Tell Freedom Memories Of Africa

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Public Library

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TENSION ENVELOPE CORP.

Tell Freedom

Tell Freedom

Memories of Africa

by

Peter Abrahams

Alfred A. Knopf

New York

. 1954

Acknowledgment is hereby made for permission
to reprint selections from: // We Must Die by
Claude McKay, published by Bookman As-
sociates, New York; "From the Dark Tower"
from Copper Sun by Countee Cullen, copyright
1927 by Harper & Brothers, used by permission
of the publisher; "White Shadows*' (the entire
poem) by Langston Hughes, used by permission
of the author; "Song of the Son" from Cane by
Jean Toomer, published by Liveright Publishing
Corporation, copyright renewed 1950 by Jean
Toomer, used by permission of the publisher
"What I Expected" from Poems 1934 by Stephen
Spender, copyright 1934 by Modern Library,
Inc., used by permission of Random House, Inc.

THIS IS A BOBZOI BOOK

PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.

i

Copyright 1954 by Peter Abrahams. All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be repro-
duced in any form without permission in writing
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who
may quote brief passages in a review to be
printed in a magazine or newspaper. Manu-
factured in the United States of America.

L. C. catalog card
number: 54-5266

FIRST AMERICAN
EDITION

For

MY MOTHER, MY SISTER, & ZENA
and all those others who,
In their different ways,
asked me to tell this

And judgment is turned away backward,
and justice standeth afar off:
for truth is fallen in the street,
and equity cannot enter. IsAIAH

BOOK ONE

ONE

CHAPTER

I pushed my nose and lips against the pane and tried to
lick a raindrop sliding down on the other side. As it slid
past my eyes, I saw the many colours in the raindrop. . . .
It must be warm in there. Warm and dry. And perhaps the
sun would be shining in there. The green must be the trees
and the grass; and the brightness, the sun. ... I was in-
side the raindrop, away from the misery of the cold damp
room. I was in a place of warmth and sunshine, inside my
raindrop world.

"Lee."

The sound jerked me out of my raindrop world. I was at
the window, looking out, feeling damp.

"Lee."

I sensed that that was the sound by which I was identi-
fied. I turned and looked at the man who had made it. He
was tall, thin, and dark. He had a big head, wide forehead,
and long face that tapered down to a narrow chin. His eyes
were big, round, and hooded. There was a softness in them.
He leaned back in a chair, his legs stretched in front of him,
the right crossed over the left. He held his right hand out
to the fire in the centre of the room. With his left he played
with the hair of a girl who sat on the floor beside his chair,

I knew that man. Although I seemed to be seeing him for
the first time, he was no stranger to me. He belonged most
naturally and intimately to me and my world.

The man said: "Come, Lee. Tell us what you see and
we'll make it into a story."

The way he looked at me disturbed me. I felt tense and

desperate suddenly. I was unsure of this man, unsure of
what he wanted from me. I turned my eyes from his face. It
was then that I saw the woman on the other side of the fire.
The word "Mother" leaped to my mind. I burst out crying
and ran to her. I knew her. She was Mother. She belonged
to me. With her I had no doubts, no uncertainties. With her
everything was always all right. She folded her arms about
me and held me tight. She whispered words of comfort till I
stopped crying.

Leaning on her knees, I turned to the man again. And
then I knew that he was my father. He was almost as safe as
she was. . . . Mother and Father go together. ... I knew
that instinctively. It was silly to have cried.

I looked at the children on the floor. There were a boy
and two girls. These were my brother and sisters. These
were my people, and I was seeing them for the first time in
a way that I could remember for the rest of my life. What
went before I know only from hearsay. A little of what came
after has slipped back into the shadows.

I can build what went before out of hearsay and after-
knowledge.

My mother was a member of the Cape Coloured com-
munity. "Coloured" is the South African word for the half-
caste community that was a by-product of the early contact
between black and white. The first children of Europe who
reached the Cape of Storms were men without women. They
set up a half-way house to the East there. There was inter-
course between white men and black women. The results
were neither white nor black. So the Cape Coloureds began.
Later, when white women came to the Cape, the white men

were more discreet in their taking. But the Coloured com-
munity continued to grow. During the days of slavery politi-
cal prisoners from the Dutch East Indies were brought into
the country. They too, went into the racial melting-pot.

In time the Coloureds emerged as a distinctive com-
munity.

My father came from Ethiopia. He was the son of land*
owners and slave-owners. He had seen much of Europe be-
fore he came to South Africa. In after years, when my
mother talked about him, she told wonderful stories of his
adventures in strange parts of the world.

I recall a time when she made me recite, like a catechism,
my father's family tree. It went something like this: "I am
Peter Henry Abrahams Deras, son of James Henry Abra-
hams Deras,, whose name at home was Karim Abdul, son of
Ingedi(e) of Addis, who was the son of somebody else who
fought in some battle who was the son of somebody else,
who was the son of somebody else who was with Menelik
when he defeated the Italians. . . ." It went on for a very
long time. And the "Deras" or "de Has" was the family
title.

My mother was the widow of a Cape Malay ( a product of
the East Indies strain of the Coloured community) who had
died the previous year and left her with two children. She
was alone except for an elder sister, Margaret. My mother
and her two children were living with her sister, Margaret,
when she met the man from Ethiopia. Margaret was the
fairer of the two sisters, fair enough to "pass." Her husband
was a Scot. He worked on the mines. They had a little girl
with -blond hair and blue eyes. They lived in Nineteenth

Street, Vrededorp. And there, in the street, the two brown
children, my brother and sister, played with their cousin,
the little white girl with blond hair and blue eyes.

To this street and this house came the Ethiopian. There
he wooed my mother. There he won her. They married from
that house. They found a house of their own farther down
the street. They made of it a home of love and laughter.
From there they sent their boy and girl to the Coloured
School above Vrededorp. From there the Ethiopian went to
work on the mines each morning. To that house he re-
turned at the end of each day. In that house my younger
sister, the third child in the family, was born. And there,
early on the morning of March 19, 1919, 1 was born.

It was there, in that house, one rainy day, that a voice
said: "Lee."

And I turned from the raindrop world and saw my fam-
ily: my mother and my father, big brother Harry, big sister
Margaret, and not-so-big sister Natalie; that was the begin-
ning of awareness. I do not know exactly how old I was.
Three, perhaps, or four; or perhaps a little older.

There are sharp, clear-cut flashes of memory. . . .

I found a stray kitten in the street one day. It had hardly
any fur on its body, which was dotted with sores. Thick yel-
low matter oozed from its eyes. Its left front paw was cut
and bleeding. I picked it up and took it home. Only my
mother and Natalie were at home. The other two children
were at school; my father was at work. I went through the
muddy lane to our back door.

"Look, Ma!" Natalie cried.

My mother turned from her washing.

"What have you got, Lee?"

A name for the kitten flashed into my mind. "It is Moe,
Ma." He made a sound like that.

"Well, get him out of here at once!"

I stood my ground at the door. "No. He's mine!" ,

My mother came nearer and looked at the kitten. She
shook her head. "Where did you find him?"

"The street."

"Well, take him back there."

"No."

"You can't keep him."

"No."

"Go, on, put him in the street and come back so that I can
wash you. The thing may give you some disease."

"No."

"I said go, Lee!" That was the voice of authority.

I began to whimper. I held the kitten tight. Nobody was
going to part me from Moe. He was, quite suddenly, the
most important thing in my world. Half-fearful, half -defiant,
I screamed: "I won't! I won't! I won't!"

That was the beginning of a battle that lasted, intermit-
tently, throughout the long day. It flared up again in the
afternoon when Harry and Margaret returned from school.
It reached new heights when Harry managed to get Moe
away from me. I screamed and raved like one gone inad.

In the end it was my father, the lawgiver of the family,
who solved the problem. He said I could keep Moe provided
he was bathed in a strong disinfectant. I wanted to get into
the tub with Moe, but the family would not allow it. Nor
would they permit us to eat out of the same plate. We did,

however, have two identical little enamelled plates and ate
side by side on the floor. And often, when the others were
not looking, we ate out of each other's plates. The food was
much more tasty that way.

7 had a cat called Moe,
My little brother Moe;
He had a bleeding toe,
Poor sickly little Moe.

I loved my sickly Moe,
I nursed his bleeding toe;
We played all day, you know,
And oh, we loved it so!

One day death came to Moe,
No blood dripped from his toe;

I lost my brother Moe,
I grieved and grieved him so.

My brother Harry made a coffin out of an old fruit-box;
my sister Margaret made a little white dress for Moe. One
Sunday morning we took him to the Ottoman's Valley above
Vrededorp and buried him. While I prayed with tears
streaming down my face, my brother and sisters hooted
with laughter.

There was a sudden thunderstorm. I had to cut my pray-
ers short, cover Moe quickly, and run for shelter. This
amused the others more. I did not forgive them for a long
time.

There are flashes of memory.

I remember the family picnics on Sundays. My mother
and father would lie on the grass talking. We children
would play about on the grass. The grass always seemed
very green, the sky was always far away. On Sundays, in
the Ottoman's Valley, my mother always had a basket filled
with things to eat. And the sun always shone on our picnic
Sundays. I remember the cool sweetness of an orange after
I had run myself silly.

I remember going to Sunday school with my sisters, and
the special kind of quiet the place had, and the special kind
of voices in which people spoke and prayed. And I remem-
ber the beautiful cards I was given as I went out of the
Sunday school.

I remember the stirring music of the Salvation Army
band.

I remember the marching children in the Band of Hope,
and seeing my brother and sisters marching among them
with their broad purple sashes, and crying because I could
not wear a sash and march with them.

I remember the peaceful laughter of our house. Every-
one in it seemed to be happy.

I remember my first experience of crime and punishment.
Fresh milk was unknown in Vrededorp. Those who could
afford it used tins of sweetened condensed milk. Two holes
were made in the top of the tin and the milk was poured
out. The first time the tin of milk was left within my reach
on the table, there was no one in the room, so I tasted it. It
was good. After that, I bided my time and stole milk when-
ever I could. The safest thing was to take the tin under the
bed. I could not be surprised there. I was caught by my

mother one morning. She pulled me from under the bed
and beat me till I could not sit on my seat. And while she
beat me she wept. It made the beating all the more pain-
ful

I remember my mother and father merging into each
other in my mind. Together, they were my symbol of peace
and laughter and security.

Then my father died.

I remember the shadow that was over our house: the
solemn faces of my brother and sisters; the new strangeness
of my mother. It surprised me to see her crying.

I remember the many people who suddenly invaded the
house, making me feel a stranger in my own home. My
mother's sister, Aunt Margaret, became a real person for
me then. It was she who did the things my mother had al-
ways done. She fed and clothed me, and when I wanted a
piece of bread I asked her, not my mother.

I remember someone lifted me up and I looked into the
coffin where my father lay. Because he did not smile at me,
and because my mother cried, I cried too.

Then they took him away. And I never saw him again.

With his going, the order and stability that had been in
my life dissolved. There was no breadwinner, so we had to
leave the place that had been our home.

I walked down Nineteenth Street with the strange woman.
And as we went, I became aware of a noise, I tried to place
it, but it was everywhere. A continuous deep rumble per-
vaded the world. It seemed to come from the bowels of the

10

earth, to reach down from the spaces of the heavens. What
was it? Where did it come from? Why?

"Hear the noise?" I said to the woman.

"What noise?" She was not interested.

I felt homesick suddenly and looked back. I looked for
our house but could not identify it. Each house looked like
the next, all strange. And the people about me were all
strangers. I panicked. I tried to pull free of the woman's
grip.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To the station." Her voice was more kindly.

"Why?"

"We are going to Elsburg."

I began to whimper. "I want to go home. I want my
mother."

The woman spoke soothingly and quieted me down.
About me was the big world. There was so much of it.
Motors flashed by. Trams rumbled along. Large horses
dragging huge carts pranced up and down the wide Delarey
Street. Shop windows were filled with new and interesting
things. My head jerked from left to right. I forgot my home
and my mother. All this was new, excitingly new.

At Fordsburg station our train was on the point of de-
parture. We scrambled on. The train moved off. The engine
puffed and screamed a shrill warning. We found a place
near the window. The woman sat on the hard wooden seat. I
stood with my nose pressed against the dirty windowpane,
watching the world go by.

The engine puffed and snorted. Every now and then,
when the train curved round a bend, it screamed its shrill

11

warning. And the wheels, under me, whispered: "On
a-w-a-y. 0-n a-w-a-y. 0-n a-w-a-y." Then they said: "On
away. On away. On away." Then they said: "On away, on
away, on away." And after that, for nearly all the time, they
said : "Onawayonawayonawayonawayonawayonawayona-
way."

Soon the houses and other buildings were far behind. The
land came rushing up, only to rush away again: vast
stretches of green land, and brown land; land rising and
falling. Sometimes hills and mountains flashed by. Some-
times we went through a mountain and were in darkness.
And the engine would scream its warning and we would
come out of the mountain. Tall telegraph poles came up to
meet us, then rushed away with clock-like regularity. And
all the time the wheels said: "Onawayonawayonawayona-
wayonawayonawayonawayonawayonaway," till I was drunk
with it all.

I was hazy and sleepy and very tired when we stepped off
the train at the little gravel siding at Elsburg. The sun had
gone down. There was a softness over the land. It made
everything more beautiful than it really was.

The woman took my hand and we set off on our four-
mile walk through the beautiful land. When we got to her
house at the location, I was asleep on my feet. Vrededorp
was far away and I was happy and tired, so I tumbled into
a strange bed and slept deeply.

I woke in a strange place. Fear took hold of me. I longed
for the familiar, for my mother and for the home I knew.

12

For days, till I grew used to the people with whom I lived
and familiar with the place, I was miserable and painfully
homesick.

In time the woman became Aunt Liza to me, a person
with a name. And there was comfort in her having a name.
Her husband, whom I had hardly noticed the night before,
was Uncle Sam.

When I got up, Uncle Sam had already gone to his work.
In common with all the men, as well as some women, of
Elsburg location, he worked on one of the white farms
near by.

The routine of my days at Elsburg began that morning. I
made my bed. Then I went outdoors to the sunny side of
the house with a small bowl of cold water and a piece of
home-made soap. There I washed. Then I went in to break-
fast. This was a plate of mealie pap. Maize is crushed to a
powder slightly coarser than flour. A saucepan of salted
water is brought to the boil, then the required amount of
maize is added and stirred continuously. It is cooked in
about fifteen minutes. The result is mealie pap. For break-
fast it is thinned down to a runny liquid. A plateful of that
and a mug of black coffee were my breakfast, I had the
choice of having two teaspoons of sugar either in my coffee
or over my pap. I elected to have one over the pap and one
in the coffee. The coffee remained bitter and I could hardly
taste the sugar over the pap.

After breakfast I had five minutes to myself. I sat in the
warmest and most protected spot I could find. I took stock
of the place that was now my home.

The houses were built in two lines, as they would be on

13

either side of a wide road, each line facing the road. Only
there was no road. What could have been the road was a
strip of land dotted with mounds and potted with holes.
Here and there footpaths had worn the grass away; here
and there children, by constant playing on the same spot,
had created patches of dusty sand. The location stood on a
rising between a valley on one side and a river on the other.
To the east and west the land sloped away gently.

On windy days the sand patches were stirred to life and
everything, all in all the houses, was coated with the fine,
gritty sand that hung like a thick mist over the place. In the
rainy season the pot-holes in what might have been the wide
street were filled and became stagnant pools. When the
rainy season passed, the children fished for tadpoles in
those pools. If the wet spell had been long, we often found
frogs in the mud after the water had seeped away.

The houses were usually two-roomed. Here and there a
smaller room had been added to the back. But where that
had been done there was not the bit of land left on which
to grow a few green vegetables, for each house stood in a
small piece of fenced-off land. And the land belonged to
the fanners for whom the people of the location worked.
And behind the fenced-off little plots, spreading in all di-
rections, were vast stretches of rolling land.

The houses were made by those who lived in them. And
because they had no security of tenure, few took pride in
what they put up. The walls were of unbaked mud bricks
held together by straw. The roofs were sheets of corrugated
iron nailed or screwed together over rafters. And the holes
and open spaces were stopped up with sacking and pieces

14

of canvas. Neither cold nor wet was ever effectively kept
out.

The place itself seemed to fit into the bleak austerity of
the land about it. There was not a tree in the valley below.
To the east and west there was just the harshness of the
sloping land under the curving sky. Even the sky seemed
cold and remote and very far away.

Only the river promised a touch of softness in this hard
place. A line of willows marked the course it took. They
were the only trees in all the land about. I would go there,
I promised myself. I would go down to the river and look at
the trees.

Aunt Liza came out of the house. My five minutes were
up. She gave me two pails.

"The well is up the street."

I took the pails and marched out of the gate. Women
and children were already at the well. I was the stranger
and everyone turned to look at me. I looked steadily at
the ground. A little boy, no bigger than myself, arrived
after me.

At last all the others had their water and went and only
the boy and I were left. It was my turn, but I did not know
how to work the well. I looked at the boy.

"You go first," I said.

He started towards the handle, then changed his mind.

"No. It is your turn."

I had hoped to watch and learn from him.

The bucket stood on the edge of the well. It was weighted
with an iron bar. I took hold of the handle and began to
unwind the rope.

15

"The bucket," the boy said.

It was still on the mouth of the well. A long strand of the
rope dangled down into the darkness of the well. I let go of
the handle, leaned forward, and pushed the bucket in. As I
straightened up, the rope jerked taut, the handle swung in a
downward arc. It struck me flush on the mouth, then on the
upper part of my chest. I fell flat on my back. My jaw was
paralysed. I swallowed blood. Above me the handle whirled
dangerously. As suddenly as it had started, the handle
stopped. I got up slowly. My chest and jaw were beginning
to hurt.

The boy was holding his sides, laughing. Then he saw the
blood dripping from my mouth. He looked frightened sud-
denly. His eyes opened wide.

"Are you going to die?" he whispered.

Aunt Liza stalked up to the well, raging at the top of her
voice.

"The first damn thing youll learn here is that time's not
to be wasted! I'll take the skin off your damn back if you
play around when I send you for something! When'll I
finish all that damn washing? You'll have to learn or I'll
damn kill you!"

Neighbours pushed their heads out of doors to see what
the storm was about. When Aunt Liza saw my face, con-
cern replaced her rage.

"What happened?"

I tried to speak, but could not. I was too hurt to cry. In
her anxiety she shook me.

"What happened?"

16

The frightened boy whispered: "Is he going to die,
Auntie?"

Aunt Liza turned to him. And he told her what had
happened. He ended with his big question:

"Is he going to die, Auntie?"

"Of course not, Andries!" Aunt Liza snapped.

"But I saw a dog bleeding and he died," Andries said
anxiously.

"Of course you didn't know," Aunt Liza said to me.
"Why didn't I think of that?" Her brow creased in a wor-
ried frown.

Andries's mother, our next-door neighbour, came cursing
to the well, promising hell and damnation to Andries for
being so long about the water. She, too, was silenced by my
bleeding mouth.

Aunt Liza put her arm about my shoulders and hurried
me down to the house.

From across the way someone called; "Wash his mouth
with salt! That'll do it!"

When you have a cut, it is bathed with salt water. They
say the sting of it is good. They say it kills the pain. When
your nose bleeds, you inhale salt water up the nostrils. They
say it will stop the bleeding. When you have earache you
bathe your ear with warm salt water. When you have a sore
throat, you gargle with salt water. If your eye is inflamed
and sore, salt water eases it. When you have toothache you
fill your mouth with hot salt water and let it soak into the
aching tooth. If you have stomach-ache, a large mug of
warm salt water is the best cure. It either drives the sick-

17

ness down or brings it up. ... Salt was the greatest cure-
all of my childhood days. And it nearly always worked!

I washed my mouth repeatedly with salt water till the
bleeding stopped. The intense pain soon passed. The inside
of my mouth was sore, one of my teeth was loose, my lips
were badly swollen, but no real damage had been done.
And I was soon fit to go back to the well.

With the help of Andries, who became my friend once
he was sure I was not going to die, I learned how to handle
the well. Together we carried a relay of pails, first for Aunt
Liza, then for his mother.

It was washing day for Aunt Liza. I was to discover that
every day was washing day for Aunt Liza. And nearly all
afternoons and nights were given up to ironing. Uncle Sam
brought home a huge bundle of dirty laundry each night,
and took away a neat bundle each morning. For a long time
this was a mystery to me. Then I discovered it was the
laundry bundle of the white people for whom Uncle Sam
worked.

Aunt Liza had two tubs out in the yard. A string of dry-
ing-lines criss-crossed so that every inch of space was used
when the lines were full One of the tubs stood on stones
over an open fire built in a scooped-out hollow of the
ground. Near it was a huge pile of pieces of dried cow dung.
She fed the fire with these.

When we had brought enough water for her washing
needs, we filled the rusty rain-water tank. Then two pails
filled the drinking-bowl inside the house. The water I
poured into the drinking-bowl was yellow, almost opaque.
I watched the sediment settle. When it was clear, I saw a

18

black water-spider moving slowly over the sediment. Other
signs of tiny life wriggled about as well. I told Aunt Liza.
She laughed.

"You'll get used to it. They haven't killed me. Just don't
drink the water at the bottom. They stay there. Now go with
Andries and find some manure, and be quick because I'm
short. You'll find the sacks in the corner. There's a piece of
bread in the bin."

I found the sacks, and a hard crust in the bin. I hurried
out to Andries.

"Come! "he chanted.

He dashed away. I followed. We streaked across the vir-
gin fields, veering slightly to the east so that, if we kept
that course, we would reach the river a long, long way
farther on. He was getting farther away from me, so I
called: "Hey, Andries!"

He eased up a little. With a burst of speed I caught up
with him.

"Don't run so fast."

"We must."

"Why?"

"Others will get all the dung."

"Where are they?"

"Must be nearly there."

"Where?"

"Where we get the dung, silly!"

"Where is that?"

"Shut up and come on. You'll see."

"I'm tired."

"Come on!"

19

"Let's walk a little."

"Want Auntie Liza to lick you?"

"Why?"

"If you walk now, there'll be nothing when you get there.
You'll go home with empty sacks. And, man, will she lick
you! Seen how thick her arms are? My mother's thin, but
she licks like hell. Auntie Liza with her thick arms will kill.
Come on!"

"But I'm tired."

He shot away again, I had not noticed Aunt Liza's arms,
but thinking of them, they became huge clubs swinging at
me. I shot across the veld after Andries, forgetful of my
tiredness. The space between us narrowed gradually. By the
time we topped the rising of the land, we were running side
by side.

"There! "Andries cried.

Far ahead, a cluster of children walked across the veld,
playing as they went. We eased the pace a little and trotted
steadily across the wide green valley. Some way ahead, be-
yond the children, a herd of cows grazed under the gentle
sun.

We caught up with the others. Andries was soon drawn
into the play and banter. I was left on the outside. I was the
new boy, the stranger. I had still to earn the right to be one
of them.

Where we walked, the grass was lush and taut. I could
feel its sharpness on my feet where my canvas shoes had
split. A little below us, to the left, in the direction of the
river, were willow trees. They were stunted and their leaves
were pale and transparent. They grew in two lines that were

20

more or less straight. That they were there suggested that
where we walked had been the bed of a wide, shallow river
in times long gone.

