The Easter Express…a musical look at forgiveness.

Revelations

Now that the lockdown allows inter-provincial travel and family visits, Gertruida was happy to hear that a distant niece, Mathilda Grove, wanted to pay a visit.

‘Mathilda is the epitome of the classic Old Maid Syndrome. Last time I heard, she was working at an old-age home in Paarl, where she took care of some old and infirm patients. A heart of gold, she has. A real gem.’ When Gertruida told the group in Boggel’s Place about the upcoming visit, old Servaas brightened a bit. It’s been years since Siena died and the dearth of possible replacements contributed to his constant grumpy state. Gertruida says old men get that way due to a chronic psychological massaging deficiency. She says PMD is far worse than PMS.

***

Rolbos shares some realities with other towns. One of these is the fact that nothing ever turns out exactly the way one anticipates it would be. When the large 4X4 bakkie (in America they call it a ‘truck’) slowed down to a  stop in front of Boggel’s Place, the Rolbossers crowded the small window.

‘Look at that caravan,’ Vetfaan whispered.

‘Shees – look at that bakkie, man! And those tyres!’ Kleinpiet lets out a low whistle.

‘Who, in heaven’s name, is that?’ Gertruida points at the gentleman who scoots around the vehicle to open the passenger side door.

***

The gentleman turns out to be Albertus Visser, a one-time inhabitant of Sunset House in Paarl.

‘He used to sit beneath the old tree in the corner of the lawn. All by himself, see?’ Mathilda smiles as she strokes Albertus’s back. After all the introductions have been done, they are enjoying a cold beer on Gertruida’s tab. ‘Every day he sat there, morning till night, reading the Bible. We all thought he was a bit strange, you know? But in an old-age home you get all sorts of people and we nursing staff just let them be.’

‘Harrumph!’ Albertus clears his throat. In a voice that is strangely high-pitched, he continues: ‘An old-age home is the last stop. That’s where it all ends. So it makes sense to do a bit of reading in the Book, see? You know where you’ve been; but do you know where you’re going? So I was just familiarising myself…’

‘Yes he was afraid he’d never get through all the books in the Bible, poor man.’ Mathilda interrupts with a wink at her beau. ‘And I didn’t know his problem until he called me Mithald.’ Mathilda lets out a shriek of laughter. ‘Mithald! At first I thought he was stupid.’

‘Most people did. You weren’t the only one,’ Albertus smiled. ‘As far back as I can remember it’s been like that. And oh! The experiences I’ve had with teachers! Can’t even remember how many hidings I got.’

‘You see, Albertus tried to go to church in his younger days, but it just didn’t work out, did it, dear?’ The way she looks at Albertus makes him blush.

‘Thise little pamphlets were horrible. You had to fill in stuff on some of them. Others apparently told you what to expect in the next week. And then the dominee would tell you where to read in the Bible and finally, which songs to look up to sing. I nearly died.’

‘Now, now, dear, don’t get worked up all over again.’ Mathilda pats the old man’s arm. ‘It’s okay now.’

‘The problem was that that dominee once preached about going to heaven. He said nobody can make it without reading the Bible from cover to cover. So I was deep into Matthew when Mithald, er, Ma-thil-da,  got involved.’

‘Ja, shame, the poor thing. When he looked at my name tag and called me Mithald, I realised what his problem was. Can you imagine how hard it is to progress right through the Good Book if you’ve got dyslexia? That’s why he struggled all those years – figuring out one word at a time.

‘Well, I took pity on the poor man. So I started doing the reading for him. Every day a few chapters. Took us four months, it did, but we got through it all in the end. It was our own lockdown blessing! By the time we finished Revelations, we got to know each other rather well..’

***

Gertruida says Mathilda is no longer the epitome of an old maid. Once Albertus made it to the end of Revelations (with Mathilda’s help), he didn’t have to isolate himself every day to try to make sense of the words.  In fact, he realised that living love was better than reading about it. That, Gertruida says (because she knows so much) is the biggest revelation of all.

Old Servaas is still grumpy. He says Mathilda isn’t his type at all. He’s read the Bible already all by himself, so  what’s the point?

 

 

Hapy Wind #18

Whenever Gertruida gets near the end of one of her lo-o-o-ng stories, she’ll order a round of Cactus Jack, like she does now. That usually serves as a sort of warning for the audience to steel themselves – the climax is near. And that could be happy…or sad. Whichever way it goes, it helps to be prepared.

‘You know, the young doctor simply sat down, took her hand very gently, and shared in her grief. The church was full of people – Francina had been a very much-loved member of the community – but the petite Susan suddenly felt alone – with him. It was a comfortable feeling. They shared one of those moments in which words would have spoiled everything. Just being felt so good.

