The Other Side of Silence

by Andre Brink

  For Hanna it is too much. As soon as he comes back, we must go, she signals to Katja. We cannot stay here. It is not right.

  That is when she notices the single object that changes everything, though it is hardly any less ordinary than the rest. In the corner near the door stands a small rickety table with a single chair pulled up to it; and on the chequered surface are set out the figures of a crudely carved chess set. The game seems to be still in progress as several pieces lie overturned on one side, and the rest are set up in broken formation. Across the years, like the memory of a once-loved voice, a sound trapped in a shell, comes the image of Herr Ludwig’s face moulded in the lamplight – the aquiline nose, the sad, gentle mouth, the firm-set chin, the bird-tracks around the eyes – as he stares down at her hand hovering over the board with a black bishop between her fingers; moving it, not towards the checkmating of his king, but on a tangent. She hears the distant echo of his voice, asking, “What have you done?” And her own, controlled and quiet, answering, “You win.”

  Hanna is still fingering a discarded black rook from Siggi Fischer’s chess set, smooth from much handling, when she is distracted by a sound. The wiry shoemaker enters from the kitchen and comes towards them through the happy mess of the living room. His monkey is perched on his shoulder, but it leaps to Katja’s when he arrives in the doorway to the bedroom.

  Hanna’s first thought is that she has not yet covered her face; involuntarily she moves her hands up to shield herself. But he seems not to have noticed anything untoward.

  “I’ve watered the horses,” says Siggi. He looks at the rook in her hand. “I see you’ve found the chess set. Do you play?”

  Hanna half turns away, shaking her head, panicky with embarrassment. She signals to Katja to explain, You must excuse me, I must put on my kappie.

  “You don’t need it indoors, do you?”

  Surprised, Hanna glances at him, but he shows no sign at all that her appearance has unsettled him.

  As if he has trapped her in a petty theft she hands him the rook. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb your setting. It looks as if your game was interrupted.

  “I only play with myself.” He smiles. “And I always lose. Perhaps you will join me after supper.” A pause. “I hope you have decided to stay.” He looks from one to the other.

  “Where will you sleep if we do?” asks Katja.

  “I make a bed on my work bench. I always do when there are visitors. Not that I get many of them.”

  “We shall be happy to stay,” says Katja without consulting Hanna. She feels the woman stiffening momentarily beside her, then relaxing with what may be a sigh of resignation.

  “Good.” He lovingly rubs the rook between thumb and forefinger. “Not exactly a masterpiece, but it does the job.”

  “Did you carve it?”

  “No, it was my wife. She was an Ovambo woman. She died three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He shrugs. “One gets used to loneliness. One gets used to everything. Only in the beginning it was hard. But it’s good to have visitors. Even though I have always been something of a loner.”

  He came from Bavaria over twenty years ago, they learn. A small village in the mountains, Bayerisch Zell. He was eager to see the world and there was much talk at the time, the mid-1880s, of the exotic wilderness of German South-West Africa and its untold treasures. The reality turned out to be rather different. Still he fell under the spell of the place, its spaces, its spareness, its unexpected explosions of extravagant beauty in sunsets, desert flowers, shifting red dunes, migrating herds of antelope. After prospecting for a few years he acquired a farm near Tsumeb in the north. The final decision was really taken out of his hands when the fiancée he’d left behind in Bavaria and who was to have followed him to Africa as soon as he’d settled, wrote a letter (which only caught up with him four months later) to tell him that she’d married someone else. It is her photograph, there on the bedside table.

  While he is talking, with all the eagerness of a man who hasn’t had a chance to unburden for months, they move to the cluttered living room, and later to the kitchen, where they help him to prepare Knödel for supper.

  “And when did you meet your wife?” asks Katja.

