See No Evil

12

July 28, 1988

Poor Doris! She got a phone call this afternoon. For her to have a phone call at the house, I knew it must be something pretty serious. I overheard her talking in Xhosa on the phone, then she screamed, a heart-rending wail. It was an awful sound, especially from Doris who is always so cheerful. She wouldn’t stop. I tried to comfort her but she wanted to finish the phone call. Then she just let the receiver drop and sobbed.

It was Thando. He was killed with three other boys by some unknown thugs last night. Some white men broke into their shack and shot them. Thando lives in a township outside Port Elizabeth; I think he works in one of the car factories there. He’s only seventeen. He’s Doris’s only son, only child. Finneas came in from the garden. He and I did what we could to comfort Doris but she was inconsolable, and why not? I would be if it were Todd.

Doris doesn’t know any of the details. Her son will be branded a criminal, of course. But I know him well: as Doris says, “He was a good boy.”

I told Finneas to take the Renault and drive Doris to P. E. tonight.

July 30

What a day! I went to the funeral. I thought, why not? Doris and I have been together for eighteen years, since just before Thando was born, and I’m damned if I won’t be allowed to support her just because of my color or her color. Zan offered to come with me, but with Doris away I said I’d prefer to have her stay at home with Caroline. I got the first flight of the morning to Port Elizabeth and took a taxi. The funeral was held in a soccer stadium in a township on the outskirts of Uitenhage, an auto-manufacturing town a few miles from P. E. itself. A cordon of police surrounded the township: young men in camouflage uniforms brandishing guns, some of them perched on “Hippos,” the nickname for those creepy armored cars they use.

I had to talk my way through the cordon; they didn’t seem to understand that a white woman, and an American at that, could be a friend of one of the victims. I pleaded, and in the end a sergeant gave in with a shrug that suggested that if I was that crazy I deserved what was coming to me.

Passing through that cordon was like passing into another country, a country run by blacks for blacks. A marshal directed me to where I should sit in the sports stadium. There must have been 40,000 people there. The whole place was a riot of warmth and color and passion. I’ve never experienced an atmosphere like it. There were banners everywhere in the bright colors of the trade unions, the black and yellow of the UDF, and the black, green and gold of the ANC. I even glimpsed, briefly, the red flag and hammer and sickle of the Communist Party. The speakers sat on a raised platform, beside which were rows of seats for relatives. I could make out the plump figure of Doris, but there was no way she could see me. My idea of joining her to express my sympathy was clearly unrealistic.

Lying in the field in front of the speakers were four coffins, three in dark brown wood and one smaller white one. One of them was Thando. Another must have been a small child.

I asked the woman next to me if she knew what had happened. She said that they had been killed by the police.

“Didn’t it happen in the middle of the night?”

“That’s when they do these things,” she said. “Then no one sees. They don’t have to go through the bother of arrests and lawyers and courts, they just kill them,” and she put two fingers to her temple like a gun.

“But why them?”

“The policemen, they never liked Joshua. They think he is a troublemaker. The people say he knew he was going to die some time. But he was a brave comrade.”

“And Thando? Was he a troublemaker too?”

“No,” said the woman thoughtfully. “But he was also a brave comrade. And Joshua’s little brother, he never done anyone any harm.”

I thought of Thando, the shy trusting boy with his mother’s generosity of spirit. Neels and I offered to pay for his education at high school and on to university, but he didn’t want to go. He wanted to earn money, he said, good money in a car factory. I’m sure he wasn’t a troublemaker. I’m not convinced he was a “brave comrade” either. I guess he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wondered what impression the hero’s burial would make on Doris: whether it gave her comfort to have so many people joining her in her grief, or whether she would be happier alone with her son at the graveside. I didn’t know. The whole idea of losing Todd like that is too awful to contemplate.

And what about the child in the little white coffin? Just how much a threat to anyone could he be?

The funeral took hours, but I didn’t care. Very little time was spent on the actual funeral service, but there were speeches, shouting of slogans, preaching, the toyi-toyi dancing of the young men, and singing, beautiful singing. The whole crowd sang “Hambe kahle Umkhonto”, the song praising the Umkhonto we Sizwe guerrillas, the song that strikes fear into white South Africans’ hearts. At that moment, it lifted mine.

Then a group of young men raised the coffins on to their shoulders and carried them out of the stadium. I followed. Although there were very few white faces in the crowd, just some press men and photographers, I felt part of it, swept along by the heady mixture of grief, pride, passion and joy, opposing emotions that combined to create a kind of mass elation.