‘And then Susan had the strangest dream. Or vision. Or Imaginary moment. Whatever you call it, doesn’t matter. What matters is that she saw, or felt and heard, her mother. Francina was smiling, waving as she walked away from her. She blew a kiss and whispered goodbye. She was dressed in white and held a twig of Namaqua daisies in her hand. Susan saw her mother disappearing as if in a thin mist, and just before she was completely gone, she dropped the flowers.’

***

Susan Bothma listened to the last Amen . So, that was the end of her journey with dear Francina, the mother who loved her so much? How sweet and short and cruel the voyage through the stormy waters of Life! Why so fleeting the passage, why so inevitably final the end? But she remembered the words old Andries spoke when they returned from Upington with her terminally ill mother…

‘Look at the animals of our veld, Miss Susan. They are there season after season. Sometimes you see the same animals as last year, sometimes you see the next generation. And, Miss, they continue to feed on the short grass in our desert and they continue to be content – they never move away to places with more water and more grass. When it rains, they rejoice. When it’s dry, they endure, We must learn from them

‘You mother is dying, Miss Susan. Soon, she’ll know the world is on the other side. But we’ll stay behind for a while. We’ll join her when the time comes. But now, in this time, we must endure. Think about it: do we have a choice? Can the Gemsbok wish for more grass when the drought has withered the veld? No, they know how to endure – and that is what we must do now. Yes, we must grieve, but we must grieve with gratitude. Be happy for the past and look forward to the future. The rain will come again. The season will change. And we’ll be together again when the time is right.’

She glanced at the two men next to her:  CJ, the big brother who worked in faraway Natal, and the young doctor – a man she hardly knew but felt strangely comfortable with. Her father was in the aisle, in his wheelchair, stone-faced and grey. Three men. Three pillars.

When they trooped out of the church, sniffing and silent as is customary under such circumstances, she noticed Andries waiting for her next to the steps of the building.

He was holding some flowers in his hands. It wasn’t much. Just a little green branch with some daisies at the end.

Happy Wind #17

Susan Bothma

‘When Susan was twenty-one, she and Francina were sitting on their porch one sunny spring morning. Life was sweet. CJ Jnr wrote home every week, telling them about his happy life as game ranger. Because he had grown up among the mix of cultures in the Kalahari, he found working with Zulus quite easy. The two women were talking about his latest letter when Francina felt a twitch of pain on the left side of her neck. Her hand went up to examine the area. And then she felt the lump.’

Gertruida says – because she knows – that Life is never a straight line. Just when you think you’re winning the game, the winger drops the ball five yards short of the tryline. Or the guy at silly point drops a sitter. Or somebody says something about expropriation of land without compensation. She says these mishaps are important, otherwise we’d never know when to be happy.

‘The nearest doctor was in Upington, a certain young man who’d just started practicing there. Geel used the pickup they normally utilised for the natural remedy herbs, to transport the two women to see the man. What they imagined would be a short consultation, turned into a week-long’s worth of agony.’

***

Francina had an extremely malignant form of breast cancer. Because it had spread, there was no sense in trying to operate on the tumour. Some journals contained articles on a new field of medicine, but chemotherapy was not widely available – maybe at teaching hospitals for selected cases, but definitely not for a terminal patient in the faraway Kalahari. The young doctor, Herman Viljee, sympathised – but he was also honest in the most kindly manner.

‘It is a matter of time, Mrs Bothma, I’m sorry. I can help you with pain and support you and the family in any way I can, but the outcome of this is predictable.’ And then he spent two precious hours, explaining again and again the results of the biopsy he had done, the pathologists report, and the prognosis.

***

‘Men are such predictable animals,’ Gertruida says in her knowing way. ‘No matter what the circumstances are, they are always aware of gender. These days the world is trying to rid itself from sexism, but that is a lost cause. The day a man does not respect the beauty of a woman; or doesn’t step back at a door, or doesn’t compliment elegance – why, that’s the day we all deny who and what we are. The key, of course, is the word ‘respect’.

‘Be that as it may, Doctor Viljee could not but help noticing the innocent beauty of Susan Bothma at his patient’s side. In those days doctors were very much aware of ethics and what was considered to be proper. Viljee took note, that’s all. But deep inside (if he were completely honest with himself) he promised himself that he’d like to see her again in the future, when the time for such advances was appropriate.’

***

Geel took the women back to the village. A paper bag full of morphine drops and aspirin tablets sat on the seat between Francina and Susan. There wasn’t much to say. To discuss such matters was to try to avoid the ultimate outcome. It was time to absorb, reflect, rebel and accept – and that is exactly what the corrugated road to the village afforded them.