The morning sun was getting warmer. The land seemed
vast, unending, and very quiet. And we, the children and
the cattle, were the only living creatures on the earth,
owned it and the sky, belonged to earth and sky. The light
breeze that was about us carried the voices of the children
to the cows. The cows turned their heads ponderously. One
or two opened their mouths and hailed us with a placid
"Mooooo. . . ."

A cross-eyed boy who seemed to command universal
respect raised his hand. We all stopped.

Andries ran to me and said: "When he says go, you go
looking for dung. Quickly."

I thought of Aunt Liza's arms. I did not want the weight
of those arms on my body. But I was worried about the
cows. Did they bite?

"Do they bite?"

"Who?"

"Those things." I pointed.

Andries doubled up with laughter. He turned to the oth-
ers.

"Hey! He wants to know if cows bite!"

They joined in the laughter.

"He's just a dumb towny," someone called out.

"Shut your trap!" the cross-eyed boy called. "Go!"

They forgot my ignorance. We streaked off in all direc-
tions searching for the precious dung. Dung makes the fire
that cooks the food. Dung is the fire that fights off the cold.

21

Dung boils the washing that brings the money that pays for
our bread.

We darted here and there, grabbing the dried flat cakes
and shoving them into our sacks. We were not children at
play. This was serious. Life depended on this. To the left of
me, two boys argued over a piece of dung both had spotted
at the same time. They soon came to blows. The rest were
too concerned with finding dung to stop and look. I lost my
nervousness of the cows and darted among them, grabbing
pieces of dung. I saw a huge piece and dashed for it. An-
other boy had seen it at the same time. We glared at each
other two savage dogs over a bone. I remembered I was
the stranger. I had to install myself before I could expect
to fight on terms of equality. I veered away and left the
precious piece to him.

I filled one sack and started on the next. But now the
dung became more rare. Competition became fierce. There
were more dog-fights. I passed a boy on his knees, blood
dripping from his nose. Two little girls were pulling each
other's hair. I bumped into a boy. He pushed me over. I
jumped up. He waited, his fists bunched, ready for the
fight. I looked into his eyes and it seemed he was as
frightened as I was. Somehow, seeing fear in his eyes,
made me feel less of an outsider. I turned my back on him.
I heaved the full sack onto my back and trotted away scan-
ning the grass. I was beginning to recognize the cakes at
quite a distance. The boy cursed me, a frustrated despera-
tion in his voice.

All about me, each with sacks on his or her back, chil-
dren ran; they darted first this way, then that; they stooped,

22

grabbed, shoved dung into their sacks, and were off again.
The area of search widened till we ceased to be a group, till
we lost contact with one another.

When I had filled both my sacks the sun was high and I
was alone in a hollow strip of land. I flopped down on the
ground and leaned against the sacks. I was utterly wearied.
It was not just tiredness. There had been a tight desperation
in the search, a nervous tension. Now that it was over, I felt
listless.

After a while I got up. I now had to find my way home.
There was not a person in sight. If I faced about, the river
would be on my right. If I kept walking with the river on
my right, and if I veered slightly to the left, I would be
going in the general direction of home.

I heaved the sacks onto my back and climbed out of the
hollow strip. I walked steadily, anxiously, yet wearily, till I
topped a slight rising. The cows grazed in the valley below.
I was right. That was the way home. And down there,
among the cows, were some of the children. To the left,
some way behind me, were others. Yet others were far
ahead, on their way home. I trudged down into the valley.
I met up with some of the children and we walked in si-
lence, each bent under the weight of dung.

Ahead of us, children walked in twos and threes. Others
came behind us. Hardly a word was spoken on the journey
back. The listlessness that was on me seemed on everyone
else as well.

We soon left the valley of the cows and walked where
everything was sombre and hard, where even the grass was
stunted. We crossed deep dongas of eroded and eroding

23

soil. We passed barren patches where no blade of grass
grew and the earth had turned to a fine, dusty sand. The
way seemed infinitely longer returning than it had been
going. And the sacks on my back grew heavier with each
step I took.

I reached home near sunset. Aunt Liza was still at her
washtub. She straightened her back painfully. I dumped
the sacks near the fire. Though the day was not hot, sweat
dripped from her face. Her eyes were bloodshot. The top of
her dress clung damply to her body and was wet under her
arms. I noticed the thickness of her arms, and her big
hands, which were pitted from being in water the whole
day, white as a sheet and swollen to twice their size. A tired
smile softened her face.

"Tired?"

I nodded.

"First time's always the worst," she said.

She put an arm about my shoulders and pressed me
against her body. I felt strangely comforted and rewarded.
The dull ache seemed to go from my back.

"Let's have some coffee," she said.

She warmed up the remains of the breakfast coffee.

"When do we eat, Aunt Liza?"

"When Uncle Sam comes home."

We drank our coffee. Aunt Liza went back to her tub. I
found the warmest corner of the house and squatted. The
coffee rumbled in my stomach. I felt warm inside and out.
I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. . . .

Journeying from a great distance, I became aware of
Aunt Liza. She shook my shoulder.

24

"Wake up!"

I opened my eyes.

"Come on," Aunt Liza said.

She moved slowly, heavily; only the strength of her will
seemed to hold her big body together.

The huge bundle of washing was done. The little yard
was filled with clothes drying on the lines. The whites
gleamed cleanly. And in the tub was a huge pile waiting to
go on the lines.

I shivered and got up. I followed her out of the gate, up
the wide strip of field that might have been a road, past the
well, across the veld. We walked till the location was out of
sight. We made for a cluster of hillocks on the other side of
a valley. She stooped and picked some broad leaves that
grew among the grass. She gave them to me.

"It is called moeroga. Look at them carefully. You'll
come by yourself tomorrow. They grow among nettles."

I studied the leaves of wild spinach. Aunt Liza made a
carrier of her apron. Deftly, quickly, she plucked the leaves.
The nettles did not bother her. I worked more slowly, more
clumsily. I tried to avoid the nettles, but my hands were
soon purple and stung as though on fire.

At last the hollow of her apron filled. We turned back.
Night was nearly on us. A fine mist hung over the veld. It
grew cold. Night had fallen when we reached home.

"Build up the fire," Aunt Liza said.

I squatted close to the fire and piled it high with dung.
As the dung caught, light, bluish smoke with a fragrant
sweetness about it spiralled up to the misty sky. Aunt Liza
came and squatted beside me. Catching some of the warmth

25

of the fire, she prepared the moeroga. I watched her work,
and became aware of my gnawing hunger.

"Aunt Liza"

"Heh?"

"When does Uncle Sam come home?"

"Very hungry?"

"Yes."

"Soon now."

My front was warming; my back was freezing. I thought
about Uncle Sam. I had not really seen him the night be-
fore. I had been too tired and worked up. What was he
like? Aunt Liza had become a person to me. When I
thought of her my mind said: two huge arms that terrified
Andries; a gruff but gentle voice; two bloodshot eyes in a
coarse reddish-brown face; a broken left-front upper tooth
when she smiled; great tiredness; the comfort of her rough
embrace. A person. And Uncle Sam? I tried to build an
image from what I had seen last night. Nothing came. Just
a name: Uncle Sam.

Well, he would soon be home now. I would eat. And I
would see him.

Aunt Liza crammed the moeroga into a huge pot and put
a stone on the lid to keep it down. I moved back from the
fire. The heat was burning my face. My behind was numb-
ing with cold. The fire gave off less smoke now. The dung
glowed more brightly. And about me, in the darkness, were
the noise of the cricket, the croak of the frog, and a thou-
sand other noises I could not name. When had these begun?
One moment the world had been silent, the next I was
aware of all these noises. I looked into the darkness and

26

saw the flickering lights of glowworms go on and off con-
tinuously.

When the fire glowed at its brightest and gave off no
smoke, we carried it into the kitchen and shut out the cold,
the night, and the noises of the veld. I made myself com-
fortable on a sack in a corner on the floor and watched
Aunt Liza prepare the evening meal.

She cooked a thick, lumpy mealie pap. When it was
nearly done, she added a blob of fat. She put two iron bars
across the fire, moved the pap to the very edge, and put on
the moeroga.

Uncle Sam arrived. He flung open the kitchen door and
brought in a gust of cold night air. He was very tall; his
head was up among the rafters near the roof. But this was
an illusion. I was seeing him from ground-level and he only
seemed tall. In reality he was no taller than Aunt Liza. He
was very thin. His face showed up the rise and fall of every
bone of his skull, like skin drawn tight over a skeleton
head. His eyes, small, were set deep in their sockets. They
were stern, forbidding eyes. And the curve of his mouth
made him the most forbidding man I had ever seen. He
carried a sack slung over his shoulder.

"Hello, Sam," Aunt Liza said.

"Liz . . ." His voice was harsh.

He put the sack on the table, shut the door, hung his hat
on the nail behind it, and looked at me. I lowered my eyes
quickly.

"How's he?"

"Near killed himself at the well," Aunt Liza said. "But
he picks up fast."

27

"Done anything?"

"A good bit. Get the things?"

"Yes. Our debt's up to a pound." His voice was bitter.

"Brought the washing?"

"It's outside." To me he said: "Bring it in."

"Let it be," Aunt Liza said. "I'm fed up with their dirt."

I settled back in my corner. Uncle Sam sat on the bench
near the fire and stared moodily into it. Aunt Liza took the
moeroga off. From the cupboard she got three pieces of
crackling. When a pig is killed, it is skinned. The thick skin
is fried to a crisp brown. This is cut into square pieces and
sold as crackling. There was a pig farm near Elsburg siding
where the people of the location bought their crackling.
Aunt Liza warmed up the three pieces. The meal was ready.
She dished it into three tin plates. A dollop of pap, a spoon-
ful of moeroga, and a piece of crackling. She sat on the
bench beside Uncle Sam, He said grace:

"Thank You for the food we are now going to eat, God.
Amen,"

We ate.

While we ate, four irons warmed on the fire. I marvelled
at how the moeroga had shrunk: so much had gone into the
pot, so little came out. And it was the most tasteful part of
the meal. When I finished, Aunt Liza said: "You can scrape
the pot."

With a knife I scraped the brown crust from the bottom
of the pap pot. I discovered a delicacy, crisp and crunchy,
and the tastiest part of the pap.

My last chore of the day was washing up. While I did it,
Aunt Liza prepared my bed in the corner on the floor. Uncle

28

Sam sat staring Into the fire, picking his teeth with a used
matchstick. On the fire, beside the irons, the coffee-pot
brewed Uncle Sam's good-night cup. I put the dry crocks
away and went back to my corner.

I took off my canvas shoes. They would last another day
at most; then I would have to get used to going about bare-
footed. Next I took off my khaki shorts. Draughts suddenly
stung my bare bottom and thighs. I hurried under the pro-
tection of the blankets. The flame from the thick home-
made tallow candle fluttered. Aunt Liza poured Uncle
Sam's good-night coffee. Then she cleared the table and
began to iron.

I glanced furtively at Uncle Sam. The last sound he had
made was to say grace. He sat, the mug of coffee in his
hands, his face expressionless, his eyes fixed on one spot of
the fading fire. I closed my eyes. I still had no picture of
Uncle Sam. He was still not a person. He was just a name,
a being, and silence. I felt afraid of him because I did not
understand anything about him.

I dozed off, then woke. Aunt Liza was still ironing. Uncle
Sam still sat staring fixedly at the fading fire. I dozed and
woke again. Uncle Sam had gone. Aunt Liza was still iron-
ing. The candle was nearly burnt out. The saucer on which
it stood was gutted with molten tallow.

"In a minute, Sam," Aunt Liza called.

I fell asleep.

The pattern of my days was set. Each day I would per-
form the tasks I had performed this day; eat the meals I
had eaten this day. With skill and speed, I would perform
my chores more quickly and earn time, later, for a daily

29

visit to the river. On Sundays there would be a small piece
of meat to vary the diet. Often there was a piece of bread
at midday to take the edge off my hunger. Each day Aunt
Liza washed; each night I fell asleep while she ironed. In
time I lost my fear of Uncle Sam's silence. There was, of
course, variety; but the basic pattern of my days was as this
first day had been.

Wednesday was crackling day. On that day the children
of the location made the long trek to Elsburg siding for the
squares of pig's rind that passed for our daily meat. We
collected a double lot of cow dung the day before; a double
lot of moeroga.

I finished my breakfast and washed up. Aunt Liza was at
her washtub in the yard. A misty, sickly sun was just show-
ing. And on the open veld the frost lay thick and white on
the grass.

"Ready?" Aunt Liza called.

I went out to her. She shook the soapsuds off her swollen
hands and wiped them on her apron. She lifted the apron
and put her hand through the slits of the many thin cotton
dresses she wore. The dress nearest the skin was the one
with the pocket. From this she pulled a sixpenny piece. She
tied it in a knot in the corner of a bit of coloured cloth and
handed it to me.

"Take care of that. . . . Take the smaller piece of bread
in the bin, but don't eat it till you start back. You can have
a small piece of crackling with it. Only a small piece, under-
stand?"

30

"Yes, Aunt Liza."

"All right."

I got the bread and tucked it into the little canvas bag in
which I would carry the crackling.

" 'Bye, Aunt Liza." I trotted off, one hand in my pocket,
feeling the cloth where the money was. I paused at Andries's
home.

"Andries!" I danced up and down while I waited. The
cold was not so terrible on bare feet if one did not keep
still.

Andries came trotting out of his yard. His mother's voice
followed; desperate and plaintive:

"I'll skin you if you lose the money!"

"Women!" Andries said bitterly.

I glimpsed the dark, skinny, woman at her washtub as
we trotted across the veld. Behind and in front of us, other
children trotted in twos and threes.

There was a sharp bite to the morning air I sucked in;
it stung my nose so that tears came to my eyes; it went
down my throat like an icy- draught; my nose ran. I tried
breathing through my mouth, but this was worse. The cold
went through my shirt and shorts; my skin went pimply and
chilled; my fingers went numb and began to ache; my feet
felt like frozen lumps that did not belong to me, yet jarred
and hurt each time I put them down. I began to feel sick
and desperate.

"Jesus God in heaven!" Andries cried suddenly.

I looked at him. His eyes were rimmed in red. Tears ran
down his cheeks. His face was drawn and purple, a sick
look on it.

31

"Faster," I said.

"Think it'll help?"

I nodded. We went faster. We passed two children, sob-
bing and moaning as they ran. We were all in the same des-
perate situation. We were creatures haunted and hounded
by the cold. It was a cruel enemy who gave no quarter. And
our means of fighting it were pitifully inadequate. In all the
mornings and evenings of the winter months, young and
old, big and small, were helpless victims of the bitter cold.
Only towards noon and in the early afternoon, when the
sun sat high in the sky, was there a brief respite. For us
children, the cold, especially the morning cold, assumed an
awful and malevolent personality. We talked of "it." "It"
was a half-human monster with evil thoughts, evil inten-
tions, bent on destroying us. "It" was happiest when we
were most miserable. Andries had told me how "it" had,
last winter, caught and killed a boy.

Hunger was an enemy too, but one with whom we could
come to terms, who had many virtues and values. Hunger
gave our pap, moeroga, and crackling a feast-like quality.
When it was not with us, we could think and talk kindly
about it. Its memory could even give moments of laughter.
But the cold of winter was with us all the time. "It" never
really eased up. There were only more bearable degrees of
"it" at high noon and on mild days. "It" was the real
enemy. And on this Wednesday morning, as we ran across
the veld, winter was more bitterly, bitingly, freezingly real
than ever.

The sun climbed. The frozen earth thawed, leaving the
short grass looking wet and weary. Painfully our feet and

32

legs came alive. The aching numbness slowly left our fin-
gers. We ran more slowly in the more bearable cold.

In climbing, the sun lost some of its damp look and
seemed a real, if cold, sun. When it was right overhead,
we struck the sandy road, which meant we were nearing the
siding. None of the others were in sight. Andries and I were
alone on the sandy road on the open veld. We slowed down
to a brisk walk. We were sufficiently thawed to want to talk.

"How far? 35 1 said.

"A few minutes," he said.

"I've got a piece of bread," I said.

"Me too," he said. "Let's eat it now."

"On the way back," I said. "With a bit of crackling."

"Good idea. . . . Race to the fork."

"All right."

"Go!" he said.

We shot off together, legs working like pistons. He soon
pulled away from me. He reached the fork in the road some
fifty yards ahead.

"I win!" he shouted gleefully, though his teeth still chat-
tered.

We pitched stones down the road, each trying to pitch
farther than the other. I won and wanted to go on doing it.
But Andries soon grew weary with pitching. We raced
again. Again he won. He wanted another race, but I re-
fused. I wanted pitching, but he refused. So, sulking with
each other, we reached the pig farm.

We followed a f enced-off pathway round sprawling white
buildings. Everywhere about us was the grunt of pigs. As
we passed an open doorway, a huge dog came bounding

33

out, snarling and barking at us. In our terror we forgot it
was fenced in, and we streaked away. Surprised, I found
myself a good distance ahead of Andries. We looked back
and saw a young white woman call the dog to heel.

"Damn Boer dog," Andries said.

"Matter with it?" I asked.

"They teach them to go for us. Never get caught by one.
My old man's got a hole in his bottom where a Boer dog
got him."

I remembered I had outstripped him.

"I won! "I said.

"Only because you were frightened," he said.

"I stiU won."

"Scare arse," he jeered,

"Scare arse, youself !"

"I'll knock you!"

"I'll knock you back!"

A couple of white men came down the path and ended
our possible fight. We hurried past them to the distant shed
where a queue had already formed. There were grown-ups
and children. All the grown-ups and some of the children
were from places other than our location.

The line moved slowly. The young white man who served
us did it in leisurely fashion, with long pauses for a smoke.
Occasionally he turned his back.

At last, after what seemed hours, my turn came. Andries
was behind me. I took the sixpenny piece from the square
of cloth and offered it to the man.

"Well?" he said.

"Sixpence crackling, please."

34

Andries nudged me in the back. The man's stare sud-
denly became cold and hard. Andries whispered into my
ear.

"Well?" the man repeated coldly.

"Please baas" I said.

"What d>u want?"

"Sixpence crackling, please."

"What?"

Andries dug me in the ribs.

"Sixpence crackling, please, baas."

"What?"

"Sixpence crackling, please, baas"

"You new here?"

"Yes, baas" I looked at his feet, while he stared at me.

At last he took the sixpenny piece from me. I held my
bag open while he filled it with crackling from a huge pile
on a large canvas sheet on the ground. Turning away, I
stole a fleeting glance at his face. His eyes met mine, and
there was amused, challenging mockery in them. I waited
for Andries at the back of the queue, out of the reach of the
white man's mocking eyes.

The cold day was at its mildest as we walked home along
the sandy road. I took out my piece of bread and, with a
small piece of greasy crackling, still warm, on it, I munched
as we went along. We had not yet made our peace, so An-
dries munched his bread and crackling on the other side of
the road.

"Dumb fool!" he mocked at me for not knowing how to
address the white man.

"Scare arse!" I shouted back.

35

Thus, hurling curses at each other, we reached the fork.
Andries saw them first and moved over to my side of the
road.

"White boys," he said.

There were three of them, two of about our own size and
one slightly bigger. They had school bags and were coming
towards us up the road from the siding.

"Better run for it," Andries said.

"Why?"

"No, that'll draw them. Let's just walk along, but
quickly."

"Why?" I repeated.

"Shut up," he said.

Some of his anxiety touched me. Our own scrap was for-
gotten. We marched side by side as fast as we could. The
white boys saw us and hurried up the road. We passed the
fork. Perhaps they would take the turning away from us.
We dared not look back.

"Hear them?" Andries asked.

"No." I looked over my shoulder. "They're coming," I
said.

"Walk faster," Andries said. "If they come closer, run."

"Hey, Wpkop!"

"Don't look back," Andries said.

"Hottentot!"

We walked as fast as we could.

"Bloody Kaffir!"

Ahead was a bend in the road. Behind the bend were
bushes. Once there, we could run without them knowing it
till it was too late.

36

"Faster," Andries said.

They began pelting us with stones.

"Run when we get to the bushes," Andries said.

The bend and the bushes were near. We would soon be
there.

A clear young voice carried to us: "Your fathers are
dirty black bastards of baboons!"

"Run!" Andries called.

A violent, unreasoning anger suddenly possessed me. I
stopped and turned.

"You're a liar!" I screamed it.

The foremost boy pointed at me. "An ugly black ba-
boon!"

In a fog of rage I went towards him.

"Liar!" I shouted. "My father was better than your fa-
ther!"

I neared them. The bigger boy stepped between me and
the one I was after.

"My father was better* than your father! Liar!"

The big boy struck me a mighty clout on the side of the
face. I staggered, righted myself, and leaped at the boy who
had insulted my father. I struck him on the face, hard. A
heavy blow on the back of my head nearly stunned me. I
grabbed at the boy in front of me. We went down together.
"Liar!" I said through clenched teeth, hitting him with
all my might.

Blows rained on me on my head, my neck, the side of
my face, my mouth but my enemy was under me and I
pounded him fiercely, all the time repeating:
"Liar! Liar! Liar!"

37

Suddenly stars exploded in my head. Then there was
darkness.

I emerged from the darkness to find Andries kneeling
beside me.

"God, man! I thought they'd killed you."

I sat up. The white boys were nowhere to be seen. Like
Andries, they'd probably thought me dead and run off in
panic. The inside of my mouth felt sore and swollen. My
nose was tender to the touch. The back of my head ached.
A trickle of blood dripped from my nose. I stemmed it with
the square of coloured cloth. The greatest damage was to
my shirt. It was ripped in many places. I remembered the
crackling. I looked anxiously about. It was safe, a little off
the road on the grass. I relaxed. I got up and brushed my
clothes. I picked up the crackling.

"God, you're dumb!" Andries said. "You're going to get
it! Dumb arse!"

I was too depressed to retort. Besides, I knew he was
right. I was dumb. I should have run when he told me to.

"Come on," I said.

One of many small groups of children, each child carry-
ing his little bag of crackling, we trod the long road home
in the cold winter afternoon.

There was tension in the house that night. When I got
back, Aunt Liza had listened to the story in silence. The
beating or scolding I expected did not come. But Aunt Liza
changed while she listened, became remote and withdrawn.
When Uncle Sam came home she told him what had hap-
pened. He, too, just looked at me and became more remote

38

and withdrawn than usual. They were waiting for some-
thing; their tension reached out to me, and I waited with
them, anxious, apprehensive.

The thing we waited for came while we were having our
supper. We heard a trap pull up outside.

"Here it is," Uncle Sam said, and got up.

Aunt Liza leaned back from the table and put her hands
in her lap, fingers intertwined, a cold, unseeing look in her
eyes.

Before Uncle Sam reached the door, it burst open. A tall,
broad, white man strode in. Behind him came the three
boys. The one I had attacked had swollen lips and a puffy
left eye.

"Evening, baas." Uncle Sam murmured.

"That's him," the bigger boy said, pointing at me.

The white man stared till I lowered my eyes.

"Well?" he said.

"He's sorry, baas," Uncle Sam said quickly. "I've given
him a hiding he won't forget soon. You know how it is,
baas. He's new here, the child of a relative in Johannesburg,
and they don't all know how to behave there. You know
how it is in the big towns, baas" The plea in Uncle Sam's
voice had grown more pronounced as he went on. He turned
to me. "Tell the baas and young basics how sorry you are,
Lee."