My seat was close to the front of the crowd as it left the stadium. I could see the men carrying the coffins, and in front of them a couple of small boys swooping back and forth on their bicycles. The police watched. They weren’t like riot police in other countries, dressed for protection. They had no shields or body armor, not even helmets. But they did have guns and batons and dogs. I stared into their faces: they looked like members of a street gang spoiling for a fight. I caught the eyes of a couple of them, who glanced away as if embarrassed to see a white woman.

Cameras flashed. Not from press photographers, but from the police lines. One of them was pointing straight at me. The photographer saw me staring at him, and gave me the thumbs up.

I wanted to get out of there. The chants of the crowd were becoming more aggressive. Hippos shunted about, taking up better positions. I could see the boys on the crest of the hill ahead pedaling in circles in front of the police lines, wobbling unsteadily as they raised their arms in the black-power salute.

Suddenly a dog, a German shepherd, tore out of the police lines and launched itself into the air at one of the boys, bowling him off his bike. I didn’t see what the dog did to the boy once he was on the ground, but after a second of stunned silence, the crowd howled.

There was movement everywhere, shouts, screams, barks and then shots. Some in the crowd surged forward, some, myself included, scrambled back toward the stadium. More shots, and then the whole lot of us, thousands of people, were running, scattering. A young man with long dreadlocks saw my fear, and grabbed me by the arm. He dragged and pulled me through the crowd and up a side street. We ducked to left and right through the shacks of the township until we emerged on an open road behind the line of Hippos.

I slumped to the ground and gasped my thanks, gulping air into my lungs. The man didn’t seem tired at all. He smiled quickly and left me.

I’m writing this on the plane back to Cape Town. Neels will be worried about the photographs. He will say I shouldn’t have gone. He’ll remind me of my promise not to make trouble. But now Neels is closing the Mail down, who cares about me being seen at a black funeral? I sure as hell don’t.

August 1

Well, I’m feeling kind of mellow and I rather like it.

I was beginning to wonder about Zan’s social life. She disappears into Cape Town quite regularly to do God knows what, and she’s been to Jo’burg, but there’s no mention of a boyfriend, or indeed any other kind of friend. Then today she called me from Cape Town to ask if she could bring two people over to stay the night.

They arrived this afternoon. The man is called Bjorn, and he’s some kind of Scandinavian. He is over six feet tall, with a dark beard and calm blue eyes. Quite cute, really. And then there was his girlfriend Miranda who is almost as tall, with an Afro hairstyle and gorgeous golden-brown skin. They look like a pair of hippies straight out of the seventies, and make Zan look positively Establishment by comparison. After a minimum of small talk with me, they disappeared to Zan’s room.

I was out working in the garden. The window was open, and I could hear music, I think it was Dollar Brand, and then I smelled that familiar smell of my college days. Grass. Marijuana. Dagga, they call it here. I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t too happy about having someone smoking dope in my house, but I didn’t want to come across as the heavy authority figure with Zan, especially in front of the first friends she has brought back to Hondehoek. I know Neels will be absolutely furious if he finds out and so I decided I really had to stop them, or Zan might think she could smoke dope any time she liked.

I went indoors, steeled myself outside her room, knocked and walked in. The sweet smell hit me. Zan and Miranda were sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, and Bjorn was lying back against the bed, holding a long joint, while Dollar Brand played his heart out on the piano.

Zan looked up at me guiltily. I paused, grasping for the right words that would be firm but not too dictatorial.

Then Bjorn spoke. “Hey, Martha,” he said quietly, and held the joint up to me. I looked at him as though he was crazy. He smiled a small smile, shrugged but didn’t retract the joint. There was something amazingly calm, almost wise about him.

What the fuck, I thought. Screw Neels. I took the joint.

It’s the first time I’ve smoked marijuana in over twenty years, and probably the last, but it was good to do just once more. I did tell Zan later that I didn’t expect to see dagga in my house again. She apologized with a smile.

I tell you what, though. If my sixteen-year-old son so much as tries to smoke a cigarette here he’s in big trouble. And he and his girlfriend are having separate rooms. I’m 100 percent certain about that.

August 2

Oh, God, Neels was right all along. This is a horrible, evil country and I wish I had never set foot in it. I have been stupid when I should have been careful. I hate this place.

Yesterday. Yesterday I was a different person.

Yesterday I went to a board meeting at the Project. Finneas drove me, poor broken Finneas. If it had been Nimrod things might have been better. Despite his small size, Nimrod is quite capable of looking after his master. And his master’s wife.