However, when they arrived back home, the aged old Andries was waiting on the steps of the stoep of their house.

‘I know, Miss Fransie. I had a dream. And I’m sorry.’ He held both Francina’s hands in his as the tears streaked down his dust-coloured cheeks. ‘But life comes and life goes. Seasons. Once we are young and once we are old – if we are lucky to live through the years. We should never be afraid of the journey, Miss Fransie. Every step is a blessing, even the hard ones.’

And, oh! He said, he’d already spoken to Mister CJ. There was no need to hide anything – they were in this together. The journey wasn’t for just one person. They’d see: the journey would bless them all.

***

‘And so it was,’ Gertruida says. ‘Viljee’s medication helped, but it was Andries’s remedies – especially his root-cure – which relieved the pain and anxiety Francina lived through in the next three months or so. She took solace in what she saw: how everybody took care of CJ and how the villagers showered them with love and affection. The morning before she died, she called everybody together, blessed them and bid them goodbye. Then she called Andries and told him it was time. The old medicine man simply nodded. He knew what to do.

‘It was during a prayer at the funeral service, led by Oudoom in Upington, that Susan felt her hand being taken by somebody sitting down next to her. She peeked. And that’s when she knew: it was going to be alright.’

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Wind #12

‘Of course you can guess what had happened.’ Gertruida smiles broadly. ‘First of all: the Bothma couple realised that they were being used as puppets. The government had welcomed them back as if CJ had won El-Alamein all by himself  – which was very obviously devoid any truth. And Francina’s release from prison, the new dress and the hordes of newspapermen were all just window-dressing, a sham, a vulgar piece of propaganda to make the government look good. At the same time, the major thrust behind the reception CJ got, was to make it very difficult for the injured soldier to critisise the government in future. It was to keep him away from the opposition, see? You can’t bask in the government’s sun of glory the one day and then join the resistance movement the next.

‘So, once that was established, the two were trying to figure out what to do when the door to their suite opened quietly…’

***

Geel, the man with the soft eyes and the gentle demeanor, held a finger to his lips. Francina was overjoyed to see him, as she knew how Geel and Oupa’s family had been looking after their son. It was CJ’s reaction to Geel’s appearance in the doorway, that would be a warning of things to come.

CJ pulled up the sheets to cover most of his face. His fear-filled eyes darted this way and that, while his left hand gripped Francina’s arm. A low moan escaped from his lips, sounding ever so much as a long, drwan-out ‘Noooooo!’ 

Francina reached over to hold her man to her chest. ‘It’s OK, CJ, it’s Geel, remember? He’s a friend.’

***

‘The war, his injuries and the long, slow recovery ad taken its toll on the once-strong CJ. Imagine the horror of losing a leg and the function of an arm. And remember the letter from the ship’s captain, mentioning the frightful nightmares? CJ was most probably suffering from a condition which was poorly understood back then – Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. Today we know it can present in many ways and that it may burden a patient for the rest of his life – but back then doctors simply accepted it as a form of psychological incompetence or madness. Amongst soldiers, it was seen as a weakness. Real men stepped up to the line, got a grip on things and soldiered on – such a stupid approach.

‘Francina’s presence calmed CJ down soon enough and then Geel explained his presence.’

***

It was the staff of CJ’s courier business – the boys on the bicycles and the men driving the vehicles – who had an ear on the ground. The manager CJ had appointed, a certain Mister Gibson, had been very successful in expanding the business in CJ’s absence. They now had daily deliveries in Johannesburg and Pretoria, with weekly visits to Kimberley, Cape Town and Durban. Gibson had regular interviews with the staff, collecting news and gossip. It helped him anticipate the need for the business to adapt to circumstances, but it also supplied him with information most people were unaware of.

Simon Kruiper was the courier who delivered the dress to the prison after it was altered to fit Francina. He chatted to a warder, who told him about her imminent release and CJ’s return. Kruiper reported it to Gibson. Gibson told Geel, who informed Oupa.

An that was the reason for Geel’s late-night visit to the Mount Nelson.

***

‘Come, come quickly. I have a van parked outside. We have a bed for Mister CJ and some food and water. If we leave now, nobody will know.’

Geel helped to get CJ in the wheelchair. The stench emanating from the bandaged stump of the amputated leg was almost overwhelming.

‘They said the doctors will see him tomorrow,’ Francina said. ‘Maybe we must wait. That leg obviously need attention. They even mentioned another operation.’