I looked at Aunt Liza and something in her lifelessness
made me stubborn in spite of my fear.

"He insulted my father," I said.

The white man smiled.

"See, Sam, your hiding couldn't have been good."

39

There was a flicker of life in Aunt Liza's eyes. For a
brief moment she saw me, looked at me, warmly, lovingly;
then her eyes went dead again.

"He's only a child, baas" Uncle Sam murmured.

"You stubborn too, Sam?"

"No, baas."

"Good. Then teach him, Sam. If you and he are to live
here, you must teach him. Well ?"

"Yes, baas."

Uncle Sam went into the other room and returned with
a thick leather thong. He wound it once round his hand and
advanced on me. The man and the boys leaned against the
door, watching. I looked at Aunt Liza's face. Though there
was no sign of life or feeling on it, I knew suddenly, in-
stinctively, that she wanted me not to cry.

Bitterly, Uncle Sam said: "You must never lift your
hand to a white person. No matter what happens, you must
never lift your hand to a white person. . . "

He lifted the strap and brought it down on my back. I
clenched my teeth and stared at Aunt Liza. I did not cry
with the first three strokes. Then, suddenly, Aunt Liza went
limp. Tears showed in her eyes. The thong came down on
my back again and again. I screamed and begged for
mercy. I grovelled at Uncle Sam's feet, begging him to
stop, promising never to lift my hand to any white per-
son. . . .

At last the white man's voice said: "All right, Sam."

Uncle Sam stopped. I lay whimpering on the floor. Aunt
Liza sat like one in a trance.

40

"Is he still stubborn, Sam?"

"Tell the baas and basics you are sorry."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Bet his father is one of those who believe in equality."

"His father is dead," Aunt Liza said.

"Good night, Sam. 95

"Good night, baas. Sorry about this."

"All right, Sam." He opened the door. The boys went out
first, then he followed. "Good night, Liza."

Aunt Liza did not answer. The door shut behind the
white folk, and soon we heard their trap moving away.
Uncle Sam flung the thong viciously against the door,
slumped down on the bench, folded his arms on the table,
and buried his head on his arms. Aunt Liza moved away
from him, sat down on the floor beside me, and lifted me
into her large lap. She sat rocking my body. Uncle Sam
began to sob softly. After some time he raised his head and
looked at us.

"Explain to the child, Liza," he said.

"You explain," Aunt Liza said bitterly. "You are the
man. You did the beating. You are the head of the family.
This is a man's world. You do the explaining."

"Please, Liza."

"You should be happy. The whites are satisfied. We can
go on now."

With me in her arms, Aunt Liza got up. She carried me
into the other room. The food on the table remained half-
eaten. She laid me on the bed on my stomach, smeared fat
on my back, then covered me with the blankets. She un-

41

dressed and got into bed beside me. She cuddled me close,
warmed me with her own body. With her big hand on my
cheek, she rocked me, first to silence, then to sleep.

For the only time during my stay there, I slept on a bed
in Elsburg.

When I woke next morning, Uncle Sam had gone. Aunt
Liza only once referred to the beating he had given me. It
was in the late afternoon, when I returned with the day's
cow dung.

"It hurt him," she said. "You'll understand one day."

That night Uncle Sam brought me an orange, a bag of
boiled sweets, and a dirty old picture book. He smiled as he
gave them to me, rather anxiously. When I smiled back at
him, he seemed to relax. He put his hand on my head,
started to say something, then changed his mind and took
his seat by the fire.

Aunt Liza looked up from the floor, where she dished out
the food.

"It's all right, old man," she murmured.

"One day . . ." Uncle Sam said.

"It's all right," Aunt Liza repeated insistently.

The long winter passed. Slowly, day by day, the world of
Elsburg became a warmer place. The cracks in my feet be-
gan to heal. The spells of bearable, noonday cold gave way
to warmth. The noise of the veld at night became a din. The
freezing nights changed, became bearable; changed again,
became warm. Warm nights and hot days!

Summer had come, and with its coming the world be-
came a softer, kindlier, more beautiful place. Sunflowers

42

began blooming in people's yards. And people themselves
began to relax and laugh. When, one evening, as I came in
with some washing from the line, I heard Uncle Sam's voice
raised in laughter and saw him and Aunt Liza playing, I
knew the summer had really come. Later that same evening
he went into the other room and returned with a guitar.
Aunt Liza beamed.

"Open the door?"

Uncle Sam nodded. He played. Soon people from the
other houses came, in ones and twos, till our little room was
crowded. Someone sang, with his arms on his wife's shoul-
ders, a love song;

"Fll be your sweetheart,
If you will be mine. . . ."

Summer had come indeed.

In the long summer afternoons, after my day's work, I
went down to the river. Sometimes Andries and some of
the other children went with me. Often I went alone.

Often, with others or alone, I climbed the short willows,
with their long drooping branches. The touch of willow leaf
on the cheek gives a feeling of cool wonder. Often I jumped
from stone to stone on the broad bed of the shallow, clear,
fast-flowing river. Sometimes I found little pools of idle
water, walled off by stones from the flow. I tickled long-
tailed tadpoles in these. The sun on the water touched their
bodies with myriad colours. Sometimes I watched the
springhaas the wild rabbit of the veld go leaping across
the land, almost faster than my eye could follow. And

sometimes I lay on my back on the green grass on the bank
of the river and looked up at the distant sky, watching thin,
fleecy white clouds form and re-form and trying to associate
the shapes with people and things I knew. I loved being
alone by the river. It became my special world.

Each day I explored a little more of the river, going far-
ther up or down stream, extending the frontiers of my
world. One day, going farther downstream than I had been
before, I came upon a boy. He was on the bank on the
other side from me. We saw each other at the same time
and stared. He was completely naked. He carried two finely
carved sticks of equal size and shape, both about his own
height. He was not light brown, like the other children of
our location, but dark brown, almost black. I moved nearly
to the edge of the river. He called out to me in a strange
language.

"Hello!" I shouted.

He called out again, and again I could not understand. I
searched for a place with stones, then bounded across. I
approached him slowly. As I drew near, he gripped his
sticks more firmly. I stopped.

He spoke harshly, flung one stick on the ground at my
feet, and held the other ready as though to fight.

"Don't want to fight," I said.

I reached down to pick up the stick and return it to him.
He took a step forward and raised the one in his hand. I
moved back quickly. He stepped back and pointed at the
stick on the ground. I shook my head.

"Don't want to fight."

I pushed the stick towards him with my foot, ready to

44

run at the first sign of attack. I showed my new, stubby
teeth in a tentative smile. He said something that sounded
less aggressive. I nodded, smiling more broadly. He re-
laxed, picked up the stick, and transferred both to his left
hand. He smacked his chest.

"Joseph! Zulu!"

I smacked my own chest. "Lee " But I didn't know
what I was apart from that.

He held out his hand. We shook. His face lit up in a
sunny smile. He said something and pointed downstream.
Then he took my arm and led me down.

Far downstream, where the river skirted a hillside, hid-
den by a cluster of willows, we came on a large clear pool.
Joseph flung his sticks on the ground and dived in. He shot
through the water like a tadpole. He went down and came
up. He shouted and beckoned me to come in. I undressed
and went in more tentatively. Laughing, he pulled me un-
der. I came up gasping and spluttering, my belly filled with
water. He smacked me on the back, and the water shot out
of my mouth in a rush. When he realized I could not swim,
he became more careful. We spent the afternoon together,
with Joseph teaching me to swim.

At home that evening I stood beside Aunt Liza's wash-
tub.

"Aunt Liza"

"Yes?"

"What am I?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I met a boy at the river. He said he was Zulu."

She laughed.

45

"You are Coloured. There are three kinds of people:
white people, Coloured people, and black people. The white
people come first, then the Coloured people, then the black
people."

"Why?"

"Because it is so."

Next day when I met Joseph, I smacked my chest and
said: "Lee! Coloured!"

He clapped his hands and laughed.

Joseph and I spent most of the long summer afternoons
together. He learned some Afrikaans from me; I learned
some Zulu from him. Our days were full.

There was the river to explore.

There were my swimming lessons, and others.

I learned to fight with sticks; to weave a green hat of
young willow wands and leaves; to catch frogs and tadpoles
with my hands; to set a trap for the springhaas; to make the
sounds of the river birds.

There was the hot sun to comfort us. ...

There was the green grass to dry our bodies. . . .

There was the soft clay with which to build. . . .

There was the fine sand with which to fight. . . ,

There were our giant grasshoppers to race. . . .

There were the locust swarms, when the skies turned
black and we caught them by the hundreds. . . ,

There was the rare taste of crisp, brown, baked, salted
locusts. . . .

There was the voice of the wind in the willows. . . .

There was the voice of the heavens in thunderstorms. . . .

46

There were the voices of two children in laughter,
ours. . . .

There were Joseph's tales of black kings who lived in
days before the white man. . . .

At home, I said: "Aunt Liza "

"Yes?"

"Did we have Coloured kings before the white man?"

"No."

"Then where did we come from? Joseph and his mother
come from the black kings who were before the white

man."

And laughing, and ruffling my head, she said: "You talk
too much. . . . Go'n wash up."

And to Joseph, next day, I said: "We didn't have
Coloured kings before the white man."

And he comforted me and said: "It is of no moment. You
are my brother. Now my kings will be your kings. Come: I
have promised the mother to bring you home. She awaits
you. I will race you to the hill."

From the top of the hill I looked into a long valley where
cattle grazed. To the right, on the sloping land, nestled a
cluster of mud huts. Around each hut was a wall built of
mud.

"That is my home." Joseph pointed.

We veered right and went down to it. From a distance
we saw a woman at the gate of one of the huts.

"There is the mother!" He walked faster.

She was barefooted. She wore a slight skirt that came
above her knees. A child was strapped to her back. The
upper part of her body was naked except for the cloth

47

across her chest that supported the child. Around her neck,
arms, and legs were strings of white beads. As we drew
near, I saw that she was young. And her broad, round face
was beautiful. Her black eyes were liquid soft. She called
out a greeting and smiled. Joseph pushed me forward.

"This is my brother Lee of the Coloureds, little mother."

"Greetings, Mother," I said.

"I greet you, my son," she said softly, a twinkle in her
eyes. "As the man of my house has told you, food awaits.
Come."

"See!" Joseph puffed out his chest. To his mother he
said: "He would not believe when I told him I was the man
in our house."

"He is indeed," she said.

Circling the hut was a raised platform. We sat on this
while she brought us the food: salted fried locusts, and corn
on the cob. She sat near by and watched us eating.

"Show the mother," Joseph said, and took another bite
at the mealies. "Show the mother you are not circumcised
yet."

I showed her.

"This is strange," she said. "Have you no initiation
schools?"

"No!" Joseph said.

"Then when do you enter manhood?"

"He does not know."

"Is it true?" She looked at me.

I nodded.

"He's still a child!" Joseph cried. "So big and a child!"

48

Christmas came, and it was a feast of eating and laugh-
ter. I spent half my time at home with Aunt Liza and Uncle
Sam and the other half with Joseph and the little mother.

My sixth birthday came. Joseph and the little mother and
I celebrated it by the river.

Then, early one morning, just as the first cold touches
crept into the morning air, Joseph came to our location.

I was washing up when I heard young voices shouting:

"Look at the naked Kaffir! Lee's Kaffir!"

I rushed out. Joseph came gravely to me.

"I come to take leave, my brother. My father has died in
the mines, so we go back to our land."

He stood straight and stern, not heeding the shouts of the
children about. He was a man. This was the burden of his
manhood. I had learned much from him, so I said equally
coldly:

"I must take leave of the little mother."

"She is a woman. She weeps."

We ran all the way there. . . .

When the little cart had taken them away, I climbed the
hill and went down to the river. I carried Joseph's two
sticks with me. These were his parting gift to his brother.

"Defend yourself," he had said. "I will make others."

I walked along the river that had been our kingdom.
Now it was a desolate place. Joseph had been here with me:
now Joseph had gone. Before I realized it, my tears flowed
fast. There had been much between us.

So the summer passed. The autumn came. The leaves
turned brown on the willows by the river. They fluttered to

49

the ground and turned to mould. The long days shortened
suddenly. The cold came. Winter had come to torture us
again. . . .

In the spring I was suddenly uprooted from the familiar
world of Elsburg and taken to Vrededorp, where I was born.

It was late afternoon. The days were warm again. The
thick buds on the old trees had turned into small leaves of a
light, transparent green. Soft, downy, new grass grew on
the banks of the river. And the river itself was swollen high.
I lay on its bank, lost in the green dream-world of child-
hood. Joseph did not seem far away. I expected, at any
moment, to hear his strong voice hail me and dare me to a
swim in our secret bathing-place. The water there would be
icy cold now.

I heard footsteps.

A voice said: "There he is!"

I turned and saw a young man and woman. I jumped up.
They were well dressed, Coloured like me, but strangers.
They drew near. The young woman was attractive. Her
deep-brown olive face was round and smooth. She smiled
and dimples showed on both cheeks and chin. She had jet-
black wavy hair that fell to her shoulders. She was short
and plump. The young man was a head taller, a shade
lighter in colour. His hair, too, was wavy, but short and
with a tinge of reddish brown about it. His face was pitted
with pockmarks; and there was a touch of devilment about
it.

50

A few yards from me, she put a hand on his arm and
stopped him. He said something to her in English. She re-
plied in the same language. Then she took a step to-
wards me.

"Hello, Lee.' 5

I watched them silently. How did they know my name?
Who were they?

"Don't you remember us?" This time it was the young
man.

The young woman held out her arms to me. "I'm Mar-
garet," she said. "Your sister."

"I'm your brother, Harry," he said.

Some far-away corner of my brain stirred and responded.

"Your sister," she repeated, and though she smiled, tears
showed in her eyes.

"You from my mother?"

"Yes!" she said. "We're from your mother! Your mother
is our mother too! We're your brother and sister!"

"What's your name?"

"Margaret."

I looked at my brother.

"Harry."

I said their names carefully to myself.

"Margaret . . . Harry ..." I remembered something
Aunt Liza had told me. "Is my mother still where sick peo-
ple go?"

"No," Harry said.

"We've come to take you to her," Margaret said.

I thought of the train and grew excited. Such a long time
since I last rode in a train. I could hardly remember it.

51

"When?"

"Tonight," Harry said.

Aunt Liza waited for us with coffee and fat cakes. She
seemed worried and upset.

"He's happy here aren't you, Lee?"

Before I could answer, Maggie said: "I'm sorry Aunt
Liza, but Mother wants him. He is her baby, you know."

"But he's so happy here, aren't you, Lee?"

"He can't decide, Aunt Liza."

"We could leave him for a week " Harry began.

"No," Maggie said firmly. "Mother wants him to come
back with us, you know that Harry."

"I thought" Harry said.

"You heard Mother yourself," Maggie said.

"Then why did she let him go in the first place?" Aunt
Liza said fiercely.

"That's not fair," Harry said.

"You offered to take him till things were straight," Mag-
gie said. "Mother couldn't help Natalie dying, and getting
burned and going to hospital."

No more was said. In silence we waited for Uncle Sain.
After an age of silence the door opened and Uncle Sam
entered.

"Oh, Sam!" Aunt Liza cried. "They've come to take
him. . . ."

"I warned you, Liz." Uncle Sam took in the scene, then
shook his head. He went into the next room without greet-
ing my brother and sister.

"Better be going or we'll miss the train," Harry said.

52

"Get your things, Lee," Maggie said.

"He hasn't anything," Aunt Liza said.

Uncle Sam spoke from the other room. "We've just paid
off our debt at the store. I was taking him in on Saturday
morning to get some clothes."

"Come on," Harry said.

"Say good-bye to Uncle," Aunt Liza said.

I went into the other room. Uncle Sam sat on the bed,
staring at the floor. I stood in front of him, waiting for him
to look up. At last I gave it up.

"Good-bye, Uncle Sam."

"Good-bye, son."

I was reluctant to go. Maggie called. I went to Aunt Liza.
She stared at me so intently that I lowered my eyes.

"Good-bye, Aunt Liza."

"You were happy here, weren't you, Lee?"

"Let him go!" Uncle Sam called fiercely from the other
room.

"Come on!" Harry said impatiently.

CHAPTER

I woke to the grinding of brakes as the train came to a
stop.

"We're home," Maggie said, raising me.

We got off the train and went out into the deserted
streets. Long, empty, silent streets. From the silent street,
and from everywhere about me, a low, deep, rumbling hum
came to me. I remembered this incessant noise from other
times: I had heard it before. In the silent, yet noisy night I
walked up one empty street and down another with my
brother holding one of my hands and my sister the other.
Once a white man in uniform stepped from a shadowy
corner and shone a torch on us.

"Evening, baas" Harry said.

"Where 're you going so late?"

"Home," Harry said. "We've been to fetch my little
brother from the country."

"Prove it."

"Pm Coloured; I don't carry a pass."

For a long time the white man shone the torch on Harry's
face.

"Trying to be smart, heh."

"No, baas. Just stating a fact."

He swung the torch down to my face. I blinked and
closed my eyes.

"He looks like a Kaffir."

"Don't you call my brother a Kaffir!" Maggie snapped.

He swung the beam up to her face, then turned it out.

"All right. . . ."

54

He faded into the shadows from which he had come. We
set off again, walking more briskly than before.

We turned up a long, narrow street and walked nearly its
whole length. Then we turned into a dark passage and
climbed stairs. Harry knocked on the only door at the top
of the dark stairs. There was no answer. He pushed and the
door opened. We entered. The candle on the saucer in
the centre of the small round table danced crazily in the
draught we had brought.

"Shut the door," Harry said.

An iron bedstead stood against the wall facing the door.
Near it was the round table. In a corner, at the foot of the
bed, stood a life-size tailor's dummy. An old, unpainted
wooden chair was near the table. Two tin trunks and a small
cupboard in a corner made up the rest of the furniture.
There was no ordinary window to the room, but in the slop-
ing ceiling, in the corner directly over the bed, was a small
fanlight.

The blankets on the bed were thrown back as though
someone had been to bed, then got up again.

"Wonder where she is," Harry said.

"May be in the lavatory." Maggie went to the stairs and
called: "Mother! Mother! Lee's home!"

"Not there," Harry said after a while.

Maggie shut the door.

"What now?" Harry said.

I sat on one of the trunks. My eyes kept straying to the
tailor's dummy in the comer.

"You go; I'll stay here," Maggie said.

He touched my head and went out. Maggie came and sat

55

beside me. She put her arm ahout me and rocked gently. I
closed my eyes and forgot the tailor's dummy.

Time passed. The candle flickered violently, on the point
of going out. Maggie found another and lit it. Again she put
her arms about me. We rocked from side to side in an easy,
gentle, rhythmic motion.

After a long, long time a sudden dull thud somewhere
below us shattered the silent peace of the night. Maggie
went to the door.

"That you, Mother?"

"Yes," a gentle voice called up. "Come and give me a
hand. Bring the candle."

Maggie took the candle and went out. I waited in the
dark, my face turned to where the dummy was.

The darkness dispersed slowly as an area of light
mounted the stairs. Then they came into the room, and
the darkness was gone. I turned my eyes from the dummy.

Maggie and my mother let go of the big, fat, fair woman
they supported. She sank to the floor in a drunken stupor.

I looked at my mother with the clear, sharp eyes of a
nearly seven-year-old. A small dark woman with a long,
narrow face and an air of great frailty about her: thin arms,
thinner than mine; hands smaller than mine; kinky hair
with a touch of brown, like mine, not wavy like that of my
brother and sister; big, sombre dark eyes.

She said: "Lee my baby!"

She put her arms about me and held me tight.

"Careful, Mother!" Maggie said.

Her tears wet my face. . . .

Maggie got a Primus stove from the cupboard, lit it, and

56

made tea. My mother and I sat side by side on the bed. The
drunk woman lay on the floor.

"I suppose you've opened your side again," Maggie said.

"I couldn't leave Betty lying in the gutter."

"Oh, Mother!" Maggie said helplessly. She looked at the
woman on the floor. "What about her?"

"Leave her there. I'll put a blanket over her."

"And Lee?"

"He can come in with me."

"No your side, remember."

"I'll make his bed on the floor, then."

"I'll make it. Blankets?"

Maggie got out the blankets and made up a place for me
in a corner away from the dummy. My mother poured tea
for us. Maggie flung one blanket over the drunk woman.

"I must go now, Ma."

"Be careful."

Maggie kissed Mother on the cheek. " 'Night, Ma."

"Good night, child."

She hugged me. "See you tomorrow."

She went out. I heard her footsteps moving hesitantly
down the dark stairs. My mother put a hand lightly on my
shoulder. I looked up.

"Bit strange, isn't it?"

I nodded. I wanted to tell her I did not like the dummy.
But she might do something about it, and her side might
bleed.

"Tomorrow will be better. . . . Hungry?"

"No, Mother."

"Want to go to sleep?"

57

"Yes, Mother." I didn't reaUy.

I took off my trousers. She knelt beside me on the floor
and tucked me up under the blankets.

"All right?"

"Yes."

She bent down and kissed me, first on the forehead, then
on the lips a kiss light as the touch of a feather.

"Good night, my baby. . . . Sleep well."

She blew out the candle. After a short silence, I heard
the creak of the bed as she got in. I closed my eyes and
drifted away to the river at Elsburg. . . .

. . . And Joseph was there with me. And he was chasing
me. And I was laughing. And above my laughter was the
sound of his voice. I will catch you, I will catch you. And he
drew near. And then it was not Joseph. It was the dummy,
come alive: armless and headless. It drew near. / will catch
you, I will catch you. I ran fast. It drew nearer. And now I
felt it on me, toweringly, ready to crush me. And I cried
out. . . .

I woke screaming. My mother stood over me with the
lighted candle.

"Everything's all right. You've been dreaming. Every-
thing's all right. There now."

I stole a quick, furtive look across the room. It was still
there.

"That it?" she said.

I looked at her face and knew, suddenly, that I could
trust her in all things. I said:

"I was at Elsburg with Joseph, and then Joseph was gone
and it chased me."

58

She got an old coat from under the bed and flung it over
the dummy.

"Go to sleep now, and tomorrow you must tell me about
Joseph."

She blew out the candle and got back into bed.

"Tell you what, I'll tell you a story, one that your father
used to tell. Would you like that?"

"Please."

"Then listen. Once upon a time, in a far-away land where
the trees were blue, there lived a young prince. . . ."

Softly, easily, her gentle voice droned on. It took me to
strange adventures inside the biggest snake that ever lived.
And then, easily, it carried me off to the land of peaceful
sleep.

A deep hissing drew me from the land of sleep. I opened
my eyes. I remembered this was not Elsburg, the order of
my days here would be different. The hissing was made by
the Primus stove. The big woman who had been drunk the
night before was cooking over it. I looked across the room.
The dummy was not there. I sat up. My mother's bed was
made. The woman turned and smiled.

"Good morning." Her voice was rusty and gay.

"Where's my mother?"

She brought me a mug of coffee, white, creamy, and very
sweet.

"It's polite to answer a greeting." Her eyes laughed
at me.

"Good morning," I said. "Where's my mother?"

"There you go again! Give us a kiss, big eyes."

59

It was hard to think of this woman with the rusty voice
and gay, laughing eyes as the person who had lain in a
drunken stupor all night. She brought her face down. I
pulled mine away. Then, impulsively, I pushed it forward
and kissed her.