After my experiences at Thando’s funeral I was enthusiastic about going to the Project and I actually felt safe as we drove through Guguletu. The meeting lasted a couple of hours and then we took our usual look around the school. It was about four o’clock when Finneas and I set off for home. We had barely gone a quarter of a mile when two bakkie pulled up, one in front and one behind us, and men leaped out with guns. They were black, but they didn’t look like locals, they were bigger and stronger and better dressed and they had an air of disciplined purpose. They definitely knew how to use the guns they were waving.

Finneas started sobbing and chattering and I was too stunned to know what to do. They dragged me out of the car and I began to scream. I can remember seeing three small boys standing by the roadside staring at me and then some foul-tasting cloth was shoved in my mouth. I tried to kick out but there was no point, these men were strong. Then they thrust a sack over my head, yanked my hands behind my back and bound them. I was lifted up and dumped on to hard metal. The rear of the bakkie. A sheet of some kind was thrown over me and someone heavy sat on me. Then they drove off.

God knows how long they drove for, I lost all track of time. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe an hour. But eventually the bakkie came to a halt. I could hear the sounds of traffic in the distance, but not the constant hum of township music and chatter. I was carried off the bakkie and into a building, through a couple of doors and dumped on to a hard cold floor. A moment later the hood was lifted.

I was in some kind of store room. There was a small window which was boarded up. A single electric bulb hung from the ceiling. A rickety table stood in the center of the room, on either side of which were two upended Castrol oil drums. The two men who had dumped me on the floor left the room, locking the door behind them. I stood up and began to yell for help. Instantly one of the men was back. He stepped rapidly over to me and struck me once in the stomach. It didn’t seem a particularly hard blow, but it winded me and left me doubled up on the floor again, gasping for breath.

“Quiet!” he snapped, glaring at me. Then he left the room again.

I decided not to scream anymore. I stood up and paced about the room, my hands still tied behind my back. I wondered who these men were. If they were kidnapping me for money, would Neels pay? A couple of months ago, I wouldn’t have had to ask that question. But now? Would he view this as a simple means of getting me out of the way?

The men were tough and professional. I assumed they wanted money.

I was very scared.

After about ten minutes the door opened and another man appeared. He was white, which surprised me. He was short and bulky, muscular rather than fat. He had a thick neck, a small moustache and hard little eyes. I noticed his hands were very large. I realized my first instincts had been wrong: this man was a policeman, a “rockspider,” as Zan would no doubt call him. He looked mean, but my spirits rose. I was in the hands of the authorities. I should be safe.

“Sit down, Mrs van Zyl.” Although the accent was harsh, the voice was surprisingly soft. Soft and confident.

I did as he asked, perching on the oil drum. He sat on the other one.

“I’m sorry we had to bring you here,” he said, pulling out a packet of cigarettes. He offered me one, and when I had shaken my head, lit one up himself. “I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee. But we do have some water. How about that?”

I shook my head again.

The man smiled. “I think you’ll need some water before we have finished.” He went over to the door and shouted out to someone called Elijah.

Then he sat down on the oil drum and examined me across the table.

“Why have you brought me here?” I asked.

“To talk to you.”

“But why did you kidnap me like that? Who are you, anyway?”

A man came in with a plastic cup of water, the man who had pulled the hood off my face and hit me in the stomach. The white man waited until the other had left.

“I’m a member of the Laagerbond.”

“And what are you holding me for?” I said. “You can’t do this. I’m an American citizen. I demand to speak to someone from the US consulate. Do you know who my husband is?”

The Laagerbonder smiled. “I know very well who your husband is, Mrs van Zyl. In fact, that’s why you are here. And as for the consulate, well you can demand what you want, but although my friends and I are employed by the government, we are acting in an unofficial capacity.”

“Well, in that case let me go.”

“I want you to tell me everything you know about the Laagerbond.”

“I don’t know anything about the Laagerbond. I’ve never even heard of it.”

“Now, I know that’s not true. Please answer my question.”

“I have answered it. I’ve never heard of the Laagerbond.”

“I can make you tell me.”

“No you can’t,” I said, stupidly.

This made the rockspider smile. “I can’t think how many dozens of people, hundreds of people, have told me what I want to know over the years. You will tell me.”

It was the certainty of his last comment that shook me. Until then I had been doing well with the bravado, buoying myself up with it.

“You won’t torture me,” I said. I meant it as a brave statement, but it came out of my mouth more as a half question.