Geel shook his head. ‘Mister CJ just came from England. They couldn’t fix it, so how can our doctors do anything? No, we’ll take care of it, Miss Francina. There are ways…’

Francina still wasn’t sure. Then she looked down at her husband. She saw the fear in his eyes. His major injury, she grasped, was not the physical damage caused by the landmine. It was much worse. CJ needed rest. He needed a friendly atmosphere. He didn’t need interviews and more of the games the government was p[laying with him.

He needed the Kalahari.

Francina looked up into Geel’s trusting eyes. ‘Lets go,’ she said.

They wheeled CJ out through the almost-deserted reception area. Platvoet Kruiper, taking care of the desk in the small hours of the night, winked at Geel as the little group made for the door.

Once a Kalahari-man, always a Kalahari-man. Platvoet’s borther, Simon, would report the ‘unexplained disappearance of the Bothma couple’ the next day to a delighted Mister Gibson.

Happy Wind #8

‘Imagine the scene, guys.’ Gertruida closes her eyes to see the picture in her mind. ‘Oupa’s village was situated near a fountain, not too far from where Riemvasmaak is today. That area, like you know, had been home to the Khomani people for as long as they can remember. Of course, they preferred to be called Riemvasmakers, because of the history. Originally the group moved there from South West Africa, so in reality they weren’t necessarily San people, but more like the Damara lineage.’

***

Way back, in the early 1900’s, some of the people living near the fountain lived through a period of drought. The only way to feed the group, was to steal some cattle – which was exactly what they did. Unfortunately they were caught and, well, severely reprimanded. In the end they were tied to some rocks with rieme – strips of animal hide, like thongs. The next day, when the rest of the group came looking for the thieves, they only found the thongs. Ever since then, the group was known as the ‘people that were tied by thongs’ – Riemvasmakers.

***

For once, Gertruida wasn’t one hundred percent right. The Riemvasmakers were a diverse group – a minor rainbow nation, comprised of Khomani, Nama, Xhosa, Coloured and Herero people, as well as the Damaras. Although they called themselves Riemvasmakers as a collective term, the individual groups retained their cultures and oral histories. Oupa’s group was a minority. The Khomani once lived in scattered groups in the Northern Cape, South West Africa and Bechuanaland Protectorate. Quite a number of them settled in the Mier area, where their culture was preserved to some degree.

Oupa knew all this, of course. During little CJ’s sojourn amongst Oupa’s people, he heard the stories of the hardships the tribe had lived through. Their escape from German oppression in South West Africa to the Northern Cape was followed by more disruption when the Kalahari Gemsbokpark was established in 1935.

‘It’s the story of Africa,’ Geel translated. ‘People moved, settled, were displaced. Maybe it’s the story of the world, as well. The Vikings and the Romans and the Israelites – I cannot think of a single nation that wasn’t – at some stage or other – involved in a territorial dispute. My father says it was hard to move this way and that. For a while he was angry. But then he had to make a very important decision: was his life in the hands of the past, or of the future? If he chose to allow the past to dominate his future, his future was doomed. Because nobody can change the past, the past is cast in stone. The future, however, is yours to change at will – be it for good or evil’

CJ Jnr  listened and learned. The village took good care of him and took time to teach the boy about nature. Trips to a nearby waterhole became classrooms of the veld. Reading spoor, understanding the habits of birds and other animals and learning about the very delicate balance between nature and human behavior were only a few things CJ gained in the months he spent in the Kalahari.

It changed his life forever.

***

Meanwhile, Francina was forced to work as a gardener in the prison grounds. While her sentence included the dreaded term of ‘hard labour‘ then head of the prison, Konrad Geldenhuys, took pity on the kind-hearted prisoner. It was also known that CJ Snr was MIA in North Africa.

Francina also knew what had happened to her son. The bush telegraph of messengers, delivery men, cleaners and other workers associated with the prison and the warders, brought weekly updates about the boy in the Kalahari. Francina’s anger still burned white-hot, though. She would never forgive the government for the death of her husband.

When at last she received news that CJ Snr was alive and being treated in England, she was overcome by emotion. A few days later, a letter arrived at the prison. It broke her heart.

To be continued…

 

 

Happy Wind #6

‘Nobody, especially the colonial power of England, ever managed to subdue the Afrikaners, you know.’ Gertruida – who knows everything – frowns. ‘Not the English, especially, after the way they treated women and children during the Anglo-Boer War. South Africans have a very long memory, understand – all of us – and we nourish and care for our personal grudges with great compassion.

‘So, during WW II, many Afrikaners objected to fighting for England. They formed the Ossewabrandwag and a paramilitary force called the Stormjaers and made their objections very clear.