"Now, was that so bad, darlin'?" She laughed and ruffled
my hair. "Tell you something. You stick with Aunt Betty
and everything will be all right, heh? You be my man and
I'll see you right. I'll be yours. Many a man would give his
right arm to have* me his, but I'll be yours, darlin'. And if
you look after me when I need it, I'll be yours for ever. Now
gi' us another one quickly."

She flung her arms about me and kissed me with wet lips.

"My man?"

I nodded.

She poured me another mug of coffee. Footsteps moved
up the stairs.

"Here's your mother."

My mother came in with a big parcel.

"Hello, Ma."

"Morning, Lee. Slept well?"

My mother undid her parcel and got out some plates.
Aunt Betty dished two sausages onto each plate. My mother
sliced a loaf of bread. I sat beside her on the bed. Aunt
Betty sat on the chair. We ate.

"Must do something about clothes," my mother said.

"Hasn't he enough?"

"Only what he's in."

"Must do something, then. But don't get any till tomor-
row."

60

"I must find the money first."

I finished eating.

"Where do I wash, Ma?"

"Downstairs."

I got the soap and towel and went down the stairs. The
stairs were steep, narrow, and short. In places a stair was
broken and had been covered with a thin plank that sagged
as my weight came down on it. Once I nearly slipped. I
grabbed the banister. It moved outward, dangerously. At
the bottom of the stairs I turned left into a little dark pas-
sage. I fumbled in the dark till I found the door. I jerked it
open: daylight rushed in.

The yard was tiny no more than six yards wide, and
just as long. And in it, taking up half the space, was a high
pile of junk: twisted bicycle wheels, old tires, a bicycle
frame, broken chairs, part of an iron bed, brown with rust;
pots and pans and pieces of broken crockery; rags and
bones; and much other rubbish beyond recognition. Three
short steps led down into the yard, and the tap was near the
door. The lavatory was beside the tap. I leaped across the
three steps and landed near the tap. I tucked the towel into
my shirt collar and washed.

Going back, I bumped into an old Indian in the dark pas-
sage. He spoke to me in English, I couldn't understand and
fled up the stairs.

The heart of Johannesburg nestles in the heart of the val-
ley of the Ridge of the White Waters. From there it spreads
away, up the sloping land, out of the valley, in all direc-

61

tions. Journeying westward from the tram terminus near
the City Hall, one goes down to the huge market with its
big square. Then, immediately past the market and the be-
ginning of Fordsburg, the land levels off for a short dis-
tance and begins to slope upwards, very gently. To the west-
ern end of Fordsburg is a sudden dip. Trams and traffic go
through a long, deep subway. Two sets of railway lines lie
across it, going south in a smooth westward curve in one di-
rection, and north with an eastward curve in the other. The
tram lines climb steeply out of the subway. To the left of
them is Vrededorp, to the right is Braamfontein*

Vrededorp is made up of twenty-four streets, running
parallel to each other. They are known by their numbers.
First Street is way up near the north-western hills, and
Twenty-fourth Street is down in the south-western valley,
backing on the curving railway lines.

And from the streets and houses of Vrededorp, from the
back yards and muddy alleys, a loud babel of shouting,
laughing, cursing voices rise, are swallowed by the limitless
sky, and rise again in the unending tumult. And through
and above and under all this is the deep throbbing hum of
the city. It is everywhere at once. Without beginning, with-
out end.

I did not stray far from the protection of home that first
morning. Twenty-second Street, the street where we lived,
was strange and alien. The noise was frightening after the
quiet of Elsburg. After a while I grew interested in the dark
stream of life about me and ventured down to the bottom of
the street.

62

There were small, well-built Basuto women. They bal-
anced their shopping baskets, kerosene tins, bundles tied in
spotless white sheets, delicately on their heads. They went
by with effortless grace: their bodies straight, their dark
faces serene. There were the tall, swaying Zulu women, big-
boned and strong-muscled, moving with the ease and grace
of dancers, essentially feminine for all their bigness. And
the women of the Bechuana and the Barolong, their skins a
yellowish brown, were very like the Coloured women. They,
and the Coloured women, did not have the easy grace and
dignity of the Basuto and Zulu women. But they had a free,
swinging gaiety of movement that suggested unending high
spirits. They spoke loudest, laughed longest. They were
more colourfully dressed than either the Zulu or the Basuto
women. They wore reds, blues, greens, and purples in
bright, shiny materials. The Zulu women wore severe dark
colours mostly. The Basuto women went in for a little more
colour, but in quieter tones than the Bechuana and Baro-
long women.

The women paused at the stalls that lined the sidewalk,
bought, and moved on. The traders were Indians. They
stood by tables piled high with hard-boiled eggs, steaming
sweet potatoes, Indian sweetmeats, fruit, vegetables, and all
manner of edibles. They called out their wares in high,
tinny voices, reedy, and sounding strange against the deep-
throated African voices. Darting in and out among the
women and stalls were ragged boys of all shapes, and of
colours ranging from black to a pale, almost white, yellow-
ish fairness.

Common to all the women, African and Coloured, was

63

the doek. This was a kerchief they wore over their heads. It
was an institution from Sixteenth Street downward. It was
usually white, and always spotlessly clean. It was tied so
that it covered all the hair, with two slight risings over the
horns. The two ends were tucked in, one under each ear.
Another, though less important, emblem among the women
of Lower Vrededorp was the apron. No woman ever went
out without putting on a clean apron, except when going to a
burial or to church. At all other times a woman was not
properly dressed without an apron.

And among them moved the men, their shirt fronts open,
their sleeves rolled up as far as they would go, their caps
pulled low over their sullen, downcast eyes. A few men were
not like that, but they were a minority. The rest moved
close to the walls, not looking at people, like panthers, ever
poised for the leap to savage battle.

Boys fell over one another battling for orange-peels
swimming on the black water of the gutters. Near me a fat
black boy grabbed a hot sweet potato from a stall and ran.
An old Indian lumbered after him, cursing. People looked
on disinterestedly. The Indian gave up and returned mutter-
ing to his stall. By then two other boys had grabbed some
eggs and run in the opposite direction. The old man waved
his fists and screamed helplessly at them.

And all about surged the dark stream: people laughed
and cursed; young women went by, swaying their hips; men
with caps pulled down called to them in gruff voices; carts
pulled by great horses moved slowly by; children swung be-
hind the carts till the drivers lashed out with their long
whips; trams rattled out of and into the subway; trains went

64

screaming by across it; motor horns hooted; children
played in the streets till the motors were nearly on them,
then jumped clear; screams, laughter, shouts, cries, every-
thing but silence. A fight started between two men. A black
van came up through the subway. People dispersed, began
to run. I turned and ran for home.

My mother met me at our door. We went up to a lunch
of fish and chips.

"Tell me about Elsburg."

I told her, mainly about Joseph and the little mother and
the good times we had shared. I ended:

"Why do they call them Kaffirs, Ma? Uncle Sam did and
Harry too. And the little mother didn't like it."

"You told her?"

"After Uncle Sam said it."

"You shouldn't have. Your father always said it wasn't
good to tell people things that make them unhappy."

"Did he call them that too?"

"Never."

"The little mother said I would call black people that
when I get big."

"Not if you remember the good Lord made us all."

"Mother"

"Yes?"

"Why didn't the Coloureds have kings in the days before
the white man? The Zulus had."

She laughed and her face suddenly looked very young,
younger than my sister's.

"Joseph asked you about Coloured kings?"

"Yes."

65

"Well, the Cokmreds never had kings, but you had. You
still have."

"Now? Today?"

"Yes."

"And are they Hack?"

She thought for a little, then nodded slowly.

"Must be. Your father didn't have any white blood in
him, so he must have been black. Yes, your kings were
black."

"And the ones of today?"

"They are black too."

Oh, if only Joseph were here now! I would go up to him
and push out my chest and say: "I am Lee of the " No,
not the Coloureds. Of the what, then?

"Ma"

"Yes?"

"If my kings were black, why am I Coloured?"

"Oh, Lee," she protested.

"But I want to know."

She thought for a while. "You're only Coloured on your
mother's side, that's my side. On your father's side you're
Abyssinian."

"And that is black?"

"Yes."

And I would say to Joseph: "I am Lee of the Aby-
shinins! My kings were before the days of the white man,
and my kings are still kings today!" How he would envy
me! If only he were here! ... I would lend my kings to
him.

She smiled.

66

"Now don't be ashamed of your Coloured mother just
because you are black."

I felt generous and loving. "I will lend you my kings." I
thought of something, "Where do my kings live?"

"In Abyssinia. And that is the last question I'm answer-
ing. I must get back to work."

"Black kings of Abyshina!" I cried.

My mother went down to work. I wandered up the street
and crossed the road that ran past the cemetery. I lay on
the soft grass. The sun shone from a clear sky that was far
away. The noise of Vrededorp drifted up like an echo. I
plucked a tall blade of sweet grass and chewed it. And I was
far, far away, in a merry land called Abyshina. There black
kings strode the earth in all their majesty. And I was a great
warrior of Abyshina, serving my kings. I was the strongest,
the bravest, the most daring of all the warriors in that glori-
ous land called Abyshina. . . .

Lo, / am black y but comely, ye daughters of Jerusalem,
as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. . . .

Hunger, and some big boys starting a game of Rugby
dangerously near, drove me home at sunset. Half my body
and all my mind were still in the merry land of Abyshina
when I entered the room. My sister was there with my
mother. Neither looked up as I entered. Maggie was bent
over my mother, who sat on one of the tin trunks. I went
closer. I watched, and, watching, grew tense, felt every
twitch of pain on my mother's face as Maggie worked.

In front of Maggie was a bowl of hot water. A pad of cot-
ton wool and rolls of bandages were on the table. Used

67

bandages lay on the floor. Except for the lint that stuck to
her raw flesh, my mother was naked from the waist up.
"With the aid of hot water, Maggie eased the lint from my
mother's flesh. It was slow, drawn-out work. Yet, for all
Maggie's care, my mother kept gasping with pain. In places
the wound bled a little. Once my mother moaned aloud.

"Don't hurt her!"

"Quiet, black Lee," my mother said weakly.

"Better go out for a while," Maggie said without looking
up.

I was rooted to the spot, hurt, yet unwilling to go out and
be free of the hurt.

"I want to stay."

"Then be quiet."

Slowly, painfully, Maggie parted the lint from the raw
flesh. At last, after an age of pain, the lint came away,
blood-stained and with small pieces of my mother's flesh
sticking to it. With them, I sighed and relaxed. My partici-
pation had been complete enough to exhaust me.

The wound had originally covered the whole of my
mother's left side, back and front, taking in the left breast
and going round her back to within an inch of the spinal
column; it stretched from her shoulder down to her waist.
The breast and the area about it had healed and new skin
was growing. The part of the back near the spine had also
healed. The wound now was raw only in the area directly
under the arm. And the upper part of the arm itself was still
raw.

Maggie unwound a roll of fresh lint and cut a piece big
enough to cover the wound.

68

"Hold the comers."

I held the lint while she smeared a thick paste over it.

"Ready, Ma?"

"Yes."

My mother held up her arm. Maggie put the lint over the
wound. My mother drew in air through her clenched teeth.
Maggie broke the seal of one of the broad rolls of bandage
and wound it about my mother's body. Then she took an-
other and another. When that was done, she bandaged the
arm. The wound here was less raw.

At last it was all over. My mother moved to the bed. I
realized then what people meant when they said a person
was sick. It meant having pain that hurt very much. I
thought: Mother is sick, and sickness means hurt.

"You going to the hospital tomorrow?" Maggie said.

"Yes," my mother replied.

"When I think of those white people, I shake all over
with rage," Maggie said.

"It's nearly a year ago now, child. Forget it."

"What white people?" I asked.

"Ma worked for them," Maggie said. "She was washing
and the tin of boiling water fell on her. They made her
come home by herself. . . ."

"Why get all worked up, child? It's all past."

"You worked for nearly a month and then nearly died,
and what did that woman say? *I can't help it if she's care-
less enough to get hurt. She can't ask for a penny from
me.' "

"What's the matter, my child?" My mother's voice was
very soft.

69

"And the whites are supposed to be civilized!"

"Tell your mother."

Suddenly Maggie's eyes brimmed with tears. "Aunt Mat-
tie says I must leave school."

"My poor child," my mother said.

"I did want to become a teacher and make a home for
you, Ma."

"You must see Mattie's side, my child. She's looked after
you and Harry as well as her own Catherine, and it isn't
easy for a woman without a husband to do that."

Maggie wiped her eyes. Her voice was tinged with bitter-
ness. "Now I must go and work for the whites; clean their
dirt and look after their children just like you and all the
others."

We had just finished our evening meal of bread and pork
sausages when Aunt Betty arrived. With her was a bumpy,
pale yellow little woman* She was no taller than I was, and
her behind stuck out like a huge alien bump, separate from
her body though attached to it. Her cheek-bones were two
bumps that stood out largest in her face. She had hardly
any nose, just two holes on an almost flat surface. She was
called Hotnot Annie and claimed to be pure Hottentot.
Whenever she got excited she spoke the clicking Hottentot
language. Her hair, when she took off her kerchief, was a
series of tightly curled little balls, each separated from the
other by a slight spacing of yellow flesh. She boasted that
any comb other than an iron comb would break before go-
ing through a dozen of her little balls of hair. In a world

70

where texture of hair was vital socially, Hotnot Annie was
proud of her peppercorn hair.

Aunt Betty gave me a big brown-paper parcel.

"This is my man, Annie. I am his and he is mine. We are
sworn to each other since last night."

Hotnot Annie pushed her face close to mine, made a se-
ries of clicking noises, and burst out laughing.

"Don't be vulgar!" Aunt Betty said.

"Stop it, you two," my mother said, laughing.

They answered with a series of clicking noises, then
roared with laughter. Hotnot Annie bounced her behind up
and down as she laughed.

I undid the parcel. There were three pairs of shorts, two
of grey flannel and one of khaki; a grey flannel jacket, four
shirts, and a pair of white tennis shoes.

"All for my man!"

"Say thank-you to Aunt Betty, Lee."

"Thank you, Aunt Betty," I said.

"Your white people are kind," my mother said.

Aunt Betty snorted.

"You didn't " my mother began.

"And why not? I slave for them for next to nothing. And
besides, Lina, they'll never miss it. Those brats have more
than they need. I took them."

"That's stealing, Betty."

"If that's stealing, then they are stealing my sweat every
day. Call it what you will. The child will have something on
his back. Winter is coming. What would you have done if
I didn't bring these?"

71

"The Lord takes care of His own."

"Well, He has, so be quiet."

"Ag, the Lord will provide an overcoat for winter, and a
pair of shoes and some socks," Hotnot Annie said.

"Now don't you start," Mother said rather helplessly.
"You're just asking to go to jail; and how do you think Fd
feel?"

"Ag," Annie laughed, "they're only waiting there for the
Lord to come and provide. It will be a sin not to allow the
Lord to provide."

"Don't mock in front of the child."

"You are mocking," Aunt Betty said. "Wanting to refuse
what the Lord provides. . . . I'll see about a fire, heh?"

While they talked over coffee round the fire, I sat fon-
dling my new clothes.

Hotnot Annie began a story.

"Once upon a time a long, long time ago . . ."

Her voice was light and caressing, pure now, freed of all
its earlier vulgarity. It was the voice of the eternal story-
teller, the trader in dreams who nursed the dreams of all the
ages and clothed them with words. The words dripped on
my consciousness, sank into my being, and carried me away
to the magic long ago of once-upon-a-time.

When Annie ended, my mother told a story. Then, after
my mother, Aunt Betty.

They took me on strange adventures among strange peo-
ple. And there were no words between me and the story,
only the story, which was the reality. And when I came out
of the reality to take a piece of bread, the sharp, clear, in-
finitely simple words were there to guide me back to reality.

72

That night I entered a world in which the dividing line
between reality and dream was so fine as not to exist. And I
lived many quiet moments of many years in that strange
region that is neither of this world nor out of it.

At last I could take no more. I fought off sleep till I could
fight no more. I sank into Aunt Betty's ample lap. The
words receded till I could hear no more, till silence came,
till I could feel no more. . . .

The days passed, and with the passing days I became
familiar with Vrededorp. I ranged far and wide, exploring
the world in which I lived. I became part of the flowing
dark stream. I found that only the poorest Coloured people
lived below Nineteenth Street. Above Nineteenth Street
lived the more respectable children who had fathers at
work and who wore fine clothes all the time. Those with
straight hair and fair skins lived higher up. I longed to
steal, as other boys did, from the stalls of the Indian
traders. But I always panicked at the last moment. In
all other respects I became one of the citizens of Vrede-
dorp, unafraid of going out at night, even on Saturdays.
Like all the other citizens, I ran whenever I saw the
pick-up van. With other boys, I stood on street corners
watching dice "schools." Sometimes I kept watch for the
players. If I saw a policeman or a pick-up van, I shouted a
warning and ran. Young boys who were caught while
watching for gamblers were sent to a reformatory. My
dread, therefore, of the police was as great as that of the
gamblers. For reward, the winner usually gave the watcher

73

a few coppers. Whenever I earned a few pence in this way,,
I rushed off to a grocery shop run by a Chinese. My favour-
ite buy was a pennyworth of coconut icing and a penny-
worth of bread. I usually got a handful of roasted peanuts
as bonsella. Without the bonsdla, the "come again" token,
no little boy would shop at the same place twice. At times r
if I had earned only a penny, it would go for chips, or for a
huge paper bag of "broken biscuits."

Sometimes I ran into Aunt Betty on the streets. She al-
ways had a kiss and a coin for me.

My mother discovered lice in my hair and clothes. She
began a vain battle. Like most of the other children, I
sprouted sores at the corners of my mouth. Whenever
Maggie saw me, she scrubbed me from head to foot. I
avoided her as much as I could. Sometimes I went to the
veld above the school and dreamed long dreams on the soft
grass.

In the streets, people recognized me and I them. I had
been born in Vrededorp. It reclaimed me completely. The
Elsburg interlude could easily have been a figment of that
half-world of my imagination. I never thought of Joseph
and the little mother. And there were other, more immedi-
ate things to take the place of the black kings of Abyshina.

The long summer days hung over Vrededorp. And to
ease the length of each day, I searched for new forms of ad-
venture. One day, some boys down Twenty-second Street
asked me to go coal-hunting with them. There were four of
us. We each had a little sack.

74

We climbed over the high, pronged fencing that cut off
the railway lines from the streets of Vrededorp.

"Watch out for police," a boy called.

We ran between the tracks, picking up pieces of coal.
Freight trains trundled along; expresses flashed by. We
shouted and waved at them. When they had gone we car-
ried on with our search. The boldest of our number, a pot-
bellied, bare-chested black boy, saw a large pile of coal near
a stationary wagon.

"Here!"

We followed him. We were shoving coal into our sacks
when one boy suddenly shouted:

"Trap! Run!"

I turned. Two men, one black, one white, were nearly on
us. I dodged an outstretched arm and shot away, leaving my
sack. Heavy feet thundered after me. From somewhere be-
hind I heard a boy scream in pain. The thundering feet
were very close. If they caught me I would go to a reforma-
tory and get lashes. I ran as hard as I could. Oh, God! The
fence is so far away. Run, Lee, run. They'll lash the skin off
your back at the reformatory. I'll never steal coal again,
baas. Never again. Those boys made me do it. I streaked
over the railway tracks, heart pounding. I sensed a hand
reaching out for me. I dodged. The man behind me over-
balanced and went down heavily. I was safe. The fence was
near. I would have time to climb it and fling myself to the
ground on the safe side. I reached it and shot up to the top.
Then the seat of my pants got caught on one of the prongs.
I worked furiously to get it loose. I looked back and saw the
man drawing near. It was the black one. He raised his stick

75

and flung it. It caught me on the side of my face. The
weight of my body, falling, ripped my pants off the prong.
Dazed, I fell on the Vrededorp side of the fence.

When I became aware of the world. I was surrounded by
a crowd of angry, shouting women. One of them had the
stick that had felled me. She brandished it at the man on
the other side of the fence.

"He's my prisoner," the man said. "And that is my stick.
I'm coming over for them."

"Come!" the woman shouted. "Come, you dog of the
white man! We will show you where your manhood was
lost!"

"A child," another said bitterly. "See the blood on his
face. A child!"

"They were stealing," the man said.

"So you, a grown man, must use a stick of battle on an
unarmed child. Come over and we will kill you! I will kill
you with my own hands!"

"It is my work," the man said. "A man must work to
live."

"So you, a black man, must go on even after the white
man has given up!"

"A black man!" said another woman.

"But it is my work," the man protested.

"Our work is to protect our children. Stone the dog! He
has sold his manhood to the whites!"

The man turned and ran. A rain of stones followed him.
The women flung stones long after he had gone.

The woman who had picked up the stick examined my
face. There was a cut on the side of my right eye.

76

"There is much blood, but it is not bad. The cut is small.
More to the left and the eye would have been gone. ... Is
your home near, my child?"

"Yes, Auntie."

"Then run home so that your mother can clean your
face."

I trotted home with blood running down my cheek. It
was early afternoon, so she would still be working. I tiptoed
past the door where she worked and climbed the creaking
stairs as quietly as I could. I opened our door, then stopped
dead.

My mother was lying on the bed, her eyes closed, her face
strangely twisted.

"That you, Lee? Come here. . . . Mother's very sick, so
you must do something for her."

I walked slowly to the side of the bed. She opened her
eyes.

"Lee! Oh God!"

She half-raised herself, then flopped back and went limp.
Death became real, suddenly. The fear of it was on me. I
whimpered:

"Ma! Don't die, Ma. Please. ..." I shook her.

I hardly noticed Aunt Betty's entrance. She pushed me
away and turned to my mother. I went to my favourite
trunk and sat sobbing, my bloody face buried in my hands.

From a long way off, my mother's voice came to me:
"The child, Betty."

"I'll see to him, Lina."

"His eye. . . . Blood. . . ."

"Be quiet. I'll see to it."

77

She came over, examined my face, and said:

"It's a small cut. The blood frightened you."

She bathed my face and put Vaseline on the cut. Then
she led me to the bed.

"See."

My mother looked at my face.

"It frightened me."

"It was enough to frighten anybody. ... I came as
soon as I got your message. I met Oupa Ruiter on the way.
He gave me his keys so we can move into his room tonight.
I'll have to go with you, Lina. I've been sacked."

"Why?"

"The bitch didn't want me to come to you. Said I needn't
return if I came."

"You should've stayed, Bet."

"And leave you alone with a frightened child? Don't be
silly. You rest. I'll see to the moving. . . . Get some water,
Lee."

On the stairs I met the old Indian coming up.

"You can't go in. My mother is sick."

"Tell her," he said in halting Afrikaans, "tell her I spoke
to the landlord, but he will not let us stay. We must go to-
night. I am sorry it comes when she is sick, but I must go
too, and there is nowhere for me."

I got the water and returned. I gave my mother and my
aunt the old Indian's message.

"I'd better start packing," Aunt Betty said.

"Ill help," I offered.

"When I've sorted things. Go'n play now, but don't go
far. Ill call you."

78

I looked at my mother. Her eyes were closed, but her
face was composed. I went downstairs. I sat on the edge of
the pavement and watched the passing life. I had nothing
better to do, so I tried to widdle through my left trouser-
hole. I was just getting to be good at it when I saw Maggie
coming up the street. I flung sand on the little puddle I had
made, got up, and walked to her.