  “Kaguti?” he asks, beginning to stir his pot on the open hearth very vigorously. “She was a headman’s daughter. I bought the farm from him. From the first moment I set eyes on her I was in love. But she was not so easily persuaded. Nor was her father. I had to work for him for many years. At last she came to live with me, it was a big feast. The problem was that my white neighbours shunned us. And some of her people didn’t accept it either. It got worse after her father died. Our farm was raided and on several occasions we lost all our cattle, sometimes to the Ovambos, sometimes to the Germans. This land is so big but it had no place for us. In the end we decided to come down here to Windhoek. We were still outcasts, but we made a few friends. And people bought my shoes and saddles and bridles. Kaguti took in washing and carved figurines from wood, like the chess set. We used to play in the evenings, she was very good. But then she died.”

  “What happened to your children?” asks Katja.

  “We had no children.”

  “And the cradle in the bedroom?”

  “It was always empty.” For a moment it seems as if he wishes to say more, but then changes his mind.

  The food is ready, but Hanna wants to feed the horses first. Siggi has some oats which he assures them he keeps specially for such occasions. Afterwards they go in for their supper; a section of the work bench has been cleared for it.

  Katja wants to serve Siggi first, but he refuses, highly indignant: “I always serve myself last, even when I’m alone.”

  The Knödel are sticky and not very good, but they have not eaten all day; and the food is served with such enthusiasm that it feels like a celebration. They only stop when there is nothing left.

  After they have done the dishes Siggi brings the chess table into the living room. He sets up the pieces and looks at Hanna.

  “Shall we play?”

  Katja can feel the gathering anxiety in her. Something in Hanna wants to hold back, to refuse outright; at the same time she feels a desire she has not been aware of for years. In the end, without a sound, she sits down. She knows her hands are shaking.

  I have forgotten most of it, she tries to say, through Katja.

  Siggi looks down at her, then brings a chair up for himself. “It will soon come back,” he says encouragingly.

  She realises that she still hasn’t put her kappie on. Now it is too late. But she does feel very exposed as she makes the first move. Plan it, Herr Ludwig used to say, like a military campaign. But she cannot concentrate properly. And something inside her revolts against the idea of a campaign, any campaign, right now; she has had too much of it and is no longer sure of where it has brought her. Yet the urge to play must be as passionate as, in others, perhaps, at times, the urge to make love. Her face is burning. But she cannot focus properly. Nor can she withdraw, now that she has begun.

  Katja watches from the work bench, sensing the terrible tension mounting in Hanna, but unable to understand exactly what is happening.

  Before they have gone very far – it is not even an hour since they started – it is obvious to Hanna that her situation is hopeless. She is going to lose, and she no longer has the skill to extricate herself.

  Katja can see her getting more and more agitated, claustrophobic. And suddenly, with a vehement shake of her head, Hanna jumps up.

  I’m not going on, she signals to Katja, who conveys it to Siggi.

  “Then we stop,” he says affably, dropping his long hands to his sides. “I’m sure you must be very tired. It was inconsiderate of me.” The monkey, back on his shoulder, is chattering eagerly in his ear. He puts a hand on Hanna’s shoulder, pretending not to notice how she shrinks back. “There is no need for anyone to win or lose,” he says.

  Hanna clenche
s her teeth so tightly that it hurts. She makes a brief gesture with her head towards the bedroom and hurries out.

  Katja glances at Siggi. “Let me help you make your bed,” she offers.

  But he shakes his head. “I still have work to do,” he reminds her, stooping to pick up the two pairs of worn shoes he has left just inside the doorway to the kitchen.

  “You cannot do that now!” she protests.

  “I work best at night,” he assures her. “Now off you go.” He turns up the lamp. The monkey finds a perch on a pile of lasts. The two of them are clearly used to their routine.

  Katja closes the bedroom door behind her. For a moment she leans her forehead against the cool hardness of the wall, feeling the full weight of her tiredness pressing down on her. “I feel safe here,” she whispers.

  Hanna makes no reply. She is already in the big bed, in her petticoat, deeply snuggled into the feather mattress under the eiderdown.

  Katja takes off her dress and creeps in beside her. She leans over to kiss the woman, overcome by thoughts she has not even been conscious of. Hanna responds briefly. Her closed eyes are trembling. But she makes no attempt to communicate. Katja blows out the candle. The long day, the many months, fall from them. The dark space is invaded by everything that cannot, dare not, be spoken. Not yet, or not any more.