‘Well, initially, Francina didn’t care much for these groups. She concentrated on her work at the hospital and cared for CJ Jnr. But then CJ, the father of her son, disappeared in the Sahara conflict. The last she had heard of him, was a postcard from a place she never had heard of – El-Alemein. And then she heard about the big fight there on the radio…and CJ disappeared. Now,  if you really, really wanted to upset an Afrikaner woman, you disrupt the harmony in her house. You want trouble, you do that. It was bad enough that CJ was sent to North Africa, but fearing him to be dead made her mad.’

***

For a while – the first two months after CJ’s disappearance – Francina went about her daily tasks in a fog of automated actions. She nursed without passion. At night she put little CJ Jnr to bed without a bedtime story or a prayer. She hardly slept, fearing somebody would come with news and she’s miss the knock on the door. The matron at the hospital called her in, sympathised, but told her to stay at home. Patients were complaining she said. Francina just nodded, and like the automation she had become, went home to sit in front of the radio.

It is there she heard the news bulletin.

‘Prime Minister Smuts once again urged the Ossewabrandwag and their leader, Mister Johannes van Rensburg, the erstwhile Secretary of Justice, to refrain from any anti-government actions. He called on the movement to stop dividing the country along pro- and anti-colonial lines. Smuts also reiterated that the full force of the state would be directed against the Stormjaers, which again cut the telephone lines between Johannesburg and Cape Town last night.’

Joining these forces would not bring CJ  back, that much Francina knew. The objective in her mind then was to hurt the hand that snatched her husband from her side.

***

‘It was quite easy to slot in with the Ossewabrandwag. The secret organisation wasn’t such a big secret amongst the Afrikaners. Somebody knew somebody else who had a contact and soon Francina was visited by a man and a woman. They talked. They listened. And they approved her joining the fight against the English. Francina’s anger suited the Ossewabrandwag well. They needed trustworthy footsoldiers. After the top echelons were consulted, Francina was inducted in the Stormjaers with the oath: ‘If I retreat, shoot me. If I die, avenge me. If I advance, follow me’.

‘Her first mission was to observe the blowing up of a power line outside Boksburg. This was to have been her initiation and the start of more serious missions. To dynamite a pylon in the middle of the veld, under the cover of complete darkness, should have been an easy mission.’ Gertruida snorts. ‘But, the best laid plans of mice and men…’

The police were waiting for them they were all caught. The next day a very brief appearance in court resulted in a verdict of guilty. Francina and her comrades were sentenced to six months in prison, with hard labour. It could have been worse. Had they blown up that pylon, they might have been hanged for treason.

‘But what about the boy, little CJ?’ Precilla wipes away a tear. “What about the poor little boy?”

To be continued…

Vrede’s Lump

Photo Credit

Boggel is unusually quiet this morning. While the Rolbossers wait for the bar to open, he settles down on his cushion beneath the counter. He needs time to think and sort out his problem.

It all started a few days ago when Vrede, the town’s dog, chased a tumbleweed across the road. In itself, that chase was not unusual. Dogs do crazy stuff all the time. After all, Vrede is known to bed down on smelly things and to chase after the lonely gecko living next to the doorway. The run after the tumbleweed, however,  was different. Vrede seemed slower than usual and when Boggel whistled him back, he limped ever so slightly.

Funny how things sneak up on people. Time has a way of camouflaging details, masking changes and wrinkles and grey hairs…and the suddenly! One day we look and realise how much we haven’t noticed for the longest of times.

And that’s how Boggel recognised  not only the limp, but also the lump on the back of the dog. A tumour? Now, if anybody in Rolbos understands spinal anatomy, it is Boggel, (read about Boggel’s father here; and his own history – in several episodes, here). His severe scoliosis has been a burden since birth, and, not unlike the tragedy surrounding Viktor Hugo’s famous character, has had a profound effect of his life. He simply could not bear thinking about Vrede with a spinal abnormality. People struggle to cope with it – how much more would a dog suffer? If you can’t ex[plain the situation or take regular medications, how does one cope?

Of course, in an old dog, the option of surgery may not be the best solution. What then? Euthanasia? Ask Oudok to send him on his final journey? No! Not that… Boggel feels the tears welling up. Having lost so much in his lifetime, there is no way he can imagine losing Vrede.

The loud banging on the door wakes up Vrede, who has been sleeping quietly at Boggel’s feet. His loud barking tells Vetfaan to stop making such a lot of noise. Boggel sighs: well, it’s time to face the day. Open the door, smile at the usual crowd, serve drinks and beam at his customers. Being a barman is one of the most demanding acting jobs there is.

Vetfaan,  as usual, is first through the door and first with his order.