"Hello, Mag." I fell into step beside her.

"You look dirty, Lee. What happened to your eye?"

"Accident. . . . Mother's sick. She fainted. Aunt Betty's
there. We're moving. Tonight."

"Moving where to?"

"Don't know. Why is Mother always sick?"

"She's not always sick."

"Why is she?"

"She's not strong and she tries to do too much."

"Like when she burned?"

"Yes."

"Why can't we all live together, Mag?"

"We will one day."

She went upstairs. I went back to the pavement edge.
Sitting there, piddling, it seemed to me there was no sense
in life. Things happened and no one seemed to know why.

79

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER

Oupa Grandpa Ruiter was a drover. He was a sheep
specialist. He knew and loved sheep: they were his friends
as no men could be. He had spent the hest part of his life
as near a hundred years as not to matter with them.

When a farmer in the Transvaal sold five hundred or a
thousand sheep to a farmer in either the Orange Free State
or the Cape, Oupa Ruiter would lead the flock on the long
journey from the one place to the other. He would return
with another flock, either for a farmer or for the great Jo-
hannesburg cattle market. Then, after a few days of drink-
ing and resting and seeing old friends, he would set out
again.

He had done this since his boyhood days, which began in
the distant years after the Great Trek. All the years of his
life had been spent walking through the land; from east to
west, then back; from north to south, then back. He knew
every corner of the land, the name of every mountain and
river, the piece of history behind every hill. He knew the
mood of the weather too.

Hotnot Annie called him the last of the great Hottentots.
She spoke of him with awe and was humble in his pres-
ence. She said he was the last member of her race who,
as a boy, had looked on the face of the great Adam Kok,
whom she claimed to have been the last King of the
Hottentots.

Oupa Ruiter was small and wiry, built on the same pat-
tern of bumps as Hotnot Annie. His skin was a rusty golden
yellow, dry as old parchment. His head was covered with

80

white peppercorn hair. His small eyes were almost com-
pletely hidden by the many folds of his eyelids.

All Vrededorp knew him. Always, on his return from a
long journey, people welcomed him in a very special way.
He never had to pay for food or drink. And if he wanted to
talk they hung on every word he said. And if he wanted to
be silent, they were content to sit with him. He was more
than just an old man. He was a symbol of something im-
portant to all the citizens of Vrededorp.

Aunt Betty had found a dray-cart, and our belongings
had gone on that earlier in the evening. Now, with my
mother between her and my sister, we walked up Fifteenth
Street.

Oupa Ruiter waited for us on his veranda.

"Angelina, my child," he said in a loud cackle.

"Sorry to bother you, Oupa," my mother said. "It's only
for a few days; then I go to Krugersdorp."

"Bother!" he snapped. "You've too much pride. Just like
your mother! You know you can stay here as long as you
want to. I don't forget what your father did for me. Only
time I fell sick. . . . Over thirty years ago. . . . Come,
come in."

The room was twice the size of the one we had left.
Brown paper was stuck over the window. The flame of the
solitary candle was too weak to dispel the darkness. Shad-
owy things were strung across the ceiling on lines that criss-
crossed.

"This calls for the lamp," Oupa Ritter said.

He lit the oil lamp that hung from the centre of the ceil-

81

ing. It bathed the room in light. The shadowy things were
sheep's entrails.

The old man saw me staring.

"Fodder, boy, fodder! And don't pull up your nose at
the smell. You'll be glad to take one of those down when
your own guts are empty and screaming. Nothing like 'em.
The best fodder in the world. And all from my little
friends."

The smell of sheep waste was everywhere in the room.
Our things were piled in a corner near my mother's bed,
which the old man had set up and made. Maggie went to
the window, tore off the paper, and opened it. Aunt Betty
began to sort out the pile of our things.

"You staying with Ma, Aunt Betty?" Maggie sounded
depressed.

Aunt Betty nodded.

"Then I'll go. ... Thank you, Oupa Ruiter."

"Pretty wench you've grown into." The old man touched
Maggie's back. "You'll soon make a slave of some fool
man."

" 'Bye, Ma," Maggie called miserably from the door, and
went out.

"What's the matter with her?" Oupa Ruiter said.

"She's young," Aunt Betty said.

"Yes," the old man said, suddenly serious. "Yes. The
young."

"Better lie down, Lina," Aunt Betty said.

My mother stretched herself on the bed. Oupa Ruiter
went and sat on the edge of the bed. He took my mother's
hand in his own gnarled and sinewy old hand.

82

"Well, my child"

"It's hard, Oupa."

"I remember you and your sister with your mother. You
were always the quiet one, proud and quiet. ... A long
time ago. Only the children of friends are left now. And
they are grown up and have children. Some are old. . . .
Yes, it's hard, child. Make this your home as long as you
like* I'm never here. And even if it is hard, don't admit it.
. . . Want to eat?"

"No, Oupa."

"Where will you sleep, Oupa Ruiter?" Aunt Betty asked.

"Are you blind? My bed's on the veranda. I let down my
canvas and it's a room. ... Do you want to eat?"

"No, thank you, Oupa," Aunt Betty said.

"Come, boy."

I followed him out. He had a narrow canvas bed on the
veranda. He had built shelves against the wall, and on these
his few personal possessions were stacked. In one corner
was a kerosene tin with holes knocked in its sides. Near it
was a pile of coal and a small bundle of wood. He pulled a
huge piece of tobacco from his khaki drill jacket and took
a bite.

"Now we'll cook. Can you make a fire?"

"Yes, Oupa."

"Then go to it."

I laid the fire and carried it out into the street. Oupa
Ruiter pushed the dried sheep's waste out of the intestine
with his thumb, turning the meat inside out as he went
along. His room had no yard, so I had to get water from the
yard next door. He washed and salted the meat and put it

83

into the pan. It would go on as soon as the fire was ready.
He fished out a sixpenny piece and gave it to me.

"Two pounds of yellow rice."

I walked the short distance to the Chinaman's grocery
shop. A thin boy moved to my side.

"Hello."

"Hello."

"I saw your things going into Oupa Ruiter's. My name is
Benjamin, but I'm Dinny. Shake."

I took his hand. "I'm Lee."

"Play tonight?"

"Yes."

My turn came. I said:

"Two pounds of yellow rice and monkeynuts bonsella"

I smiled at the tall, lean-faced Chinese in the hope of a
big bonsella. It worked. I needed both hands to take his
fistful of monkeynuts. Dinny's eyes popped. I stuffed the
nuts into both pockets.

"You never give me so much!" Dinny accused the
grocer.

"You never buy so much," the Chinese retorted. "And
you call me names."

"That's a lie!"

The Chinese grinned and said: "Ching-go-ma, tie-boss-ee,
one-cigarette-and-two-toffee. Who shouted that at me this
morning?"

A broad grin cracked Dinny's face. He tried to wipe it
off, but failed.

"I didn't mean it."

"You said it."

84

"Tuppence mealie meal."

After he had got and paid for the mealie meal, Dinny
held out hoth hands for his bonsella. Grinning, the Chinese
only put a few monkeynuts into his hands. Dinny looked at
the nuts, then at the man. He picked up his meal and walked
slowly to the door. There he turned. His voice was charged
with venom:

"Ching-go-ma,
tie-boss-ee y
One-cigarette-and-two-toffee!"

He streaked away.

The Chinese chuckled softly and said: "Here, boy."

I collected another lot of nuts.

The fire had stopped smoking when I got back. Oupa
Ruiter carried it to the veranda. He put two iron bars
across the fire and put the saucepans on. He added onions
and potatoes to the meat. I sat on the floor near the fire. He
sat on the edge of his bed, stirring the food, chewing his to-
bacco. The food began to give off hunger-making smells.
My stomach rumbled loudly. The old man laughed.

At last it was cooked. He dished it up into four plates.

"Better take these to the women."

I went in with two plates. Aunt Betty sat sewing on the
edge of the bed. It was clean and tidy. The hanging intes-
tines had been moved to one corner. Almost, it was a com-
pletely different room, bigger, lighter, cheerful a room
that had been turned into a home. My mother turned her
head.

85

"He knew," she said.

"Can't fool that old man/' Aunt Betty said.

From up the street Dinny's piercing voice rang: "Lee!"
I had finished eating. I went to my mother.
"Can I go'n play with Dinny?"
"Who's Dinny?"
"A boy."

"He's all right," Oupa Ruiter called. "I know him."
"Don't go far and don't come back too late and be
careful."

We met under a street lamp. For a while we stood facing
each other, each touched with uncertainty. He had mocked
at the Chinese. He might mock at me. I felt withdrawn
and reserved. Perhaps he liked fighting, I didn't. Perhaps
he would want to fight with me when he got to know me
better.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket. It was filled with
many-coloured marbles. He chose three, one blue, one red,
and one green. He offered them to me. I shook my head.

"No."

"Oh, go on, take them."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You'll want them back. And you'll call me names."'

"I won't."

"You called the Chinaman names."

"He's stingy."

"You'll call me Kaffir."

"No."

"My friend Joseph's black. All black. He's a Zulu, and
his mother too. You'll call them Kaffir,"

"Ag, I won't, man!" he screamed. Then, suddenly, his
voice became wheedling. "I won't, man. 'Strue's God, I
won't. I won't even call a damn Kaffir a Kaffir any more.
Take them, please. I'll only win them back."

I took them. I remembered rny pockets were stuffed with
monkeynuts. I took out two handfuls and offered them to
Dinny.

"You're a pal, man, Lee man," he purred. "You're a
damn pal."

We set off down the street, munching nuts. About us,
people moved. On one of the verandas a man sat in the
shadows playing a guitar. We stopped and listened for a
while. He made the instrument almost speak. Its language
was sad. The story it told was an unhappy, unfulfilled
lament of frustration.

"Come on before I cry," Dinny said. "Damn him."

A woman came out of the house and shouted at the man:
"If you worked as well as you play we'd have something to
give the children!"

The man shouted back at her. We carried on down the
street. Their cursing voices followed us.

Farther down the street a man and a woman were fight-
ing in a room. The door was open and a group of grown-ups
and children stood in the street, watching. We joined the
crowd, pushed our way through till we had a good view.
The man's face was smeared with blood, and blood dripped
from his mouth. The woman held him by the front of his

87

shirt and kept butting him in the face with her head. His
white shirt was in shreds and stained red. He fought till he
broke loose. The woman grabbed at him. He stepped back.
She grabbed again. He kicked her in the stomach. She
screamed and doubled up. He hit her on the side of the face.
She went down like a dead weight. The man swung about
and rushed at us, cursing. The crowd scattered in all direc-
tions. Dinny and I streaked down the street.

"Jeez, what a fight!" Dinny said gleefully. "Just like the
fillums. Our fights are never like that. My mother is not
strong enough, so my brother has to beat up my father when
he beats my mother."

We slackened our pace.

"Want a woman like that when I'm big," Dinny said.
"Strong. Anybody bothers me, I'll just say to her moer him.
Boy, that'll be nice."

We passed a group of young men and women courting on
a veranda. Some held hands, others leaned against one an-
other. The young men sang softly:

"Fll be your sweetheart,
If you will be mine. . . / 5

"Love!" Dinny said disgustedly.

We passed on without looking at the lovers.

"Got a sister?" Dinny asked.

"Yes."

"Lucky stiff. I wish I had one."

"Why?"

"Tips!"

88

"What's that?"

"Jeez, you're dumb! Tips! Don't you know what that
is?"

"No."

"Jesus Maria Monk! Where are you from, man. Lee
man? . . . When a fellow runs after your sister like those
silly fellows there, you make him give you money. That's
tips."

At the corner of Seventeenth Street a small boy called to
Dinny. He reached to below my shoulders. He was dressed
in an orange sack. Three holes in the sack allowed for his
head and arms to come through. About his waist was a
piece of rope that gathered the sack in and made it hang
like some monkish garb. He was barefooted, very fair, and
very dirty.

"Hello, Pip," Dinny said. "Seen the gang?"

"They've gone begging."

"Why didn't they damn well wait?"

"Lippy said you weren't coming."

"Wait till I get that long-lipped dog. . . . Where'd they
go?"

"They didn't say. . . . Give us a rise, Dinny. I haven't
eaten since yesterday."

"Jeez man, Pip, I'm flat broke, man," Dinny said.

The boy in the sack garb moved away, in the direction of
the subway.

"Poor bugger, that bloody Pip," Dinny said.

"Why does he wear that sack?"

"Why don't you give him clothes, Mister Rich?" Dinny

89

was possessed by one of his sudden rages. "He's alone in the
bloody world. Both his people died last year."

I remembered the remaining monkeynuts in my pocket.
"I have more nuts. We can give them to him."

Dinny hesitated. I knew that he really wanted the nuts
for himself. He looked at me and I knew he knew I knew.
A sheepish grin, half-shy, half-apologetic, cracked his face.

"Come on!" he said.

We streaked off, Dinny in the lead. We dodged in and out
among people. Every now and then Dinny's voice rent the
air in a shrill call for Pip. We caught up with him at the
bottom of Eighteenth Street.

"Lee's got some monkeynuts," Dinny said.

I turned out my pockets, picked out the three marbles,
and passed the nuts to Pip.

"Thanks, fellows," Pip said, and turned once more for
the subway.

"Let's play Debs, Lee. Come!"

He shot across the wide street, heedless of the traffic,
dodging speeding cars and motorcycles by inches. In his
wake I danced in and out of the flowing stream of vehicles.
Horns hooted. Drivers cursed.

"To hell!" Dinny shouted as a car just missed him.

"To hell!" I echoed gaily.

He rushed to a huge glass window filled with men's suits
on dummies. He licked his right thumb and pressed it
against the window.

"Debs! That's mine!"

He pointed out the suits that were his. I did not like any

90

of the remainder, so I ran to the next window, full of
women's clothes.

"Debs! All these are mine for my mother and sister and
Aunt Betty."

"Give you some suits for some dresses?"

"All right!"

"Two suits for half your dresses and things."

"Jou moer!"

"All right. Four!"

"One for one."

"That's not fair! Suits are thicker."

"I don't care. Take it or leave it."

"All right. . . . Mean bugger."

We made the exchanges. I saw a window filled with boys'
clothes. I dashed to it.

"Debs! Debs! Debs! Debs! All these are mine!"

Dinny shot by. "Debs! That bed, that chair, that table
they're all mine!"

We raced to the next window, reached and touched it at
the same time.

"Debs! It's mine!"

"Debs! It's mine!"

"I touched it first!"

"Liar!"

"You want to steal my cakes. Thief!"

"You're the thief!"

"It's mine or I'll knock you!"

"It's mine!"

We leaped at each other.

91

2

Morning breaks gaily in Vrededorp. There is laughter
among the people in the morning. It is as though they find
themselves so surprised to be alive that they cannot help
laughing. There are, of course, homes where morning is sad
and miserable. But these are exceptions. For the most part,
Vrededorp is a place of laughter in the morning.

"Wake up!" Oupa Ruiter shouted gaily. "The sun's
mocking you. Wake up!"

I opened my eyes. Daylight streamed in through the win-
dow. The old drover stood in the centre of the room, a mug
of steaming coffee in each hand. My mother sat up in her
bed, a smile on her face. Aunt Betty, who slept on the floor,
pulled the blanket tighter over her head to stave off wakeful-
ness awhile longer.

Oupa Ruiter laughed. "No use, Bet. Day is here."

Aunt Betty gave up the struggle and showed her head.

Oupa Ruiter gave them the coffee.

"Yours is outside, boy. And there's something special for
you. Wash your face first."

I dressed and went out. On the bench near the fire,
heaped on a plate, were golden fatcakes. On another, smaller
plate were the three biggest fatcakes I had ever seen, and
beside it a mug of coffee. Those were mine. I took a bite
out of one of the cakes before going round to the yard to
wash. . . .

From some way up the street a rich, deep voice drifted
down. It rang out loud and clear as an organ pipe, sustained
as organ notes:

92

"/ am coming, Lord,
Coming back to Thee;
Wash me, cleanse me in the blood
That flowed on Calvary."

The voice drew near, was silent for a while, then rang out
again:

"When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound
And time shall be no more,
And the morning breaks, eternal, bright and fair;
When the saved of earth shall gather over on the other

shore,
And the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there."

There was a slight pause, then the voice sang on with
glorious gusto:

"When the roll
Is called up yonder
When the roll
Is called up yonder,
When the roll
Is called up yo-on-der
When the roll is called up yonder Fll be there!"

Oupa Ruiter came out of the room.

"Better hurry" he flung the words over his shoulder.
"The man of God wants breakfast." His cackling laugh
rang out loud. "Well, boy, did you pinch another?"

"No, Oupa."

"Bet you wanted to."

93

"Yes."

"More fool you for not doing so. Go on!"

I took another fatcake and went into the street. The man
of God came slowly down its centre. He was tall and broad
and very upright. His face was dark brown. It was crowned
by a massive head of white wavy hair. He had a well-
trimmed white moustache that matched his hair. He was
dressed in black: tight, stovepipe trousers gripped his ankles
and climbed to his waist, where they were held up by a
purple sash; a shiny waistcoat hid his shirt; and he wore
tails. He carried his hat in his left hand, holding it a little
distance from his body, and with the hollow turned up as
though to collect money. He carried his Bible, pressed
against his chest, In his right hand.

He stopped near me. For a while he studied me closely,
then he came to me. He slipped the Bible into a pocket and
put his hand on my head.

"Good morning, child. Do you know me? Have I bap-
tized you?"

"No."

"Ah! Then we must look after you. Can't have you going
around like a heathen. An accident may happen and if you
are not baptized you may burn in the Devil's fire for ever.
It's a hot fire the hottest fire you can think of. And it
never stops burning and you never stop hurting. You don't
want that, do you?"

"No."

"Good. Where do you live? And if your mother argues,
you say you want to be baptized. Where?"

"Here." I pointed.

94

"Old Ruiter lives there. Don't play with me, child! You'll
go to hell!"

"We do!" I cried.

"That's Lina Abrahams's child," Oupa Ruiter called from
the recess of the veranda.

The man of God straightened up.

"Hello, Brother Ruiter. I didn't see you there. Didn't
know you were back."

"Morning Reverend Rogerson."

"Morning to you, Brother Ruiter."

"The child told you the truth. He and his mother are with

me."

"I must see her."

"Come, Reverend. They are just having breakfast."

"A good sign. I haven't had mine."

With his big hand on my head, the man of God steered
me to the door.

"I'd better make some more fatcakes," Oupa Ruiter said.
"I know God loves them."

"So he does, my brother, so he does," the priest said
blandly.

Oupa Ruiter cackled and knocked at the door.

"God is here, Lina!"

"Come in," my mother called.

Oupa Ruiter turned back to the fire. The man of God
steered me into the room. My mother and Aunt Betty were
up and dressed. The two beds on the floor had been taken
up. My mother's bed was made. And the room was tidy.
The man of God steered me to the centre.

"Morning, Reverend," my mother said.

95

"Morning, Reverend," Aunt Betty said.

For answer, he threw hack his head and sang. His deep
voice filled the room, spilled out of the window and door,
moved up and down the street.

"Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."

My mother and Aunt Betty joined in. Oupa Ruiter pushed
the door wide, and his reedy voice joined in too. And then,
from the street, other voices joined in the singing. The
hymn ended. The priest tightened his hold on my head. He
kept his eyes closed. A feeling of excitement passed from
him to me. He pushed out his chest and began a new hymn,
lilting and strong, swinging it like the marching song of vic-
torious soldiers. The women in the room, the old man on the
veranda, and the little group of people in the street joined
in the chorus.

'TA-6-r-e is
Power, power.,
Wonder-working power
In the b'l'O-o-d
Of the l-a-m-b:
There is power, power,
Wonder-working power,
In the precious blood of the lamb"

In the silence that followed the stirring hymn, the man of
God raised both hands and held them as in the act of bless-
ing. I moved away from him to get a better view of his face.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Tears rolled

96

down his cheeks, yet there was a happy smile on his face.
He sang exultantly, in measured notes.

"He taught me how
To watch and pray."

He waited. My mother and the others sang:

"He taught me how
To watch and pray."

Then he took it up:

"To live in joy,
Sing every day."

And they echoed him:

"To live in joy,
Sing every day"

His voice was charged with happiness.

"Happy day,
Happy day "

They caught some of it.

"Happy day,
Happy day "

He ended in triumph:

"When Jesus washed
My sins away,
When Jesus washed
My sins away"

97

He went down on his knees. We in the room knelt with
him. Oupa Ruiter knelt on the veranda. The people in the
street knelt where they had stood.

He prayed. And as he prayed, God became a living being
for me: a brown old man with a long beard who wore black
clothes and who liked singing and laughter. The preacher
told God about his backache and asked that his aches and
pains in his legs and feet be less this year than they had been
last. He argued with God about last year's pains, and
warned Him not to forget this year. Then lie prayed for my
mother and me. He prayed long for Aunt Betty, listing all
the times he had seen her drunk, recalling all the times she
had used bad language. He said it was about time she did
something for God. While he prayed, Aunt Betty got up
and fumbled in the folds of her dress. She brought out a
halfcrown and gave it to him. His prayers became kinder.
He told God she was just a poor weak woman in a hard
world, who had had no learning.

"That's not fair," Aunt Betty protested. "God knows I
went to school. I can read and write!"

"Fm sorry," the preacher prayed. "She gave me no
reason to know, Almighty. Which just goes to show you
never can tell with us Coloured people. And forgive me,
Lord. I did not mean to be unfair to Your daughter, our
sister Betty, who can read and write."

"Fm out of work," Aunt Betty whispered.

"Ah, yes, Jehovah, Your daughter needs work. Help
her to get it. She will not forget You when pay day comes
around. Look down, our Father, and give her her daily
bread lest she walk in the ways of sin."

98

"Amen," Aunt Betty said.

"And now, Almighty God"

"Food's getting cold," Oupa Ruiter whispered.

"Bless our food and the mocking old man who made it,
and let us always remember it conies from You, the Great
Giver of all things in heaven and on earth. Amen."

Aunt Betty made a place for the preacher at the table.
Oupa Ruiter brought in a pot of coffee and a pile of fat-
cakes. The people in the street dispersed. The preacher
beamed on the food. I caught my mother's eye. I pointed
to the door. She nodded.

"God and I understand each other," Oupa Ruiter
snapped.

"I am His minister," the preacher said.

"You make people afraid of Him," Oupa Ruiter said. "I
know Him. He's a friend a good friend. He goes on my
journeys with me. We understand each other and it's no
good your saying I mock."

I went out and walked slowly up the street. The people
who had shared in our service had gone. The street was
empty. But sounds of life came from the houses. And far
down, from Delarey Street, came the echoes of the sounds
of traffic. The autumn sun slanted up from the east and
touched the corrugated-iron roof-tops. A young woman ran
out of a house a little way up the street. She trotted down
towards Delarey Street.

"Hurry or you'll get the sack," a woman's voice called
after her.

A little boy came out of a house and ran up the street
with his school books tucked under his arm.

I stood outside the Chinaman's shop, waiting for Dinny.
A flock of doves, making an arc in the sky, flew over from
the west. The Chinese came out of the shop with a broom in
his hand.

"Want to sweep, boy?"

"Yes."

He gave me the broom, I swept the shop. I was gathering
the dirt when Dinny turned up. 7

"Hey! Lee!"

"Wait. I've got a job."

