sun beat mercilessly through the uncovered windows and the organ wailed out the glory of God.
Jakób must have felt her hesitation. He took her hand in his. “Come, Gretchen.”
With Jakób by her side she stepped through the heavy door, back into the world of her childhood.
Bach’s organ sounds filled the cathedral. It boomed from the organ pipes, shot up against the high ceiling, echoed through the building. The sounds enveloped the people in the sacred atmosphere.
She smelled the candles. The scent took her back to cold Christmas nights, to the midnight mass. It took her back to the time when Aunt Anastarja had lit candles for Jakób and Stan every day—when she, Gretz, had discovered the true meaning of prayer.
She saw how the stained-glass windows bathed the people in soft colors. She saw the images on which her entire childhood faith had been built—the manger, the Child in the temple, the sower, the fishermen, the Savior on the cross.
And she remembered her father’s caution. St. Paul warned against being led astray from sincere and pure devotion to Christ.
She clung to Jakób’s hand.
Because it felt to her as if everything—the music, the candles, the art all around her—was in fact leading her closer to a sincere and pure devotion to Christ.
As the service moved through the familiar rituals, she knew with greater certainty that she also felt at home here. This church, which her people regarded as a threat, this church was inextricably a part of her.
His apartment was sparsely furnished. There was a bedroom with a bed, a living room with a coffee table and three chairs, and a kitchen with a stove and a small fridge. No curtains, no rugs, pictures, or even a radio. “All in good time,” Jakób apologized. “Most important are the curtains. A colleague has promised to help.”
“Is she an engineer?” Grietjie asked, surprised.
Jakób laughed. “No, she’s our human relations officer. She’s helped me a lot.”
“Oh.” Grietjie felt slightly taken aback. She had wanted to help Jakób, just as he had helped her when she was new to his country.
“But the stove works, so you can make coffee,” he said. “And you’ll find bread, ham, and cheese in the fridge.”
While she was buttering the bread, he sliced the ham thinly.
“Is she married?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Your human relations officer.”
“No, divorced. I really must buy a sharper knife. This one is useless.”
“My dad always says a blunt knife is an omen. Is she old?”
“Who?”
“Your human relations officer, dummy!”
“Oh. About my own age, I suppose. Tell me about the people who adopted you, Gretz.”
“Grietjie. Remember, I’m Grietjie now.”
“Grietjie.”
“My dad is big and strong. He’s a farmer, but the farm is very different from yours at Częstochowa. He’s very religious, but we’re Protestant, of course, not Catholic. And he’s very Afrikaans. He won’t speak English, not even to Grandpa John.” She laughed softly. “You know, Jakób, I have an aunt who is completely English—Diana. You should hear her speak Afrikaans when they come to visit! She and my dad actually get along well.”
“Well, it seems I’ll have to learn Afrikaans then,” he said. “Shall I slice more ham?”
He mustn’t get it in his head to meet her father, Grietjie thought. It will never work, even if he speaks perfect Afrikaans.
“Is this enough ham?” he asked again.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure it’ll be enough.”
“And your new mother?”
“She’s my only mother, Jakób. Mommy is a beautiful lady with
a fine English upbringing. She’s educated, with a master’s degree in sociology. She and my dad are leaders in the community. I’m so proud of them.”
They set out the food and coffee on the low table and sat in two of the chairs. He leaned back and stretched his long legs in front of him. “You don’t know how grateful I am, Gretz.”
“Grietjie,” she corrected him. “Why?”
“Grietjie.” He struggled to say her name. “Because you’re happy. If the rest of the language is as difficult as your name, I’ll never learn to speak it.”
“Only the g and the r are hard to say. The rest is easy. You’ll be happy here too, Jakób, I’m sure of it. Next time I’ll bring you an Afrikaans reading book, an easy one. I’ll help you read it. You’ll soon pick up Afrikaans, you’ll see.”
They talked and talked. She told him about Kobus and his pigs, and her roommate, and her Polish tutor. He told her about Stan and Haneczka and the boys, about Turek and Monicka and the farm and his parents. And about little Czes, of course, who was thirteen now.
“I don’t believe it!” Grietjie said, amazed. “I still think of him as an adorable little three-year-old.”
“Yes, it’s hard to believe how quickly a child grows up,” Jakób agreed.
The apartment felt emptier after she left than before she had come. She still had the ability to flit into his life and brighten up his surroundings. Now that she was gone, he was painfully aware of the bare floors, the gray walls, the gaping windows.
Alice had promised to work on his curtains this weekend. She was another highlight in his life—an attractive, mature woman: efficient, friendly, at times even fun.
He made fresh coffee and stood at the living room window. An occasional car drove by in the street below. But late on a Sunday afternoon most people were at home with their families.
Alice had a family of her own. Two children at junior school, a boy and a girl. Jakób had taken her to the movies a few times, but it was hard for her, because she had to arrange for someone to look after the kids.
“Have supper with me one evening instead,” she had proposed. “I make a wonderful pot roast.”
But he wasn’t quite ready for that yet.
Even the food here was different. Familiar food, like ham and cheese, tasted completely different, bland. And delicacies like biltong and rusks, which his colleagues were crazy about, were totally strange to his palate. Not to mention the barbecues!
But the country itself was good. And he was beginning to understand the people—strong and hard, but also hearty and warm, as Gretz had said.
Gretz. His thoughts always returned to her. She was happy, he could see it. But something wasn’t quite right, he saw that as well.
Something rankled. He had to find out what it was, because at this point she was once again the most important person in his life—a safe, familiar harbor on a foreign shore.