  There are small sounds coming from the living room. Shuffling, tapping, scraping, rustling sounds. Occasionally something mumbled in Siggi’s voice, a small chattering from the monkey in response. Katja’s breathing deepens into sleep. Hanna lies awake.

  Beyond the silence of the house she remains conscious of the living, moving sounds of the town. After the months in the desert there is a constant awareness of many things happening below the threshold of hearing. From time to time this uneven, indistinct hum is broken by sharper sounds. The squalling of two mating cats in the backyard. A dog barking. In the distance, so help me God, even the braying of a donkey. Only the rooster is missing, thinks Hanna, feeling a wry smile form around her wounded mouth, before the band of musicians will be complete.

  The last time they slept in a house was in the parsonage at the Rhenish mission. But this is so different. There is reason to believe, as Katja said, that they are safe here.

  Later the dull sounds in the living room drain away too. The thin line of light under the door goes dark. The house itself is sinking into sleep, muttering occasionally, a creaking of iron sheets and heavy beams, a scuttling perhaps of mice. If not of secret elves who come in the dark to complete the shoemaker’s work for him.

  A whole life drawing itself in around her, as close now as the body of the sleeping Katja. How lovely she was, standing up in the small bath. I am not beautiful. I’m just a woman. She too, once, who knows. She did not always look like this.

  But everything is now drawing to a close. Only this night, and then tomorrow. Hauptmann Heinrich Bohlke. He promised he’d be there. At ten. To meet the woman who has travelled a very long way to see him.

  What did the spindly little shoemaker say? There is no need for anyone to win. She pushes it away, almost angrily. What does he know about her life?

  And yet he has been suffering too, even if only glimpses of it showed around the edges of his words. The fiancée whose faded little portrait still stands here beside the bed. The raids on his farm, all the cattle stolen, sometimes by Ovambos, sometimes by Germans. He and his wife, ostracised by all, and then she died. How? Why? Leaving him so lonely that he takes in any stranger that comes around. With a small black-faced monkey named Bismarck as his only company.

  She is still awake when the cocks begin to crow (there they are now!) and daylight comes, but she does not want to wake Katja. She may well need all her energy for what lies ahead and what she doesn’t even know yet. This silence is so deeply peaceful. But it will not last.

  When they get up, breakfast is already waiting. Dark bread and goat’s milk cheese. Mugs of coffee. Bismarck is chattering excitedly.

  On the edge of the work bench sit their shoes, with smooth new soles, the edges finely stitched, the torn flaps mended. Bright with polish.

  “If you have important business today as you told me,” says Siggi, beaming with pride, “at least you will be well appointed. With a pair of good shoes you need not be afraid of anything.”

  ∨ The Other Side of Silence ∧

  Seventy-Two

  All those documents, the old copies of Afrika Post, the correspondence, the registers from Frauenstein, the police records; and yet armed with no more than a name only half released by history – Hanna X – what is there to conclude? Had there been a court case to round it off, everything would have spilled into recorded history. But as I explained at the beginning of this account, the unfortunate option chosen by the German officer pre-empted a trial, and after that the machinations of power kept it from public notice in the interests of protecting the honour of the Empire. As a consequence all my enquiries – begun in Windhoek, pursued in Bremen and Hamburg, afterwards resumed in Namibia – could only end in conjecture. But having come so far, I cannot now turn back or abandon the quest. Having followed Hanna and Katja to Windhoek I have little choice but to imagine the rest. A narrative accumulates its own weight and demands its own conclusion. And so they will leave the humble home of the shoemaker Siggi Fischer early that Friday morning in November 1906 to keep what has become an appointment with destiny. Before Hanna X is restored to the silence from which she emerged, there has to be a final chapter, which will of necessity take place in the sprawling sandstone building of the army headquarters where Katja met Hauptmann Heinrich Bohlke the day before.