"Hurry up. The gang's waiting."

I gathered up the dirt and took it to the back. The
Chinese gave me tuppence and a paper bag filled with
monkeynuts.

"Tomorrow?" I asked.

"Yes."

I went out to Dinny. We walked down the street munch-
ing nuts. After a while we decided to race each other, hop-
ping on one leg. Thus, hopping, we made our way into
Delarey Street, down towards the subway. We swung left
onto the waste lot on the way to Fordsburg station. Here
Pagel's Circus pitched its tents at Christmas-time. A wide,
deep, uncovered trench cut oil the Fordsburg houses from
the waste lot. It was a waste-water trench, now dry. Three
boys waved to us from the far corner of the trench, then dis-
appeared into it.

We ran across the lot and scrambled into the trench. The
gang looked me over carefully. Dinny introduced us.

There was Lippy, tall and thin as a matchstick. He had a
long, loose lower lip, the largest thing in a small face. He

100

had sores at the sides of his mouth. Next was Sleepy. He
was bubbling and wide awake. It seemed impossible for
Sleepy to keep still. A long rent in his khaki shorts showed
his privates whenever he moved, and he moved all the time.
Finally, there was Fatty. A moving ball of fat, covered with
creases in which thick greasy dirt hid, A clean line round
his fair face showed the limits of the area he washed.

"Lee's joining the gang," Dinny said.

"Yeah! "Fatty said.

"Yeah!" Dinny said aggressively. "I'm the leader."

"So you say," Fatty said. "Prove it!"

"I don't want to fight," Dinny said,

"Ag, let him join, man," Sleepy said.

"Scare arse!" Fatty jeered at Dinny. He looked me over
carefully. "Want to join the gang?"

"Yes."

"What's your name?"

"Dinny told you."

"Your name, shit arse!" he shouted.

The others watched me. I hesitated, torn between fear
and anger.

"Shit arse yourself!" I yelled.

"So you want to fight," Fatty said oddly.

I realized he had suddenly grown frightened. I jumped at
him and hit him in the stomach. He grabbed at me. We went
down together.

"Kill him!" Dinny shouted. "Kill the fat dog!"

It ended quite suddenly. I found myself sitting on Fatty's
stomach, pinning his arms down with my knees. I put my
hands on his neck.

101

"Best!" Fatty cried. "Best, please!"

"Am I a shit arse?"

"No."

"You know my name?"

"Yes, Lee."

I got up and moved away backward, watching him. But
all the fight had gone out of him.

Dinny moved to my side. He whispered: "Say it's your
gang."

"I'm the leader," I said.

"O.K. by me," Lippy said.

"Me too," Sleepy said, shadow-boxing in front of Fatty.

"Me too," Dinny said.

Fatty looked at me.

"Chuck him out," Sleepy said, smacking the fat face.

"Want to stay?"

"Please, Lee."

"Tell him he owes you sixpence," Dinny hissed.

I pushed out my chest and walked towards Fatty.

"You owe me sixpence," I said gruffly.

He looked into my eyes briefly, then down at my feet.

"Yes, Lee. Can I stay?"

"When do you pay?"

He pulled a podgy hand out of his pocket. He opened it.
Two glittering, newly polished pennies lay in his palm.

"Sixpence!"

"All I got. Pay you off tomorrow."

I took the two pennies.

"Can I stay now?"

"Yes."

102

I savoured power and importance. It went to my head. I
looked at my subjects and snapped:

"You are each fined a penny!"

"Jeez!" Dinny said.

"You refuse?"

"No. I'll bloody well pay. When?"

"Now."

"Have a heart," Sleepy cried. "Give us time."

Lippy turned out his pockets.

"I'm skinned," Dinny said.

"All right," I said briskly. "Tomorrow."

"Who's your deputy?" Sleepy said.

"Dinny."

"I must go'n give Ma and the baby their food," Dinny
said.

We climbed out of the trench and wandered back to
Delarey Street. A white man in a passing car flung a half-
smoked cigarette away. It rolled into the gutter near us.
Fatty made a dive for it. Sleepy followed.

"Give it here!"

Fatty dodged and circled away from him.

"Give, fat face!"

"It's for Lee!" Fatty screamed.

Sleepy let him be. He brought me the cigarette. I took a
puff. The smoke stung my throat, nose, and eyes. I coughed
and choked. I gave the butt end to Fatty and lost interest in
their quarrel over it.

We parted at Fifteenth Street.

"What about tonight?" Sleepy said. "Begging?"

"I want to steal," Lippy said.

103

"Stealing," I said.

"Meet at the bottom of Seventeenth Street," Dinny said.

"So long, chief."

"So long."

"So long."

Dinny and I went up the street.

Dinny's home was a big room in a muddy yard. As he
opened the door, smoke streamed out of the room. It was
dark with the smoke.

"Come in," Dinny said.

"That you, Benjamin?" a woman's voice called faintly
from the depths of the darkness.

"Yes, Ma."

"You're late. Baby's hungry."

My eyes grew accustomed to the fog. A thin, dark woman
with long, black hair sat propped up in an old bed in the far
corner of the room. The bed was covered with pieces of rags.
In her arms, the woman held a tiny baby, rocking it gently.
The woman's black, melancholy eyes were huge in her small,
drawn face.

Dinny said: "This is Lee, Ma."

The smoke filtered out through the open door. Dinny
went to the smoking fire in the corner away from the bed. I
heard rather than saw him busy with pots and pans. The
child began to cry.

"Hurry up," the woman said plaintively.

"I damn well am!"

"Your language," she wailed.

"Sorry, Ma."

I said: "See you later, Dinny. 'Bye, Auntie."

104

I crossed the muddy yard and went home. My mother
was there, cooking.

"Hello, Lee. Food's nearly ready. Where have you been?"

"Out with the gang. I'm the leader now. Look!" I showed
her my four coppers. "I swept the Chinaman's shop and he
gave me two. I got the other two by fining Fatty. I get four
more from him tomorrow. Dinny and the others will pay
me one each."

"All fines?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Because I'm the leader."

"But what did they do?"

"Nothing."

"And is it right to fine them for nothing?"

"Fatty would have done it if he'd won."

"So you fought. . . ."

I lowered my head, "He would have beaten me if I
didn't."

"So you beat him and fined him."

"Yes."

"And the others why fine them?"

"To show them I'm the leader."

She did not say any more, but behind her silence I sensed
disapproval and disappointment. She dished up and we ate
in silence. When I had eaten, I looked up and saw her
watching me closely.

"Ma"

"Yes, Lee?"

"All the other boys do it." I did not know what else to

105

say, and I felt uncomfortable with my mother in her present
mood. I sought to change the subject. "Where's Aunt
Betty?"

A slight smile touched her lips. "All right. . . . She's
looking for work. I wish I could take you with me."

"Where?"

"To Krugersdorp."

I did not want to leave the gang now. But I did not say
so. It might upset her. I decided not to mention the gang to
her again.

"Can I go and play with Dinny?"

"Yes."

I got up and went to the door.

"Lee-"

I turned. She stared at me for a while, then she shook her
head a slight, just perceptible movement.

"It's nothing. Your father had such dreams! You go and
play. Be careful."

I went up the street and crossed the muddy yard to
Dinny's. He and the baby were not there. From the room
next door came voices raised in loud quarrelling.

I went out and shut the door. The quarrel next door
turned into a fight. The crash of falling furniture followed
me across the yard and out into the street. I went through
the muddy passage that linked Fifteenth and Sixteenth
Streets. It reeked of piddle.

A crowd was watching a fight a little way up Sixteenth
Street. I made my way to it. Two men, naked from the
waist up, fought in a human ring. Both bled from the mouth
and nose. The darker man, with long, black hair, was grow-

106

ing an ugly bump just above his left eye. The ring of men
egged them on.

"Good show, Benny!" a tall man cried, and coughed.
When the spasm passed, he said: "Another five bob on
Benny. Any takers?"

"I'll take it," someone called.

"Lee!"

I saw Dinny on the other side of the throng. He held the
baby precariously on his left hip. I worked my way round
to his side.

"That's my brother!" His eyes glowed with excitement.

"Which one?"

"The one they call Benny. His name's Joe. . . . Sock
him, Joe!"

"Why are they fighting?"

"They're not fighting. They're boxing. Sock him, Joe!
Kill him!"

The child started crying. Joe held up his hand. His op-
ponent stopped. Joe turned to Dinny.

"Get that damn child home before I break your bloody
neck!"

Dinny retreated fast.

The gang met that night and went stealing.

"Where do we steal?" Lippy asked.

"Twenty-fourth Street," I said. "Come on!"

We went down the street, looking at the stalls. I saw one
with an old Indian in attendance. That seemed the easiest.
And it was well stocked.

"That's it," I said.

107

We studied the place carefully, then walked some dis*
tance from it. I told them the plan.

"Fatty is first. Grab what you can and make the Indian
follow you. Then you go, Lippy. He'll still be after Fatty,
so you'll have a chance to get as many eggs as you like.
Take a lot. Then you. Sleepy. Grab oranges. He may not
chase Lippy, so you'll have to be quick. Dinny goes after
you. I go last. It's most dangerous for the last man. . . .
Ready, Fatty?"

"Ready!"

"Go!"

Fatty waddled away, gathered momentum, and bore
down on the stall.

"Ready! . . . Go!"

Lippy shot away, arms and legs flailing like windmills.
The old Indian dashed after Fatty.

"Go!" I said.

Sleepy shot away. Lippy was helping himself at the un-
tended stall. The old man stopped following Fatty and
turned as Sleepy reached the stall. He shouted. An Indian
from the next stall came to his aid.

"Go!"

Dinny was off. He ran with his bottom stuck out and his
head in the air. The two Indians chased after Lippy and
Sleepy.

"Go!" I said, and raced down to the stall.

The younger of the two Indians was gaining on Lippy.
Fatty saw this. He ran across the Indian's path and taunted
him, showing the stolen sweet potatoes. The Indian fell for
the ruse and gave chase. As soon as Lippy was safe, Fatty

108

turned on a burst of speed. For all his fat, he moved like the
wind.

I reached the stall. Dinny was shoving oranges into the
front of his shorts. I grabbed hard-boiled eggs with both
hands.

"Look out, Lee!" Fatty's voice rang out.

We turned. The old Indian bore down on us. I stood
petrified for the moment. Dinny shot off to the right. The
Indian lumbered across, arms outspread, cutting off his
escape. Dinny veered left. The Indian cut him off there too.
Dinny dashed forward desperately. He ducked under the
outstretched arm. The Indian struck and caught him on
the shoulder. The weight of the blow sent Dinny skidding
across the street on the seat of his pants. He was too dazed
to move and just sat there while the Indian bore down on
him.

"Dinny!" It was Fatty again.

The voice brought Dinny to his senses. Suddenly a hor-
rible string of curses flowed from his lips. His voice quiv-
ered with rage. His frenzy gave him tongue and he cursed
in a language I could not understand. But the old Indian
understood. And what he heard shook him into momentary
immobility. Dinny jumped up and shot away. I ran off in
another direction. The operation was successful!

We met at the bottom of Eighteenth Street. Our shirts
bulged with food.

"What language was that?" I asked Dinny.

He grinned sheepishly. "Indian."

"What did you say?"

"Don't know. My old man's Indian. He says that when

109

he's drunk and wants to beat Ma. . . . Didn't know I was
half Indian, heh?"

"What shall we do with the grub?" Sleepy asked.

"Let's have a party," Fatty said. "Heh, Lee?"

We bought ginger beer at a Chinaman's at the top of
Nineteenth Street, then, after baiting the Chinaman for a
while, we crossed over onto the field.

The moon was big, yellow, and near the earth. The sky
was clear. The stars stood out. Almost, one could leap up
and touch their twinkling bodies. The night air was warm,
tender. Far away, on the horizon, the mine dumps, white
mountains, were ghostly shadows. Underfoot, the grass was
tender. We stopped in a grassy hollow. Vrededorp was out
of sight, beyond the rise of the land.

"Look!" Sleepy whispered.

Two lovers were on the ground near by.

"Yah-hoo!" Dinny cried piercingly.

We all laughed loudly. The lovers scrambled up and
slunk away. We flung ourselves on the grass in a circle. We
heaped our food and drink in the centre of the circle.

"See!" Fatty cried.

We looked up. A shooting star curved across the heavens
to the west. It exploded in a burst of light, then was gone.

"Make a wish," Dinny said,

We turned our attention to the food. We feasted under
the moon, in the Ottoman's Valley.

One morning Maggie, Aunt Betty, and I saw my mother
off to Krugersdorp. Then we went back to Oupa Ruiter's.

110

The gang was waiting there. They helped me carry my
things down to Twenty-first Street, where my mother's
sister, Aunt Mattie, lived.

She was waiting in the yard. She looked at the gang.

"Who are these children?"

"My gang," I said.

"No street gangs here."

The gang dumped my things and fled. Aunt Mattie looked
me over.

"What a dirty child!" she snapped. "Take your things in,
then wash yourself. See that you do it properly or 111 do it
for you."

Maggie put a comforting arm about my shoulders.

My new home was two rooms that opened into the corner
of a yard. The back room was small and dark. It had one
small window that opened on the wall of the adjacent build-
ing, no more than two feet away. Hardly any light came in
through it. The front room was larger and lighter. It served
as sitting-room, as dining-room, and, at night, as bedroom.
My aunt, her daughter Catherine, and my sister Maggie
had slept in the small back room since the death of my
father. My brother Harry and the young man who worked
for Aunt Mattie slept in the front room. In her corner of
the yard my aunt had built two sheds.

My aunt was as loud and assertive as my mother was
quiet and retiring. She was short and stocky and fair and
had once been a very handsome woman. She chain-smoked.

Till the death of her husband she had lived on a level far
above that of the Coloureds of Vrededorp. Her husband had
been caught at either diamond- or gold-smuggling. All their

111

money had gone to the defence. Then he had died, leaving
her penniless and with a small child. She had worked in the
homes of white folk, had dealt in the illicit liquor trade,
had sold fruit and vegetables on a pushcart. Now, as the
winter drew near, she had a small horse-drawn cart and
was selling firewood. At week-ends she still dealt in illicit
liquor.

She looked harshly, coldly, on a harsh, cold world. She
was as harsh with herself as with anyone else. The only two
people who ever seemed to pierce her coldness were my
brother Harry and her daughter Catherine.

Maggie gave me a towel and a piece of soap,

"Better wash well or she'll scrub you."

I went out to the tap. I washed as I had not washed be-
fore. When I had done, Aunt Mattie inspected me. She was
not satisfied.

"Bring me the bath, Maggie."

"I'll wash him, Aunt Mattie."

"I told him to do it properly. I'll show him."

"He's small," Maggie protested.

Aunt Mattie glared at her till she fetched the round, iron
bath. She filled it with cold water. I stripped and got in.
Aunt Mattie scrubbed me till all my skin was red and sore.
And, whenever I moved, she smacked me resoundingly with
the back of the brush. At last, I stepped out of the water,
hurt and miserable.

"Look at it!" she snapped.

The water was dark and scummy. I dried myself and
dressed.

"If you don't want this to happen again, wash properly."

112

"Yes, Aunt Mattie."

"All right. . . . Help with the wood,"

I followed her to the sheds. One shed was filled with split
wood tied in neat bundles and stacked up. In the other shed
were unsplit logs of even length. Maggie and my cousin
Catherine were tying split pieces into bundles.

Catherine was fair as a white person, blue-eyed, and with
long, straight, light-brown hair of a golden texture.

"Hello," she said, smiling at me.

I felt too miserable to respond.

I sat beside Maggie, stacking up bundles of wood. Splin-
ters entered my fingers. As fast as I pulled them out, others
went in. After a time I grew used to the splinters and the
routine. By lunch-time I was working cheerfully.

My brother and Danny, the young man who worked for
Aunt Mattie, came home for lunch. They had been out sell-
ing wood all morning. Danny gave Aunt Mattie a tobacco-
bag filled with the morning's earnings. I studied my big
brother.

He had changed much since the day he and Maggie had
brought me from Elsburg. Then he had been dapper and
neat in dress; a kind of buoyant radiance had gone out
from him. It had said: "Life is good, brother; life is mine:
what fun!" Now it was gone: there was no neatness, no
gaiety, no sense of strong elasticity. His clothes hung drably
on him. His shoulders slouched. An oily cap sat far back on
his head, showing the dust in his hair. His eyes were sullen.

I watched him, anxious for warm recognition. His eyes
flitted over my face.

"Hello, Lee. Ma gone?"

113

"Yes."

Only Maggie saw my disappointment. She touched my
hand and beamed reassuringly.

Aunt Mattie emptied the tobacco-bag into her lap and
counted the money. Maggie doled out the food. These were
lean days at Aunt Mattie's, and lunch consisted of magou
and bread. Magou is another version of the inevitable
mealie pap. The meal is thinned to a thick, runny liquid.
It is cooked, then left to cool, ferment, and turn sour. It is
served cold and drunk from mugs. In the long summer
months magou is the main food of the very poor of Vrede-
dorp. Maggie gave us each a mugful and a slice of bread.

Aunt Mattie finished her counting. "You're two shillings
short."

Harry and Danny looked at each other.

"We were hungry," Harry said.

"Well, Danny?"

"It's as Harry says " Danny began quietly.

"To hell with what Harry says! You're supposed to look
after my money. I pay you, feed you, and keep a roof over
your head so that you should do what I want."

"Yes, Aunt Mattie," Danny murmured. His thin, yellow
face looked drawn.

"I took you off the streets!"

Danny looked at the ground and stopped eating.

"Ma!" Catherine cried.

"Shut, miss! How do you think I keep you at school? We
go without when we are hungry, but not the great Mr.
Harry Abrahams. I work my fingers to the bone for you.
And this is what I get!"

114

Harry dumped his mug on the ground and got up. "I'm
getting out of here, 5 ' he said bitterly. He stalked to the gate.

"Mister!"

"I'm fed up with all your nagging!"

"Come back here!"

"Nag, nag, nag. That's all you do. Morning, noon, and
night, you yap away at us, no matter what we do."

"I said come back here!"

"Better come back, Harry," Maggie said.

He turned slowly, reluctantly.

"Pm going to blow one day and you'll never see me
again. You'll be sorry then."

Aunt Mattie laughed harshly. "It'll be good riddance of
bad rubbish. . . , Till that happy day you'll do as I tell
you. Better get ready to go and sell."

"More? Today?"

"Yes, more, today."

"But it's Saturday!" Harry's voice was strained.

"You don't stop eating on Saturdays,"

"Have a heart, Mattie," he appealed. "Everybody else
stops work on Saturday afternoon."

"We can't afford it."

Harry watched her for a while. Then, with a sudden
decisiveness, he flung back his shoulders and shook his
head. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets. A smile,
half-challenging, touched his lips,

"I'm not going," he snapped.

They stared at each other. Aunt Mattie lit a cigarette and
blew out a cloud of smoke.

"All right," she said calmly. "You're a man. You know

115

your mind. You're not going. Get ready, Danny, and take
the boy with you. Let him learn to earn his bread."

Danny got up and went into the shed. We heard him
piling bundles of wood on his arm. Harry's firmness de-
serted him. His body relaxed and drooped again. Catherine
sat biting her fingernails. I turned miserably to Maggie.
Aunt Mattie kept her eyes on Harry's face. Maggie looked
from the one to the other, a strange, unhappy expression
on her face.

"Why don't you go?" Aunt Mattie taunted.

"I will!"

He swung about and stalked out.

"Harry!" Maggie called.

"Let him be," Aunt Mattie said.

Maggie closed her eyes and clenched her hands.

"Why don't you say it?" Aunt Mattie mocked. "Or are
you still trying to be a lady?"

Maggie jumped up and followed Harry out of the yard. I
saw a sudden, convulsive move on Catherine's face. As I
looked, her face moved in uncontrollable jerks. The con-
vulsions spread to all her body.

She suffered from St. Vitus's dance, and this family
storm had brought on an attack. Tears rushed from her
eyes. She bit her lower lip, trying to stop the jerks. She
jumped up and rushed, jerking, into the house.

Aunt Mattie sat staring into space. Danny came out of
the shed, his arm piled high with bundles of wood. I got up
and went into the shed* I came out with bundles of wood
and carried them out to the cart. I looked about but there
was no sign of Harry or Maggie. Between us, Danny and I

116

filled the cart. Then he went in to where Aunt Mattie still
sat staring into space.

"We're going, Aunt Mattie."

She looked up. "How much?"

"Two hundred bundles."

She gave him the little tobacco-bag.

"There's five shillings in change."

I followed him out and walked beside him as he led the
horse down the street. We walked away from Vrededorp,
away from the narrow, mean streets, away from the throb
of the pushing crowds. We walked steadily till we got
to the broad, tree-lined streets of Upper Fordsburg. We
stopped the cart on a quiet corner. The world seemed
hushed and empty here. Peace hung over it. The broad
pavements were clean. No black water ran down the gutters
of these streets. No half-naked, potbellied children fought
and played in these gutters. The houses were of brick. They
had curtained windows. And each house had a back and a
front garden. There was space between one house and the
next. And each had large windows to let in the light of day.
A stranger walking here, in the shade of the broad pave-
ments, seeing the trim, fenced-off houses and the riot of
flowering colour within each front garden, would find it
hard to believe a place called Vrededorp was less than half
an hour's walk away. To me the contrast was so great, I
might as well have stepped into another world, on another
planet.

Danny instructed me. "Two bundles for a tickey. And
remember a tickey is three pennies, not two or two and a
half. Aunt Mattie'll be mad if we are short. Always go to

117

the back door. Be careful of dogs. And remember to say
baas or missus. All right."

With four bundles on my arm, I went off to canvass my
first house. Behind me Danny's voice rang out, making a
melodious sound of the one word:

"Firewood!"

I opened the gate and went to the back of the house. My
heart thumped violently. Was there a dog? Would the white
people chase me away? I reached the back yard. I saw no
dog. I moved tentatively towards the kitchen door.

"Yes?"

I jumped and spun round, A white man, half in, half out
of a little shed, stood looking down at me.

"Firewood, baas" I whispered. My throat was con-
stricted.

The kitchen door opened. I looked quickly at the white
woman who came out, then I turned back to the man.

"What is it?" The woman spoke to the man.

"This skepseVs selling firewood. You don't want any, do
you?"

The woman moved round till she stood beside the man. I
looked at the ground while I waited.

"I think the wood's only an excuse," the man said. "He
looks guilty as hell. If he'd found the place empty "

"Stop it!" The woman laughed. "He's only a child."

"There are no children among them. They thieve before
they can walk or talk properly."

"Don't be silly!"

"Look at his face. He can't even look at you."

118

"He's a child, frightened like any child would be with
strangers."

"Guilty conscience, if you ask me."

"Nonsense. . . . How much is the wood, boy?"

"Two for tickey, missus."

"That your last four?"

"No, missus."

"All right, leave the four here and get eight more."

I hurried out to the cart.

"You've been long," Danny said.

"Eight more," I said excitedly.

"Good fellow. Hold that sack."

I hurried back. The woman came out of the kitchen. The
man stood by, amusement in his eyes.

"In that corner, boy."

She counted while I stacked up the wood. She offered me
half a crown.

"Have you change?"

"I can get it, missus." I took the money.

"Better keep it till he brings the change," the man said.

"Nonsense."

"He won't be back." His eyes challenged me. "Your
chance, boy."