‘Hi Boggel, a beer for me and a stiff Chivas for Doc.’ Boggel has been so preoccupied with Vrede’s dilemma that he only now notices Vetfaan’s companion. ‘Doc, this is Boggel. Boggel, meet Doc Wiener. He’s here to try to get my cow pregnant. If you serve that beer quickly, I’ll spare you the details.’

It is well known that there is no such thing as a coincidence. There is the dog, lump on his back. Here is the executioner. Add two and two together, and you get a canine funeral.

Boggel shakes his head. ‘Beer, you can have, Vetfaan. Your…friend…can wait outside.’I’m not serving nothing to a dog-killer.’

It takes time, of course. Doc Wiener is a large man with a short temper. Boggel is a short man with (when the planets get  their alignment wrong) a large temper. The shouting match lasted several minutes before Vetfaan slammed his huge fist so hard on the counter that the ice bucket fell over.

‘For goodness’ sakes, stop it you two! Boggel! What in heaven’s name are you upset about?’

Half an hour later, the three of them sat staring at Vrede.

‘It’s a lipoma, Boggel. Harmless and innocent little lump of fat. And look, you can see the little cut in the pad of that hind foot. Lump and limp has nothing to do with each other. Vrede might be getting older, but he’s as fit as can be.’

***

Gertruida – who knows everything – often says we are our own worst enemies. We anticipate the worst even if we say we hope for the best. ‘Have a little faith,’ she says, ‘and plan for the best. Some crazy pessimist may take pleasure in being right, but that’s sort of sick, isn’t it? Optimists do get disappointed at times – that much is true – but at least they smile more often.’

***

Vrede couldn’t care less;  but he has learnt something: whenever he wants a snack, he’ll limp up to Boggel. He’s an optimist, depending of Boggel’s pessimism.

 

A Soldier Worthy of a Salute

It is not often that Rolbos rolls out the red carpet to bestow The Freedom of Rolbos on an individual. In fact, it was almost four years ago we honoured a special lady with our gratitude. Now we turn to England to salute Captain Sir Tom Moore.

Sir, at the age of one hundred, you are an example to all of us. When we locked down and your country struggled with the Covid onslaught, you embarked on the most memorable campaign of your military career. You showed us that we are so prone to finding fault and complaining, that we neglect the spirit of hope we used to have. You proved that age is no barrier for innovation and enthusiasm. And you did it all by yourself without any help. The more than £32,000,000 you collected to help your country through the crisis pales in comparison with the upwelling of goodness and kindness you rekindled in a battle-weary nation. Indeed, you are an example we should all follow. Remembering that small gestures may initiate a butterfly-effect, might just encourage us to look at Mandela Day with new eyes.

It is in great humility we offer you the Freedom of Rolbos.

You certainly deserve it, Sir.

Die Perskebloeisel.

Rolbos isn’t just about the Kalahari and the delightful people we find there. Sometimes something else crops up. Something current and important. Like what happens in an Intensive Care Unit during the Covid Pandemic.

It is a South African story. In order to emphasise the local situation,  this one is in Afrikaans.

***

‘Dis my verjaarsdag.’ Haar stem is skaars hoorbaar bo die onreëlmatige biep-biep van die skerm langs haar bed. Ek sit my pen neer – ek sal die voorskrif later voltooi. Ek het hope werk wat wag nadat ek van die kongres af teruggekom het en sukkel om al die pasiënte in die saal te leer ken.

‘Veels geluk.’ Ek klink seker nie entoesiasties genoeg nie en wend ʼn poging aan om te glimlag. Wat kan ek haar toewens? Goeie gesondheid is iets van die verlede. ʼn Lang lewe is buite die kwessie. ʼn Mooi jaar? Met gevorderde Covid-geassosieerde nierversaking soos hare? Gmf! ‘Ek hoop dis ʼn beter dag as gister, um, mevrou … ‘

‘Turganev, Dokter. En dis Juffrou.’ ʼn Bleek handjie fladder verskonend onder die deken uit. ‘Mense sukkel maar met die van. Dis Russies.’

Die van herinner aan die tyd toe ons familie nog normaal kon gesels oor wat daagliks interessant was. ‘Was daar nie ʼn Russiese skrywer…?’

Daar is nuwe lig in die vrou se oë. ‘Ja, Ivan Turgenev. Die Dagboek van ʼn Oortollige Man – miskien weet jy dat hy tronk toe gestuur is oor sy skryfwerk.’

‘Ek ken nie sy werk nie, Juffrou.’ Die vraagtekens in haar oë dwing my om te verduidelik. ‘My dogter is ʼn dosent – sy’s die letterkundige in die familie. Sy is dol oor die ou Russiese skrywers – Chekhov, Nabokov, Pasternak…’  Ek is haastig – die intensiewe eenheid is vol en dokter Schutte soek ʼn bed vir een van sy pasiënte.