After church on Sunday evening, Grietjie and Francois went out for coffee. The events of the day were dominating her thoughts.
“What’s eating you?” asked Francois. “You’re miles away.”
He had said she should talk to him. She knew she could trust him. She looked him in the eye and said, “I attended mass at the Catholic cathedral this morning.”
She registered the astonishment on his face. “You did what?”
“You heard.” She shouldn’t have said it. It was always better to say nothing.
“But why, Grietjie?”
She shrugged. “I wanted to.”
“And how do you feel now?”
He’s turning into a real psychologist, she thought, slightly irritated. “Still the same. It was interesting. This place has lovely coffee, don’t you think?”
He laughed softly. “So you went to take a closer look at the Catholic Threat?” There was a grudging admiration in his voice. “Just don’t let your folks find out or they’ll skin you alive! My father would, and he’s not even a Nationalist!”
The weeks flew past. Francois was working hard at his master’s degree, and they seldom saw each other. It’s better this way, Grietjie thought, or he might just want to get serious again.
On Wednesday evenings just before six, Jakób picked her up in the Volksie he’d finally purchased. Karin thought she was going to her Polish lesson. She waited for him outside. They went out for a bite to eat or bought French fries and ate them in the car. They talked, and she taught him Afrikaans.
“You’re very clever!” she said. “Just look at the progress you’re making!”
“How long did it take you to learn Afrikaans?” he asked.
“Not as long as it’s taking you,” she admitted. “But remember, I lived in a house where they spoke nothing but Afrikaans to me all day.”
“I work among people who chiefly speak Afrikaans,” he reminded her.
“Also true. What do they say about your progress?”
“I don’t speak Afrikaans there.”
“One of these days you will. And then you’ll see how pleased they’ll be.”
He looked happier, she thought. He spoke about his job more often. He told her he was solving problems they’d been struggling with for a long time.
“I knew you were the best engineer!” she said proudly.
He laughed. “Not really, it was just something I happened to have come across in Poland.”
He asked, but she refused to go to mass with him again.
Her studies took up a lot of her time. She spent hours doing research in the library, and she sat in the feeble winter sun reading one prescribed work after another.
“Your eyes will end up as square as those pages,” Karin warned.
One Friday afternoon at the beginning of June, when Karin and Francois had gone home for the weekend, she phoned Jakób at work. She had never done it before. But she was lonely, she missed home, she’d had another terrible dream the night before, and she didn’t want to be alone.
“Can I come over this evening?” she asked.
She hadn’t been in his apartment since the first time. “I shouldn’t really come to your place on my own,” she had explained.
He was glad she’d been raised so well.
But now she was here, and he understood again.
“It looks brand-new!” she said, surprised. “The curtains, the rugs, you even have a sofa, Jakób. And a bookcase.” She began to laugh. “But you’ve only got five books!”
He smiled. “It’s five more than I had a month ago.”
“And two of them are children’s stories I gave you. You’ll have to start buying books. You can’t go through life without books.”
“I have to buy many other things first,” he said and opened the cabinet in the living room. “Are you old enough to have wine?”
“Jakób,” she scolded, “I’m long past eighteen! And yes, thank you, I’d love a glass of wine. Dry red, just like Grandpa John taught me.”
He took out a bottle of red wine and began to open it. “What if I didn’t have dry red?” he teased her.
“Then I would have had to take you to Grandpa John for a lecture,” she said.
“Will you introduce us one day?” he asked.
“Maybe,” she said vaguely.
They talked about the usual things. He stole a glance at her—she looked paler than usual, and tired. She sat deep in the armchair, her legs tucked under her. She turned the stem of the wineglass round and round in her fingers. The last rays of the winter sun made the dark-red liquid sparkle like rubies. Her hair glinted gold in the last light.
S
he was indescribably beautiful. And . . .
“Do you still feel the cold?” he asked. “When you were a little girl, you were always scrunched up when the weather was cold.”
She laughed. “Probably because I was so thin. When I look at photos from that time I realize I looked like one of those skeletal children from the Boer War concentration camps. At least I’ve put on some flesh.” She thought for a moment. “And my family is wrapped around me like a comfort blanket. They warm me from the inside.”
Usually she radiated happiness, he thought, but tonight she was different, maybe because he could see she was tired. Tonight she seemed calm. She exuded a kind of intimacy that washed over him. He drank it in now to savor it later.
“I’d like to meet your family,” he said. “Your parents, your brother, your Grandpa John as well.”
Her blue eyes gazed at him. “I haven’t told them about you, Jakób.”
He frowned slightly. “Why not?”
She kept her eyes on him. “Because they know nothing about my roots,” she said evenly.
“You mean . . .?”
“Yes, I mean they don’t know about the convent school or the years I spent in Poland or my Jewish blood.”
“Grietjie,” he said, astounded, “you can’t live like this.”
She raised her chin. “I’ve been living like this for years, and it’s been a good life,” she said.
“But it’s unnecessary. Just tell them.”
“You knew it was quite necessary. We discussed it at the orphanage—do you remember? I know the Afrikaner people. The Roman Catholic Church is the Catholic Threat against which we have to protect our faith. Anything that comes from Poland is Communist and part of the Red Danger, against which we must protect our country. And the Jews are non-Aryans, against whom we must protect our blood.” She was silent for a moment. “My parents are all I have.”
He was shocked. Not by the unyielding stance on the Catholic Threat or the misconception about Poland—but by the utter loneliness of the young person in front of him.