I collected a shilling from Danny and brought it back.
The woman was waiting for me with a large slice of home-
made bread, a thick coat of butter on it.

"Thank you, missus."

"Thank you, boy."

I looked at the man, then turned away quickly. Without

119

knowing how, I realized I had angered him. I hurried out,
confused.

I shared the bread with Danny. We rested while we ate.
Then we went off again. He took one side of the street, I
took the other. We went up one street and down another.
Our cries rang over the quiet streets:

"Firewood!"

"Firewood!"

Sometimes people chased me away. Sometimes they set
dogs on me. Twice they cheated me. The first time, a
woman took six bundles and went into her kitchen. I
waited a long time. Then a man came out.

"What are you waiting for, boy?"

"My money, baas"

"What money?"

"For the wood, baas. Six bundles."

"She paid you."

"The missus didn't pay me, baas"

"I saw her pay you, you dirty little black liar. Get out
before I lose my temper! Lying about white people. Get
out!"

I ran.

Danny took it calmly. "Aunt Mattie won't be mad about
that."

At the second place they took ten bundles and paid for
four. They swore that was all they had taken.

More often they just bought their wood and paid for it.
Sometimes they were friendly and gave us something to eat.

We sold a third, then half, then a little more than half
our cartload.

120

Shadows invaded the broad streets. The sun turned
orange and sank rapidly. Bright lights went on in the
houses about us. I turned to Danny.

"Those the same as the street lights?"

"Yes."

"Why don't we have them in our houses?"

"Because we are not white."

"Are they only for white people?"

"Yes. . . . We'd better be going home."

We turned for home.

"Danny"

"Yes?"

"Why are those lights only for white people?"

"I don't know, man. Because they are on top."

"And their houses are nice."

"/a."

"I'd like to live in a nice house."

"We aH would."

"Would you, honestly?"

"Sure, kid."

"Did you? Once?"

He looked at me and smiled. "No."

"Not even when you were living with your mother and
father?"

He put his hand on my head and tugged playfully at my
mop. "I never had a home, kid."

"Do you like it at Aunt Mattie's? I don't."

"She's all right once you understand her."

We reached home just as the Vrededorp street lights
were lit. I carried the wood in while Danny and Aunt Mattie

121

went over the money. I finished carting the wood in and
went into the big room. Aunt Mattie and Danny sat facing
each other across the table. The money was stacked up in
little piles on the table. She looked briefly at me as I went
to a bench against the wall.

"How was he?"

"Good."

"That's something. . . . Pm selling tonight, Danny. I
have two tins of skokiaan. I have someone to help with the
selling, but I need someone to watch. They say the police
will be about."

"I'll do it," Danny said.

Aunt Mattie looked at me. "We don't want him here.
What'll feed him?"

"A tickey's fish and chips, and a penny's bread," Danny
said.

"And the bioscope?"

"Fourpence."

She counted eight pennies from the pile of coppers and
pushed them to me. "Keep out of mischief."

"Been to the bioscope before?" Danny asked.

"No."

"You'll like it."

I pocketed the coppers and went out. About me the Sat-
urday-night crowds were thick and loud. Mine-boys, money
in their pockets, thronged together. They talked at the top
of their voices. They laughed often and loudly. They told
each other where the most potent skokiaan, a foul-smelling
rot-gut home-brewed liquor, could be had. Amid laughter
they discussed the current prices for women's bodies.

122

Rubbing shoulders with the often blanketed giants, were
the small, smooth house-boys and kitchen-boys. They came
from the homes and hotels of the white people of Johannes-
burg and its suburbs. On Saturday nights they were dressed
in bright suits and ties that looped out in front of them.
Their jackets were short and very tight, the bottoms of their
trousers were very wide. Sometimes house-boys wore suits
made of two different-coloured materials. The left half of a
jacket might be a bright green, the right a bright orange.
The right trouser leg would be of the same colour as the
left half of the jacket; the left the same as the right of the
jacket. They wore very pointed patent-leather shoes, pol-
ished till like a mirror they gave off reflections. Fights often
flared up between mine-boys and house-boys on Saturday
nights. The townsmen and the countrymen did not get on
well together.

And there were the housemaids, dressed in their brightest
and best. They pranced awkwardly up and down the streets
on their high-heeled shoes. Their dark mouths and cheeks
were brightly painted. They wore hats and white gloves,
and hid their beautiful legs in cheap, shiny stockings. They
laughed and chattered loudly. Later, as the night wore on
and they found partners, they would take off the silly hat,
the uncomfortable shoes, the gloves and stockings. They
would relax and dance till daybreak at some maraba, egged
on by the thumping noise of a broken-down piano. Till day-
break . . . that is, if the police did not come.

I pushed and fought my way through the dark crowds
that were everywhere. The crowds thinned a little as I
reached Fifteenth Street. I hurried up to Dinny's, half-

123

fearing he might not be there. But he was. He sat feeding
the baby in the smoke-filled room. An Indian lay drunk
across the foot of his mother's bed. His mother lay on her
back, staring dejectedly at the soot-stained ceiling. At the
little table near Dinny, a well-dressed and well-groomed
young man sat. His long, black hair was combed back in
beautiful waves. It shone with grease.

"Lee, man!" Dinny said happily.

I waited for him. The young man stared sullenly at the
table. The drunken man snored. The woman kicked at him
under the blankets. Dinny finished feeding the child and
took it to his mother.

"I'm going out with Lee, Ma."

"Where?"

"Bioscope. All right?"

"Yes. But come straight back."

We went out and took the route round the top, by the
side of the cemetery, to Twentieth Street, That way we
would avoid some of the crowds.

"God, man, it's nice to see you. The others said you
won't come tonight. Only Fatty and me said you'd come."

"Where are they?"

"Waiting at the bioscope."

"Perhaps they've gone in."

"We were all going to wait for you till the last show. I
was going to tell my ma to tell you. D'you see the end of
Sunken Silver last week?"

"No."

"Oh boy! Walter Miller was in the water, out. The little
crook had knocked him out with a hammer. He was float-

124

ing. Two crocodiles with helluva big mouths were rushing
at him. The crooks had the girl and his pal. Oh boy! How'll
he escape?"

"You like the bioscope?"

Dinny looked at me as though I had asked the silliest
question. "Don't you?"

"I've never been."

"What! You lie!"

"Honest."

"Oh boy! God, man, Lee! You're going to see some-
thing!"

"That your old man?"

"That drunk on the bed? Yes. He only comes home once
in a while. The other fellow's my brother."

"He wears nice clothes," I said.

"He's a sissy. He puts stinking oil on his hair and runs
after girls. He's a waiter in a club."

I told him about my selling of firewood.

"So you got a job, you lucky dog!"

"I don't like it."

"I had a real job once. Good money too. But I had to
leave it when Ma got sick- and the baby came. It brought in
three bob a week. Good money."

"Where?"

"The tinsmith. I worked for Boeta Dick. . . . Say, Lee,
do you want a job there?"

"WhatTlIdo?"

"Smear tins for Boeta Dick to solder."

We neared the bioscope. The gang saw us, waved, called.
Under a street lamp near by, a dice "school" was in prog-

125

ress. Lippy grabbed my arm as we stopped at the bioscope
door.

"Look, chief! Look!"

His left eye was black and puffy. His long lip quivered
with pride.

"What happened?" Dinny asked.

"Cockeye and his gang beat me up. I told them our gang
would fix them tonight."

"Who's Cockeye?" I asked.

"A cross-eyed dog from Seventeenth Street," Dinny said.

"Only three in the gang," Sleepy said. "Let's go."

"We're going in the bioscope," Dinny said.

"We'll fight them tomorrow," I said.

"But they're waiting for us," Lippy protested.

"Tomorrow!" I shouted.

"O.K., O.K., chief." Lippy stepped back.

"How much?" I asked Dinny.

"Fourpence if you pay at the window; two if you slip it
to Sheriff."

The fellow at the door was a stocky black man. He was
dressed in the colourful garb of a cinema cowboy: check
shirt, ten-gallon hat, a bright kerchief round his neck,
leather cuffs, chaps, and high-heeled boots with spurs. Two
guns were strapped to his waist. A sheriff's star shone over
his heart.

"You slip it to him," I said to Dinny.

"Shell up," Dinny said.

We gave him our money.

Dinny made a sign to Sheriff. Sheriff winked. Awhile
later he came to the door. Dinny gave him the money. He

126

slipped it into his pocket and returned to his post near the
ticket window.

Two couples entered the foyer. Sheriff made a sign. One
of the men winked. The two men barred the ticket window
while they paid. We sneaked in past the legs of the grown-
ups. In the darkness, one of Sheriff's henchmen guided us
to a front seat, where a score or more other little boys sat,
who had entered as we had.

Suddenly a train came rushing straight at me from the
silver screen. I shut my eyes and screamed. I was not alone.

The bioscope in Twentieth Street was Vrededorp's most
powerful and direct link with the outside world. Through it
we kept touch with the scientific advances of our time.
From it we drew our picture of the world of white folk.
Our morals were fashioned there. The young men of Vrede-
dorp slapped their girls as they had seen men slap girls on
the screen. The girls modelled themselves on the ladies of
the screen. Once a Vrededorp murder was modelled on a
murder we saw on the screen. People wept bitterly at screen
tragedies; more bitterly than at their own, real-life trage-
dies. Often the illusions of the screen became the reality of
some frustrated boy's or girPs life; and drab Vrededorp
became the illusion. There was a boy who became Douglas
Fairbanks. He jumped off roofs, leaped on fast-moving cars
and leaped off before the shocked drivers realized what was
happening. He drowned in one of the mine dams. He was
trying to get into the pipe that pumped the water up from
the bowels of the earth.

Illusion and reality often merged at the bioscope. . . .

127

When I got home Harry and the girls were still absent.
The big room and the yard were full of drinking people,
black and Coloured. Strapping men and drunken women
leaned against one another and talked with wild animation.
The sweet-sour smell of skokiaan hung over the place. Aunt
Mattie and another woman went among the drinkers, serv-
ing. Aunt Mattie had a money-pouch tied round her waist.
A woman began to sing.

"Shut up!" Aunt Mattie snapped.

The woman's man protested.

"Will you pay my fine if I'm caught?"

"Only a little music, sister."

"I won't have it. The police are about. Be quiet or go."

"All right, sister. All right."

I went back to the street. Danny stood at the corner,
keeping a look-out for the police. I went and kept watch
with him.

"Hello, kid."

"Danny."

The street lamp showed the smiling curve of his lips.

"Longing for your ma?"

I said nothing.

He punched me playfully. "Cheer up, kid. Tomorrow is
another day."

We watched till we were the only two people in the street,
till even Delarey Street became deserted. No trams ran; no
trains rumbled across the subway bridge; odd cars went
through at long intervals. Even the dogs that scavenged in
the gutters had gone.

"Look," Danny said.

128

Far up Delarey Street, coming towards us, two women
walked.

"That's Maggie and Catherine," Danny said.

At the same time, people came out of our yard in a
bunch.

We heard Aunt Mattie's voice: "I tell you there's no

more."

"I will sleep here," a man's drunken voice said,

"You must go. I have no room."

"You take all my money, now you chase me."

"You must go. Get out!"

The people passed us. The drunk followed, protesting
bitterly. Aunt Mattie came out and stood with us on the
corner.

"That the girls?"

"Yes," Danny said.

"Go and meet them. I'll clear up."

When the four of us got back, the place was clean: the
beer tins were out of sight, the floor was swept, the table
tidy. All that remained was the heavy smell of skokiaan.
Aunt Mattie and the woman who had helped her were hav-
ing a private drink. There was a drink waiting for Danny.
The two girls pulled faces at the smell.

"Had a good time?" Aunt Mattie asked.

The girls said nothing. Danny sat near the table sipping
his drink and pulling faces at the taste.

"To hell with you all!" Aunt Mattie said in sudden anger.

"I must go," the woman who had helped said.

Aunt Mattie paid her. With her going, an uneasy,
strained silence hung over us while we prepared for bed.

129

Catherine and Maggie made a bed on the floor of the big
room. We then all went into the small room and knelt in
front of Aunt Mattie's bed. With the stench of skokiaan
about us, we prayed. Aunt Mattie stood over us with a short
rod. Danny led the prayer: "Our Father."

We followed: "Our Father, We charge in heaven. 5 '

Maggie and Catherine started giggling. Aunt Mattie
lashed out with the rod, striking at their arms and shoul-
ders. I peeped through my fingers. Danny's face had gone
red, his lips trembled. The girls stopped giggling. Aunt
Mattie stopped beating them.

"Again, Danny."

"We charge in heaven."

The girls chortled and got another beating. Their laugh-
ter infected me and I, too, took a beating. Just as we
quieted down, Danny burst out giggling. We joined in and
were all beaten. Pain soon sobered us.

"Again," Aunt Mattie said.

"Oh no!" Catherine cried, and collapsed with laughter.

Plump Maggie held her sides. Tears ran down her
cheeks. Danny leaned his head against the bed and shook.
I screeched with uncontrollable laughter.

Aunt Mattie beat us till we laughed and cried at once.

"I'll get the damn devil out of you!"

She got a bucket of water and threw it over us. We
sobered.

"Again!"

Danny said: "We charge in heaven."

The girls said: "Which art in heaven."

Danny said: "Hello, be thy name."

130

Maggie sank to the floor, writhing in the agony of a new
gust of laughter. "Please God, I'm bruised . . ." she
moaned.

Once, in the early hours of the morning, Catherine's
voice woke me. "Come to bed, Ma. It's nearly morning."

Aunt Mattie sat huddled near the door, a shawl over her
shoulders. The long candle had burned down to nearly noth-
ing. Beside me on the floor Danny snored evenly. I heard
Catherine move on the bed in the other room. I closed my
eyes. Sleep claimed me once more.

Groaning woke me. Harry was in the room, near the
door. He was on his knees, being violently sick. Aunt Mat-
tie knelt beside him, holding his head. The two girls, in
their nightclothes, stood in the doorway between the rooms.
Danny sat hugging the blankets about his naked waist. A
fresh candle had burned itself half away. Harry groaned.
A rush of muck spurted from his mouth. Aunt Mattie com-
pressed her lips. Tears shone in her eyes. She wiped the
muck from his lips. Her voice had a strange newness to me:

"Oh God! How have we sinned?"

I sank back into sleep.

131

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER

I began work at the smithy on the Monday morning. My
wages were half a crown a week. My hours were from six in
the morning till six at night, with an hour's break for lunch.
My boss, Boeta Dick, was a tall, bent, reedy consumptive.
He had a parched yellow skin, drawn tight over his jutting
bones. His cheeks were so sunken it was as though he were
permanently sucking them in. His eyes were far back in his
head. He coughed violently. And beside his seat was a
bucket of sand into which he spat. Changing the sand daily
was the only part of my job I hated.

The smithy was divided into two parts. At one end were
the machines that cut, shaped, and put together the tins.
The men who worked on the machines were on a regular
weekly wage. At the other, smaller end was a row of small
furnaces, each with its own small bellows and pile of fuel.
Here at each furnace a man sat soldering the seams of the
tins as they came from the machines. The solderers were on
piece-work. To average two or three pounds a week they
had to do a mountainous amount of soldering. Each sol-
derer had a boy to cart the tins from the machines to him,
then to smear the seams of each tin with sulphur powder so
that the lead took easily; and, after checking, to cart the
tins out to the yard, where the lorries collected them.

On the previous day Dinny had instructed me in the
mysteries of counting tins. I had a sheet of paper and a
pencil. I made twelve marks on the same line. Each mark
stood for a dozen tins. As each dozen tins were smeared
and soldered, I cancelled off one mark on the paper. When

132

the twelve marks were cancelled, the result was a gross. But
neither Dinny nor I knew what a gross was.

On that first day I drew six rows of strokes and cancelled
them; I made tea for Boeta Dick; I went near the strange,
roaring machines whenever I had a chance.

There were four other boys. Three were about my own
age and size. The fourth was bigger. Everyone called the
big boy Mad Nondi. He fetched and carried for two of the
solderers.

Towards late afternoon, as I stood in line with the other
boys, waiting for tins to come off the machines, Nondi
nudged me from behind. I turned. He opened his eyes wide,
poked out his tongue, and snorted at me.

"Saucer eyes!"

I looked away. He pushed me in the back.

"What's your name, thin stick?"

I dared not ignore him, so I said: "Lee."

"Saucer-eyed Lee!" he cried, and burst out laughing.

I willed myself not to look at him. He kicked me in the
seat. I staggered against the boy in front. The boy in front
staggered against the one in front of him. The boy in the
lead nearly fell against the machine. Nondi's laughter
pealed above the rattle and drone of the machines.

When the working day ended, Nondi met me outside the
smithy gate. I prepared myself for an ordeal. Instead, he
linked his arm through mine and marched off in the direc-
tion of Vrededorp with me, babbling words I only half-
understood.

An old black man with a pushcart stood outside Braam-
fontein station. Nondi brought me to a halt.

133

"Fatcake, big eyes?"

"I've no money."

"I have."

"I don't want anything," I said.

u hy not?"

"You'll fine me if I take it."

"Go to bloody hell! . . . Two fatcakes, father! Two fat
fatcakes! And let them taste like the food of the heavens so
that this big-eyed, small-headed fool can taste the heart of
corn and learn to understand. . . ." His words flowed on
faster than I could follow.

The old black man laughed and spoke in one of the Bantu
languages. Nondi answered in the same language, eyes shin-
ing, arms waving. The old man threw back his head. His
deep-throated laughter rang out. Nondi pointed at me, flung
back his head, flung out one arm, and spoke at the top of
his voice. The old man laughed till tears ran down his face.

The old man gave us a big, golden f atcake each. He filled
two white enamel mugs with steaming coffee. A crowd came
out of the station. Some came to the stall. We moved away,
giving them room. We ate in silence. Nondi offered the old
man money, but he would not take it. We set off again.
Nondi was silent for the rest of the way. His last outburst
seemed to have sapped him. We parted in Delarey Street.

There was peace at Aunt Mattie's that night an uneasy
peace, but peace for all that.

Catherine was doing her homework. Harry and Danny
were chopping and tying wood for the next day. Harry was
subdued and looked green and sick. I washed, then went
and helped with the wood.

134

It grew dark. We lit candles,

"Come on!" Aunt Mattie called us to supper. The week-
end liquor trade had been good, so we had stew and rice.
Maggie arrived in the middle of supper. She brought cold
meat, which was shared out among us.

Aunt Mattie went off to Stokveld after supper. Stokveld
is the trade union of the women who deal in illicit liquor.
Each pays a weekly contribution. The total amount thus
collected is given to a different member each week. The
union also helped arrested members. Often a well-known
"skokiaan queen" was sent to prison without the option of
a fine. In such cases the Stokveld helped with the home and
children till the member came out of jail. Meetings of the
union were held every Monday evening.

Danny built a small fire after Aunt Mattie had gone. It
was not cold. We were in the middle of summer. Christmas
was drawing near. But a fire is a thing of friendship as well
as of warmth. A young man named Jacob Loff turned up.
He was Catherine's boy, a stocky, muscular, good-looking
Coloured man. Beside him Catherine looked very frail, very
white, and, suddenly, not a girl but a woman. His coming
brought a new radiance to her bearing.

Next, a girl called Emily arrived. She was tall, thin, and
very dark, almost black. Her kinky hair was made into two
tight, neat plaits. She had large, limpid eyes and a shy, way-
ward smile. This was Harry's girl. She had a habit of look-
ing quickly at Harry's face, then away at the ground. Her
teeth, when she smiled, shone white and perfect from the
setting of her dark face.

Maggie embraced her. As well as being my brother's girl,

135

she was my sister's favourite friend and soon became my
favourite young woman.

The circle was complete.

Danny carried the fire in. We made ourselves comfort-
able. Maggie began a song. The others joined in,

Danny looked longingly at Maggie. Harry started "I'll
Be Your Sweetheart." Emily sang with a private little smile
tugging at her lips. Catherine and Jacob held hands. I
leaned against Maggie's comfortable body.

They turned from singing to story-telling. The fire glowed
warmly. A free, hopeful happiness hung over the room.
They took turns at telling stories. I closed my eyes. Maggie
put an arm about me. I drifted off to the soft music of
Emily's voice. . . .

2

The long summer days passed. The big sun shone fiercely
on the world of Vrededorp. The coon shows began to as-
semble and practise for the great New Year festival of song
and dance. A lazy slowness came over the inhabitants of
Vrededorp. They moved slowly about the streets while the
hot, dry sun beat down.

At nights they gathered in little groups in the streets.
Sometimes they stood talking, sometimes they sang and
danced.

The summer sun set late. The summer moon rose early.
So, when it was not day, the world was bathed in a soft
half-light. The summer sky seemed to move farther away
from the earth; the summer stars drew n^rer, hung just
above the highest roof-top.

136

Young men and women walked under the moon on the
Ottoman's Valley. And sometimes, a male voice, serenading
its love drifted down to the crowded streets. Then old
women exchanged looks and smiled. Often, in the summer,
there was "trouble in the family" because the moon and the
Ottoman's Valley and the soft night air, and oh, so many
other things, had made a girl give in to her lover and get
"into a family way."

And there were the groups of little boys walking the
streets with yard-long sticks of sugar-cane. And the way the
cane-juice ran out of the side of your mouth as you chewed I

And there were the girls skipping or high-jumping or
playing one of a large number of ball games.

And there were the dice schools of the bigger boys and
the young men.

. And on Saturday afternoons there were the Rugby
matches on the Ottoman's Valley. There Hakkies, "the
greatest fullback in the world," had his days of glory, and
the colourful play of a little Malay fly-half made him the
most sought-after young bachelor in Vrededorp. There too,
one Saturday afternoon, I basked in my brother's reflected
glory when he caught the ball inside his own half, sold four
opponents the dummy, and outpaced the rest to put the ball
between the posts, and then convert the try. His Emily and
I shouted ourselves hoarse as they chaired him.

There were the days at work. I grew used to my job and
the machines, used to changing the basin of sand into which
Boeta Dick spat. I grew unafraid of Mad Nondi. In an
oddly curious way we became friends. From him I learned
that a gross was one hundred and forty-four; from him I

137

learned to count up to a thousand. He taught me a smat-
tering of English. Sometimes his mad words fell into order
in my mind. When that happened he revealed vivid depths
of feeling. And always when he had money, he wanted me
to share in spending it. Often Nondi laughed and cried for
no apparent reason.

And there was the gang. We still went out thieving at
night. At times we fought rival gangs. Often we went up to
the Ottoman's Valley in the long summer nights. We were
the scourge of loving couples with our rude remarks and
raucous laughter.

At home, time did nothing to alter the uneasy tension
between us, the children, and Aunt Mattie. Her private fight
with Harry often made the house a place of misery that we
deserted whenever we could. But on Monday nights it was
peaceful Harry's girl and Catherine's boy came. There was
the friendly circle of song and story. And Danny nursed his
secret love for Maggie.

People talked about a depression. Money grew even
scarcer than it had been. More men hung about street cor-
ners. More women sold their bodies to the mine-boys. There
was less food. But the sun was shining, and while it shone,
nothing seemed quite so bad as it was.

The Reverend Mr. Rogerson walked the streets of Vrede-
dorp each day. The people fed him. And in return he sang
and prayed to his God. On Sunday mornings white men
and women, dressed in the uniforms of the Salvation Army,
marched through the streets of Vrededorp. Hundreds of
little boys and girls danced behind the stirring music of the
brass band.