‘En my naam is ook histories – Valentina.’ Sy sukkel met die suurstoftekort en moet eers ‘n paar keer diep asemhaal voor sy kan aangaan. ‘Ek is gebore op die 13e Junie 1963 toe Valentina Tereshkova die eerste vrou in die ruimte geword het. My ouers het gevlug uit Rusland toe hulle die muur begin bou het, maar die ruimteresies van die vyftigs en sestigs het hule verbeelding aangegryp. Sputnik, Gagarin…’

Ek het werklik nie nou tyd om hieroor te gesels nie! Ek stryk die groot vloeikaart by die voetenent plat, klik die balpuntpen en gaan aan met haar voorskrif. Uit die hoek van my oog sien ek hoe die fladderhand weer onder die deken verdwyn – die onsuksesvolle antenna word teruggetrek. Die duif keer boodskaploos terug na die Ark.

Dankie tog…

Ek kon twee minder siekes oorplaas na die algemene saal en en is op pad deur toe, maar suster Willemse keer my voor.

‘Dokter moet probeer om ʼn bietjie meer tyd by tannie Turgenev te spandeer.’ Suster Willemse se stemtoon laat – soos altyd – geen argument toe nie. ‘Kyk, sy weet sy gaan sterf en sy aanvaar dit. Sy is eensaam en sy het geen familie nie. Niemand kan vir haar kom kuier nie. Medisyne gaan nie vir haar help nie, maar ʼn simpatieke oor sal darem troos.’ Dan, onverwags, is daar ʼn ongewone pleit in haar stem. ‘Probeer, toe?’

Met my aand rondte slaap juffrou Turganev en suster Willemse rapporteer dat sy ʼn onrustige dag gehad het. ‘Laat haar rus terwyl sy kan, maar probeer om môre vyf minute vroeër te kom. Luister na haar. Hou haar hand vas. Lyk asof jy belangstel.’

Op pad huis toe eggo daardie laaste sin in my gemoed. Lyk as of jy belangstel. Sjoe! Ek spandeer my lewe in die hospitaal. My familie word afgeskeep. My werk is my lewe…en my lewe is my werk. Hoe kan iemand insinueer dat ek nie belangstel nie!

Daar is nog lig in die sitkamervenster – Estelle, my vrou, kyk seker weer ʼn sepie. As ek die voordeur toe maak, hoor ek sy lag. Dan tref dit my: die universiteit het gesluit weens die pandemie. Natuurlik. My dogter is mos tuis. Afstandsonderrig.  Skoon vergeet…

Ons groet mekaar soos dit hoort – met spontane vals glimlaggies. Estelle se oë is koud en afsydig, soos altyd, maar ons het lankal besluit om die skyn van ʼn gelukkige huwelik te bewaar. Sonja, my dogter, was nog altyd aan haar ma se kant maar haar groet is miskien darem een graad warmer as Estelle sʼn.  Ek gaan eet in die kombuis (koue bobotie en rys) en na die tyd gaan sit ek op ʼn gepaste afstand by die twee vroue. My bydrae tot die gesprek is die af-en-toe ‘O’ of ‘Mmmm…’, bloot omdat ek hulle sal verveel met my stories van siekes en sterwendes.

Dan, tydens ʼn paar oomblikke van stilte, probeer ek om deel te wees van hul lewens.

‘Um, daardie Russiese skrywer – Turgenev? Jy’t mos al van hom gepraat, Sonja?’

Sy kyk verbaas na my, as of sy vir die eerste keer hierdie aand my raaksien.  ‘Sjoe! Het Pa nou begin om ordentlike literatuur te lees? Impressive…’

‘Moenie sarkasties wees nie, Sonja, dit pas jou nie.’ Ek het glad nie bedoel om so kortaf te wees nie. Hemel, wat het van ons geword? Ek haal diep asem en dwing my stemtoon terug na normaal. ‘Ek het ʼn dame in die saal, haar van is Turgenev. Sy sê sy’s familie van die skrywer. En sy het iets gesê van ʼn oortollige man…’