“I won’t have to,” the man said, leaning forward. “There’s really no need. I will, of course, if necessary, but you and I both know that what you are hiding from me isn’t that important, at least not to you. I could make you betray your own mother, your husband, even,” he paused and smiled quickly, “your daughter. It wouldn’t take me long, less than an hour. But I don’t want that. All I want is for you to tell me something that really has nothing to do with you. You don’t care, or you shouldn’t.”

“You dare not torture me,” I said. “My husband is an important person. There would be all kinds of diplomatic consequences.”

“I’m going to show you some photographs,” the man said. “You’ll probably recognize Elijah, he’s the man who showed you in. And although you won’t see my face, you might recognize these hands.” He held out his meaty fists and opened and closed his fingers. “And you might recognize someone else.”

He opened the brown envelope and withdrew about twenty prints which he placed face down on the table in front of him. He turned the first one over. It was a black and white photograph of the terrified face of a black man, or kid really. Eyes wide, teeth bared, I had never seen such fear.

Another photograph. This time a black woman of about twenty. Fear again, but not just fear, dread. “Remember this face, you’ll see it later on,” the rockspider said.

I should have shut my eyes, but I stared at the photographs, I couldn’t help it.

The next was of the torn back of a child of about ten. The man called Elijah was standing next to him, a rhino-hide whip in his hands. Then more photos. Men, women, children; naked, bloodied, bruised, broken. Then the face of the first woman I had been shown, pressed against the floor, her eyes staring sightless. “I told you to remember that face,” the rockspider said.

Then, I think I started to sob. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the photos. A white man being hit with chains. The chains were held by the same meaty fists that were clutching the photo. The white man naked on the ground. The man’s face, dead.

“Isn’t that...?” I said.

“Yes,” the rockspider said. “I thought you would recognize him.”

It was the face of the Reverend Tom Kettering, an activist in the UDF who had been found murdered in Soweto two years ago. The authorities had said it was one of the township gangs. Except it wasn’t.

“Was that you?” I asked.

“You thought you recognized the hands?” the man said. “Mr Kettering had important friends in the US, didn’t he? I’d say he was more important than you, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’re not going to do that to me, are you?”

The man smiled. “It’s entirely your choice. I can if you want. Oh, I’ve got one more photograph for you to look at.” He pulled out one final print. It was Caroline! She was chattering with her friends in the school playground. The man reached into his pile of prints and picked out the one of the ten-year-old boy with the torn back and placed it next to the photograph of Caroline.

That was it. I broke down. The tears came. It was true I was afraid for myself and for Caroline, but it wasn’t just that, I was crying for the people in those photos, for all the victims of the evil regime and the monster sitting in front of me.

He waited, until my sobbing had abated. “All right. Back to my questions. How much do you know about the Laagerbond?”

I told him, of course. It wasn’t as if I knew that much. I told him about stealing into Daniel Havenga’s car, I told him about the memo about Neels and I admitted I had seen the list of Laagerbond members. This last information caused him some concern. He asked me several times whether I had removed the list, but each time I said I hadn’t. Then he asked me which names I could remember. I couldn’t remember all of them, but I recounted the famous ones, the generals and the politicians I had recognized. Then I mentioned Visser and Havenga and a couple of others on the list. His eyes flickered when I said Moolman, a funny name that had stuck in my mind. I bet that’s him.

He never asked me whether I had copied the names down so I didn’t tell him.

He asked me who I had spoken to about the Laagerbond. I mentioned George Field, Neels and Zan, but swore that I hadn’t told any of them any of the details, although I assumed Neels knew them all already.

At last, the questions stopped.

“Thank you, Mrs van Zyl. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” the rockspider said. “I knew there wouldn’t be any need for physical force.”

I didn’t answer. I hung my head, ashamed that I had given in so easily, when those other brave people I had seen in the photographs had held out.

The rockspider seemed to read my mind. “Oh, don’t be ashamed. I’m certain you would be a much more difficult case if you were protecting someone you loved.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like your daughter.”

“You won’t harm Caroline!”

The man sighed with impatience. “Of course we won’t harm Caroline. Because you will never mention the Laagerbond to anyone ever again. Not even to your husband. Will you?”

I didn’t answer.

“Will you?” His voice, which had been unnaturally soft throughout the whole interview, hardened.

“No,” I whispered.

He examined me, trying to make sure I meant what I had said. I did.

“Excellent. I can see you have no need to fear for your daughter’s safety. Now, time you went home. Elijah will take you. But it will involve putting that hood back on.”

An hour later I found myself by the side of the road half a mile up the valley from Hondehoek.

Finneas came home a couple of hours later. He had two broken ribs and had lost a tooth.

I’ve talked a lot over the years about fighting the regime. Only now do I have any inkling what that really means.