  ∨ The Other Side of Silence ∧

  Seventy-Three

  He is a small dry man with a monocle, seated in a large leather-upholstered chair behind an enormous desk at the far end of the long, low-ceilinged room. He is nearly bald, he has a thin moustache, his face is tanned although a sickly pallor shows through it. When the women are escorted in he rises and comes stiffly towards them, waves the orderly away, gives instructions to be left alone with his visitors.

  In front of Katja he makes a formal bow, takes her hand, offers a kiss without touching her with his lips. Perhaps he doesn’t like touching people.

  “Fraulein.”

  Then he turns to Hanna. Hidden by the long beak of her kappie her face is invisible, so he gives only a perfunctory nod.

  “I believe we met before?”

  “She cannot speak,” says Katja. “Perhaps I forgot to mention that?”

  “Indeed?” He seems disappointed. “I cannot recall that you did.”

  “I’m sure you must remember her,” Katja goes on.

  He motions them towards two large easy chairs, also upholstered in dark red leadier. They do not move.

  “May I ask, Fraulein…?” He sounds perplexed. For the first time a hint of suspicion enters his voice which is slightly hoarse, perhaps from too many years of barking orders.

  That is when Hanna unties her kappie, and removes it, and drops it on the floor as if discarding it.

  He stares at her, takes a step back. There is, however, no sign of recognition yet; how can he be expected to remember?

  “Hauptmann Bohlke,” says Katja, bending over and pulling up her long skirt. He stares in disbelief. Even more so when she whips a Luger from under her clothes and points it at him. When he turns towards Hanna she has done the same.

  “Now listen…”

  “Shut up,” says Katja quietly. “If you make a sound we shall kill you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Hanna makes a brief gesture towards Katja.

  “Turn round,” Katja orders him. “Put your hands behind your back. We have to tie you up.”

  “But…”

  Hanna moves very quickly, like a snake striking. The butt of the Luger crashes against the side of his face. In a reflex action he pulls back his arm, his fist clenched.

  “Don’t try that,” snaps Katja.

 
; He has dropped his monocle. His eyes, suddenly naked, are burning on the gun in her hand as he reluctantly moves his hands behind his back. Hanna has a length of rope wound about her waist under her dress. It does not take very long to tie him up. Then she gags him.

  “Why don’t we just shoot him and have done with it?” asks Katja, breathing heavily.

  Hanna shakes her head and grimaces again. We are not in a hurry. She picks up the gun she has left on the chair while she was tying his arms together. Take off his clothes.

  “What are you going to do now?” asks Katja, shocked. They have never discussed this part of the plan before.

  Take off his clothes. Use your knife if you have to.

  Dumbfounded, Katja does not dare disobey. Another two minutes and Hauptmann Heinrich Bohlke is standing naked before them. His feet are very white. His toenails are yellow. Strange what one notices in a moment like this. He has a small pot-belly, which does not go well with his delicate bony frame. She gazes openly at his penis, a mangled, blackened little stub of a thing. It looks, she thinks, like the remains of her tongue. Can this really be all? Is this miserable little appendix all it has been about? All the suffering, all the agony, once said, as despicable as he? There was that night after they had taken the first fort, when she and Katja lay talking and the girl – she was still a girl then – told her about making love to her young soldier before she killed him. The first part was for me, the second for you. That was when she first began to wonder: perhaps hate is not enough. If her whole life had to remain trapped in hate it would mean that she could never get beyond this moment of standing opposite this wretched little person.

  The years fall away. She is facing, once again, Herr Ludwig in his study, the smooth black bishop in her hand. And with an extraordinary sense of liberation she thinks: No. No, she will not kill him. It is no longer necessary. It is not worth it. Killing him cannot undo the world that has made him possible. She need not stoop to that. It is too simple. And there has been blood enough. All she needs is to make sure the world will take note. That passionate message scrawled on a hot morning on the blank pages from a Bible dropped in the dust. So that it cannot be shut away in a drawer again as Frau Knesebeck once tried to do. She sighs deeply. And puts on her clothes again with fastidious care.