‘Ivan Turgenev. Nou toe nou! Dnevnik Lishnego Cheloveka, The Diary of a Superfluous Man.’ Ek moet, ten spyte van die atmosfeer, glimlag oor haar poging om die Russiese woorde te vorm. ‘Daardie verhaal, asook sy eerste boek, Rudin, gaan oor ʼn belangrike onderwerp – die onmag van ‘n willose intelligentsia. Daar was ʼn hele generasie opgeleide, intelligente, slim Russe, manne van insig en integriteit, maar hulle was nie in staat om die outoritêre regeringstyl van Tsar Nikolaas l te beïnvloed nie. Die gevolg?’ Dit lyk as of sy ʼn antwoord verwag en ek word gedwing om my kop te skud. Wanneer het hierdie kind, hierdie klein dogtertjie, vrou geword? Wanneer het sy verander van ʼn hulpelose telg tot ʼn selfstandige wese, ʼn akademikus, iemand met vaste opinies? Sy antwoord self: ‘Die mans is hierdie verhale het die inherente vermoë om omstandighede te verander, maar hulle word passief. Toeskouers. Die gehoor van ʼn tragedie wat reg voor hul oë afspeel.’ Sy sug. ‘Dis die verhaal van baie gesinne, baie samelewings in hierdie dae. Selfs ons.’

Ons? Ons die land of ons die gesin?

Ek slaap sleg en is voor my gewone opstaantyd aangetrek vir werk. Estelle slaap nog vas as ek by haar kamer inloer.

Die verwese, grys kop op die skoon wit linne lyk nog méér broos as gister. Sy hou my dop vandat ek die intensiewesorg saal se deur oopstoot tot ek by haar bed kom staan. Het suster Willemse met haar gepraat? Vertel dat sy my aangespreek het oor my belangelose houding? Haar oë is moeg, gedaan.

‘Dis tyd,’ sê sy.

Ek weet nie wat om te sê nie en probeer die gesprek by gister se besoek aanhaak.

‘Die onmag van die intelligentsia, Juffrou, is ʼn siekte van die mensdom. Soms wil mens omstandighede aanspreek, maar daar is geen manier nie. Jou voorvader was reg, nie waar nie? Hy was bekommerd oor wat van Rusland gaan word, en vandag moet ons erken dat hy reg was.’

‘Ja, hy skryf êrens … dat ons baie herinneringe koester, maar … so min het om te onthou. Of so iets.’ Die inspanning om te praat is pynlik duidelik

‘Ek is jammer, Mevrou, as ek soms oorhaastig is. Die werk…’ Dit klink lam. ‘Die verantwoordelikhede…’

Die kreukels en plooie rangskik hulself in iets wat ʼn glimlag mag wees. ‘Genoeg hiervan.” Sy haal diep asem. ‘Mag ek … iets vra?’

Suster Willemse kom staan langs my. Sy moes gewag het vir hierdie oomblik.

‘Ek het al vir Suster gevra en … sy’t gesê dis reg met haar.’ Die handjie kom bewend onder die deken uit en vou om my voorarm. Suster Willemse sit haar hand bo-op neer. Ons drie is verbind deur die band van tas. Hoekom voel dit so vreemd? ‘Buite, in die vierkant … net anderkant die venster, staan ʼn … boom. ʼn Perskeboom. Dit sou wonderlik gewees het … as dit ʼn kersieboom kon wees…’ Haar stem raak weg. Die oë dwaal hemelwaarts. ‘Maar dit sal nou maar moet doen.’ Nou kom daar ʼn definitiewe smeking in haar stem. ‘Kan ek…mag ek…vir ʼn oomblik onder daardie boom gaan lê? Net ʼn oomblik. Suster het gesê … sy sal help.’

Hulle het my later geroep om haar afsterwe te bevestig, daar onder die ou perskeboom in die vierkant, tussen die baksteenmure van die hospitaal. Sy het mooi gelyk, ontspanne, selfs gelukkig.

‘Sy wou soos Valentina Tereshkova wees, Dokter. Sy’t my vertel. Daardie eerste vrou in die ruimte was ʼn eenvoudige Russiese fabriekswerker, iemand met ʼn droom. En haar ruimteloopbaan het begin toe sy kind was, toe sy in die kersieboom agter hul huis geklim het om aan die hemel te probeer raak. Wys jou net: as mens braaf genoeg is om te droom, is niks onmoontlik nie. Al vereiste, het sy gesê, is dat jy regtig moet glo in jou droom. Anders word jou droom oorbodig – superfluous, is die woord wat sy gebruik het. Dis hoekom sy hier onder die boom wou kom lê, vir oulaas, sodat sy kortpad hemel toe kon kies. Sy het só uitgesien daarna…’

Daardie aand het ek huis toe gegaan en met my vrou en dogter gaan praat. ʼn Lang gesprek oor Russiese skrywers, vroulike ruimtevaarders, ons klein familietjie, en drome waarin mens moet glo. Oor ‘n gesonde wêreld sonder virusse. Die volgende oggend het Estelle vir my koffie en beskuit in die bed bedien. En op die klein skinkbordjie, langs die beker, was ʼn perskebloeisel.