138

Two days before Christmas, Maggie said: "Would you
like to spend Christmas with Ma, Lee?"

"Yes."

"All right, we'll go tomorrow."

"You coming too?"

"For tomorrow, but not for Christmas. I must be at work
on Boxing Day."

The man said: "That is the Petersen house. The last one,
right at the top of the hill. Well, I must leave you here."

He turned left for the upper end of Krugersdorp loca-
tion. We went straight on. The little house stood on the
crest of the curving hill that overlooked the location. Where
we walked, the track was sandy. Fine particles jumped
from the living earth and stung our eyes. And everywhere,
beyond the little house, green rolling land, undulating
gently, swept away to the greenish-blue horizon far, far
away in the mists of distance.

We were half-way between the house and the location
when a woman came out of the house.

"It's Mother," Maggie said doubtfully.

The woman raised an arm and waved, hesitantly.

"It is Mother!" Maggie cried.

"Mother!" I yelled.

We started to run, oblivious of the harsh heat of the sun
and the cloud of choking dust we raised. As we neared my
mother, Maggie began to laugh. Tears streamed down her
face. My mother hurried down to meet us.

139

"You look well, Mrs. A. ... Better than I've seen you
in a long time."

"I am," my mother said.

"And the wound?"

"Almost completely healed. You don't have to tear the
bandage from the flesh any more."

"I'm so glad."

"How's Harry?"

"The same. I don't know what to do about him, Ma. He's
drinking. I think Emily's giving him up. She's very un-
happy about it."

"Mattie loves him," my mother said sadly. "But he
should've had a man to guide him."

"If only he had a job," Maggie said helplessly. "He
could have married Emily."

My mother sighed and turned to me. "And how's iny
Lee?"

"I'm working, Ma!"

As we walked to the house, I poured out the whole story.

We entered the house. There were two bedrooms and a
large kitchen.

"Granny and your Uncle Petersen's little girl are away
on church business. They won't be back till sunset."

"Then we'll have you all to ourselves, Mrs. A.," Maggie
said.

Later we went down into the valley behind the house. We
walked where cattle grazed in the afternoon sun. I went in
front, running here and there, exploring. Far to the right, a
line of stunted willows suggested a dried-up river. The graz-
ing cattle clustered thickly there. The earth where we

140

walked was covered with tiny yellow flowers, their stems
erect, their faces to the sun. And the sun glowed hotly over
the peaceful land.

I passed patches of moeroga.

"Shall I pick moeroga, Ma?"

"Not today."

We climbed out of the valley. This hill was steeper than
the one we had come down. I saw a body of springhaas sun-
ning themselves on a cluster of rocks. I picked up two
stones and rushed up the sloping land. The rabbits shot
away in leaping lines, gliding across the veld at incredible
speed. By the time I flung my stones they were out of sight.

I reached the crest of the hill and stood waiting for my
women. There was the valley out of which I had climbed,
and beyond it the hill on which Granny Petersen's house
stood. Beyond that clustered the houses of the location.
Then there was a space of green sweeping down to the
station and Krugersdorp. A hill rose behind Krugersdorp
and swung away, like a curving ledge, in the direction of
Johannesburg. And behind the hill, hidden in the mists of
distance, more hills and more valleys rolled away in waves
away into an eternity of space.

I looked in the opposite direction. It was the same. The
earth rolled on in undulating waves; rolled on to a point
beyond the strength of my eyes. And, standing there, I
knew that if I stood on the farthest point to which vision
could carry me and looked ahead, the land would still
stretch away as far as the strength of my eyes could see.

A strong sense of space and grandeur overwhelmed me.
I longed suddenly for Nondi to be on this hill with me.

141

"Nondi!" I cried at the top of my voice. "Nondi!"

Space carried my shouts away. Then Nondi's voice
seemed to come back to me from a long, long way off:

"Lee!"

I opened my arms wide. And it was as if I embraced all
the land I looked upon, and all the people who lived in the
land. An irrepressible shout swelled up in me and I let it
out with all the power of my lungs:

"Y-a-h-o-o!"

My mother and Maggie drew near.

"What's the matter with you?" my mother called.

I looked at them and they seemed strangers suddenly.
. , . I turned my back on them and ran to a solitary tall
tree, far to the left. . . .

Granny Petersen was my mother's aunt by marriage. She
was small, black as night, and toothless. Her face was so
wrinkled, it was impossible to see through the folds of loose
flesh and get a picture of its shape. She wore the number-
less petticoats of her generation. This swelled her figure to
a thickness that made her tiny face seem oddly out of place.
In repose, her shrivelled-up little body looked lifeless. But
she had sharp, shrewd eyes that flickered in all directions
and missed very little.

Now, as she presided over the supper-table, the oil lamp
from the central ceiling rafter shone full on her white,
peppercorn curls. Her sharp eyes glowed out of her shadowy
face. Her granddaughter, a little full-faced dark-brown girl
of three, sat near.

142

Granny Petersen finished serving. We all stood with
heads downcast while she prayed. It was a long prayer. It
began with the food we were about to eat. Then it went on
to the house, the chickens and the eggs they were to lay,
the cow and her calf. It even remembered the dog. Then
Granny prayed for my mother, my sister, myself, and the
whole of "that branch of the family, Lord." The prayer
swung from our branch of the family to her own. She
prayed for her son who worked on that "devil's cart," the
railway. She asked God to spare the trains he rode on. He
had two children to feed and clothe. And this, dear Lord,
reminded her of that wicked woman who had left her son
with two young girls and gone off with another man to the
pleasures of the evil city. "You know what to do with such
as her, Lord, don't you? You will punish her and show
her that sin does not pay. . . ."

By the time Granny Petersen had finished praying, the
food was cold. My mother looked at her food, then at
Granny.

"Pm sure the Lord would like us to have our food hot,
Auntie."

"Thank you, Angelina, but I think I've lived with the
Lord much longer than you have."

I caught the shadow of a smile on my mother's face as
she bent over her food. Laughter-loving Maggie choked
and begged to be excused.

We were half-way through our meal when there was a
knock at the door. Things happened fast. Granny whisked
the two pots under the bed. The little girl gathered up the

143

spoons and took them to the washing-up bucket in the
corner. Then Granny took our plates of half-eaten food and
pushed them far back under the bed.

"Now talk and laugh!" she snapped.

My mother said something. It was drowned by Maggie's
laughter. Old Granny opened her mouth and cackled away
as though genuinely amused by something funny.

The knock sounded again.

"I think there's someone at the door." Granny's voice
was loud enough for those outside to hear.

My mother went to the door. The location priest and his
wife came in.

"We thought we might call on you tonight, Sister Peter-
sen," the priest said.

"It is very thoughtful of you, Reverend."

"But do not let us keep you from what you were doing,"
the priest said, looking at the bare table and the fire with
nothing on it.

"Yes," the woman said. "Have your supper and don't
mind us."

"We have already eaten," Granny said. "But do come
and sit down."

The priest bit his lower lip as though in deep thought.

"Anything wrong?" Granny asked.

The priest turned to his wife. "You did take the medicine
to the sick old man, my dear?"

A look of horror spread over the woman's face. "Dear
God, forgive me. I forgot"

"I must ask you to excuse us, sister," the priest saidL

"I understand, Reverend," Granny murmured.

144

They hurried out.

"See if they've gone/ 5 Granny said.

My mother went.

"They've gone."

Granny got the food from under the bed.

"Seems you were right, Angelina. The good Lord seems
to want us to eat warm food tonight. I'll put it all back into
the pot to warm up.

"Why not pray while it's warming?" my mother said.

A wicked glint showed briefly in Granny's eyes. She
prayed. There was no need for her to remind God how
hard times were. He knew. He knew, too, that she had done
her best by the preacher and his wife. Why, only today
she had walked her poor old legs sick collecting for the
preacher's rent. And she had fed them three times this
week. And God knew how big their appetites were and how
little she had. There were others who had more. It was up
to God to stir their hearts so that they, too, took a share in
supporting the priest and his good wife. And God had no
right to be angry with her because she could not, like our
Lord Jesus, feed half the world on five loaves and two
fishes. Anyway, God should not forget she was giving the
priest and his wife Christmas dinner tomorrow. As for this
little thing of tonight, well, she and God understood each
other. They both knew what hard times meant even if
younger people had silly thoughts. Amen.

When we had finished our meal it was time for Maggie
to start back. My mother and I walked down to the station
with her.

145

4

The six days after Christmas were days of glory in Vrede-
dorp. The grand carnival of coons was the heart-beat of
these days.

There were six coon teams in Vrededorp that year. Each
team tried to outdo the others in uniform, dancing, and
singing. A team was made up of between twenty and thirty
men and boys. Their uniforms were of the brightest and
shiniest silk materials. And each team wore a different com-
bination of colours.

My brother, Harry, was a member of the Twentieth
Street team. On my first evening back from Krugersdorp,
I watched him dress. His shirt was bright red with shining
green ruffs and breast pockets. A green handkerchief, tied
pirate-fashion, covered his head. Over this he wore a red
straw hat with three tall green feathers. White gloves cov-
ered his hands. His knee-breeches were yellow, with black
piping. A broad purple sash circled his waist. The ends
hung down below his left knee. He wore red shoes with big
shining buckles, and long white stockings that tucked under
his breeches. His cheeks were rouged and powdered. Side
whiskers and a moustache of burnt cork completed his turn-
out.

In marching position, each team made a triangle. There
were eight guitarists in a line. In front of them walked a
line of banjoists. This was slightly shorter than the line of
the guitarists. Next came two lines of bone-players. Each
had an evenly shaped set of bones in each hand. They rat-
tled these, producing a sound like that of castanets. Next
came the tambourine-players. They completed the orches-

146

tra. In front of them were the dancers, in two lines. Each
dancer carried a beribboned stick, which he twirled while
pirouetting about the street. Finally, there was the leader,
the apex of the triangle. He was the most elaborately
made-up member of the team. His uniform, though of the
same colour scheme, was different from that of the rest of
the team. He was the brightest in a galaxy of bright pea-
cocks. He did not dance all the time, like the others. But
when he did, great artistry invaded the mean streets of
Vrededorp, and all my world came out to watch it and be
carried away by a dagga (Indian hemp) -smoking, dice-
playing Coloured boy who, for a brief moment in time,
carried the gods of grace and beauty in his heart and mind
and twinkling feet.

All through those six days the lucky men, those at work,
rushed home at the end of the day, changed quickly into
their carnival clothes, and hurried to the meeting-places of
the coon teams. There they met the unemployed, who had
whiled the long day away, waiting for assembly time. The
teams fell in. The guitars and banjos struck up. The bones
clicked. The tambourines banged and rattled. A whistle
blew. The team set off, down the centre of the street. The
leader twirled his stick. Those behind him danced.

Thus, they went up one street and down another. And
the folk of Vrededorp marched with them. And sometimes,
when two teams met, there was a battle of dancing for the
right of way. The teams would stop, facing each other. And
the two leaders would dance against each other. That was a
sight! They whirled and leaped; made intricate patterns
with their sticks; danced on their brightly coloured hand-

147

kerchiefs; on their bellies; on their hands. Right of way
went to the victor. The vanquished made a passage and
played the victors through. And oh, how the victorious
leader danced through that human passage!

Every now and then a team stopped in front of a house.
They made a circle. The guitars and banjos played till the
people of the house came out. Then there was silence. The
people of the house chose the song they wanted to hear and
the singer. The music struck up. The singer sang the verses
alone. The whole team joined in the chorus. The soloist
went around, collecting, after his song.

All the coon teams amalgamated on New Year's Eve. A
giant coon procession sang and danced its way about Vrede-
dorp into the new year. There was laughter and feasting,
and great gaiety. On this, the last night of the old year, the
stern coon rules were relaxed. Women and girls could walk
in procession with their husbands and lovers. We, the
young children, wore paper hats, waved rattles, and let off
crackers. I was with the gang and we had a wonderful time
letting off squibs under people's feet and watching them
jump.

Once I caught a brief sight of Harry. A pretty, long-
haired brown girl walked beside him, As I looked, he
turned and kissed her. I wondered about Emily. I shouted
to him. The din of music, rattles, crackers, and human
noises drowned my call.

Midnight came. Whistles hooted. People shouted and
flung paper hats in the air. They went about kissing stran-
gers. Once I caught sight of the Reverend Mr. Rogerson.

148

He towered above a crowd that surrounded him. He sang
Auld Lang Syne at the top of his voice.

My mother had returned to be with us on New Year's
Day, so I left the gang and ran home. People had been
saying "Happy New Year' 5 to each other. I would do the
same to her. It would please her. And perhaps I would be
the first one. I fought my way home through the crowds.

Before the sun was up, a fleet of double-decker buses
carried the great majority of the citizens of Vrededorp to a
wooded green place far away from the town. There people
danced and sang and laughed and loved and drank and fed
till the sun went down. Then they returned wearily. The
week of glory was over. Ahead lay a year of drabness and
want before they could have another week of glory. This
week would be something to remember in the lean days
ahead. . . . The coons packed their uniforms away lov-
ingly. . . .

149

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER

It was a mad day at the smithy. There had been one fist
fight. The boss, Mr. Wylie, had himself stalked storming
through the place. After months of hardly any orders, there
was a big rush order. Mr, Wylie said he had been losing
money for months and was fed up. Two machinists and
one solderer were sacked on the spot. The rest worked
feverishly, goaded by panic. Jobs were scarce that year.
Nearly all Vrededorp was at home. We were the lucky ones.

Boeta Dick worked till sweat rolled into his eyes and
turned them a bright pink. He grew short of breath. He
opened his mouth and panted audibly. He had a wet rag
on his lap, at which he sucked every now and then. When
he spat into the bucket his spittle was a bright pink. His
panic touched me and I ran between the machines and him,
and then, when I had brought and smeared a huge stack of
tins, I squatted beside him and soldered.

In all the smithy only Nondi was unaffected by the panic
that possessed us. He went about casually, mumbling to
himself. His boss grew angry and shouted at him:

"Shut up and hurry up, you mad dog!"

Nondi flung back his head. The "mad" look came into
his eyes. He flung out one arm and spoke at the top of his
voice:

"A dog! Yes! No dog can fear as fears a man. The fears
of dogs are fears of truth. I'll be a dog without your fears!"

The echoes of his laughter rang above the noise of the
machines. His boss had his soldering-iron in molten lead.
The man was beside himself with rage. He swung the iron.

150

Drops of lead spattered the side of Nondi's face and ate
into his skin. Nondi let out a piercing scream and clapped
both hands to his left eye. He went on his knees, pushed his
forehead against the floor, and moaned.

The smithy foreman hurried down from the machines.
Mr. Wylie came running from his office.

"You saw nothing!" Boeta Dick snapped. "Understand?"

"Yes."

"What's wrong?" Mr. Wylie asked.

The foreman raised Nondi's head.

"How did this happen?" The foreman looked at Nondi's
boss.

"Better get him to hospital," Mr. Wylie cut in. "You can
find out later. Bring him out. I'll get the car."

The foreman and another supported Nondi between them
and went out to the yard.

Nondi's boss came over to us.

"You'll stand by me, Dick," he appealed.

"Go to hell!" Boeta Dick snapped.

"He was mad. You saw it."

"He was just a kid. A good kid. Funny but good. Don't
look to me for help."

I felt proud of my boss.

"You'd better get while the going's good," a machinist
called.

Nondi's boss turned to the machinists. He spread his
hands appealingly.

"Have a heart fellows. I've got a wife and two kids.
Stand with a fellow. You saw he was mad."

There were only two white men among the machinists.

151

They worked the two most difficult machines. I had never
heard them speak. Now one of them snapped harshly:

"Get, damn you! And that's the only mercy you'll get
here."

Nondi's boss lowered his head and walked slowly to the
door. And in my mind, I walked with him under the cold
stares. And it seemed a long, long walk.

Mr, Wylie returned some time later.

"The boy will be blind in that eye. . . . Where is the
man?"

"Gone, sir," the foreman said.

"Gone? Where?"

"He ran away, sir."

Nondi returned two weeks later, as the day was ending.
He was cleaner than I had ever seen him. He looked fatter,
too. He walked into the place and began to laugh.

"Hello!" he cried, and made it sound a song of joy.

"How's the eye?" someone asked.

"To hell and blind! " he shouted, and went into the office.

The six-o'clock hooter sounded. I lingered in the yard
till he came out.

"Ah, big eyes!"

"Hello, Nondi. Coming back tomorrow?"

"Not me!" He waved two pound notes. "Me, I'm going,
brother!"

"Where?"

He pointed at the setting sun. "There! I'm going to see
what it's like where the sun sets."

"What for?"

152

"Don't be dumber than a dog, big eyes. I want to."

"Where will you sleep? What'll you eat?"

"Where dogs sleep; what dogs eat."

"And your people?"

"I am my people."

"But your mother and father."

"I am my people. . . . Don't be worried, big eyes, I'll
be all right." He hugged me, then punched me affection-
ately. "So long, big eyes."

"You going now?"

"Now!"

He saluted, smiled, and walked briskly in the direction of
the setting sun. I stood watching him. Perhaps he would
turn. I wanted to wave. But he did not turn.

Good-bye, Nondi! Poetry was dressed in filth and nobody
recognized her.

2

The long days and warm nights sped along, chased one
another, and were lost in time. And time, men, and some-
thing within me conspired against me and my innocence.
The darkness of the land rushed on to meet me.

One day someone came with the news that my brother
had been arrested in a dice game.

On a bleak Monday morning my mother, Aunt Mattie,
and Danny went through the subway to the court where he
was tried. He was sentenced to fourteen days, but there was
the option of a fine because it was a first offence. Aunt
Mattie refused to try to raise the fine. Maggie was bitter
about this.

153

On the following Saturday, Maggie, I, and the girl Harry
had kissed on New Year's Eve, climbed the hill above
Vrededorp and went down into a valley. Harry was at
Diepkloof Reformatory and we were taking him food. Deep
in the heart of the valley we saw men breaking stones. They
wore striped prison uniforms. And when we drew near, we
saw my brother among them.

When he saw us, Harry flung down his pickaxe and
waved and shouted. An armed white man struck him across
the face with the back of his hand. Harry staggered back,
regained his balance, then bent forward and retrieved his
pick. My sister strangled a cry. The other girl cursed softly
and bitterly.

We went up to the white man. Prisoners stole quick,
furtive glances at us, then carried on breaking rocks.

"Don't you know the law?" the white man snapped.
"You're not allowed so near the prisoners!"

"We'd like to see my brother," Maggie said.

"They're not on holiday!" the man snapped.

Maggie looked at the man's feet, then, unwillingly, she
said:

"Please, baas."

"You! Prisoner Abrahams!"

Harry jumped to attention, "fa, baas?' 9

"Know these people?"

"fa, baas. That's my sister and my little brother and," he
seemed to hesitate, "my girl."

I looked at my brother's face. He had the expression of
an unhappy, whipped dog, hurt terribly without quite
knowing why.

154

"You can greet them!"

Harry dropped his pickaxe and hurried forward. The
man put out a big hand and shoved him back. My brother
staggered and sat on the hard earth with a bump. Maggie's
chin trembled. Harry's girl breathed heavily through her
mouth. Slowly Harry picked himself up.

"I didn't say make love to them! Go on, greet them!"

" 'Lo, Mag." Harry looked at the ground.

"Hello, Harry."

"Enna. . . ."

"Harry," his girl murmured.

"Hello, Lee."

"Hello, Harry."

"All right!" the white man snapped.

"Can we give him " Maggie began.

"No! Wait till they're marching back."

"But"

"The baas is right, Mag," Harry cut in. "Go'n wait."

"You're learning, Abrahams," the white man said.

Harry raised his pickaxe and struck the hard rock. We
walked away to a safe distance and sat on the ground,
watching the prisoners.

The afternoon sun slanted westward, but only slightly. A
lone eagle circled overhead. Once it spread its great wings
and swooped low, no doubt to see what manner of men
these striped beings were. Then, with movements of great
power and grace, it climbed. It made an almost straight line
up. I watched it grow smaller, hazy, and then merge into the
blue sky, which had suddenly grown infinitely far removed
from the world of men. I longed to be like that eagle, able

155

to fly right out of the range of this place, so that I would not
have to watch my brother breaking rock under the hot sun.

Beside me the two young women sat brooding. At length
Enna burst out:

"I nearly gave that brute a piece of my mind!"

"And Harry would have suffered later/' Maggie said
tiredly.

"Nothing one can do!" Enna cried.

"One can keep out of their reach."

"Tell him that/ 5 Enna said.

"It's up to you if you're going to be his wife."

"It's this business of not humbling himself to white peo-
ple. I've talked to him about that, but he won't see it."

"Perhaps he can't."

"Other men do."

"They didn't have our father," Maggie said softly.

"Your father give him his airs?" Enna was interested.

Maggie smiled. "If you like."

"It's foolish," Enna said. "How's he going to feed a wife
and family with all this pride? It's silly not to see it's not
the same for the whites and us."

"Yes." Maggie grew thoughtful. "But you wouldn't have
thought it silly if you had heard my father. And I don't
know if it is so silly either."

"You've got to work for white people."

"And crawl in front of them? . . . Tell me, Enna, are
you in the family way?"

For a while the girl glared defiantly at Maggie; then she
lowered her eyes and nodded.

"Then you must help him," Maggie said quietly.

156

"And what of me?"

"You want him to marry you, don't you? ... He will."

"You don't like me. You would have been happy if it had
been that black, woolly-haired Emily."

"I didn't say so."

"But you would! I can see it!" Enna burst out crying.

"My poor brother," Maggie murmured.

Enna did not hear.

After this, there was a long spell of silence between us.
Far away, on the other side of the land where the prisoners
worked, a shining, black macadamized road cut through the
veld and curved away to Johannesburg in the one direction,
and to the north in the other. Cars, big shiny spiders from
where I sat, sped along the road in both directions. One of
these turned off the road and came bumping across the veld
to the white man who watched the prisoners.

Two white men and two black men got out of the car. The
black men carried knobkerries. They went and stood guard
at each end of the line of prisoners. The three white men
talked together. The one who had been there all the time
pointed to where we sat. Then he and one of the other two
got into the car. It bumped away to the curving road and
picked up speed as it hit the road. It was soon out of sight.
The new white man tucked his rifle under his arm and
strode briskly towards us.

"Better get up," Maggie said.

The white man walked more slowly as he drew near. He
was bigger and looked more brutal than the man we had
dealt with earlier.

"Hello," he said gruffly.

157

"Hello, baas" Maggie said.

"Want to see Abrahams?"

"Yes, please, baas."

He looked at Maggie, then looked back at the line of
prisoners.

"Abrahams!" His voice boomed across the silent space.

My brother straightened up and looked.

"Come here! Quick, man!"

Harry flung his pickaxe down and trotted across the
space between us. He grew uncertain as he neared us, and
we grew uncertain with him.

The white man got a packet of cigarettes from his shirt
pocket, pushed one between his lips, and held the packet to
Harry. My brother lost his uncertainty. He took the ciga-
rette and accepted a light from the white man. He inhaled a
huge gulp of smoke, held it, then let it out with a sigh. His
lips were swollen and there was a stain of dried blood at the
side of his mouth.

"Your lip," the white man said. "What'd you do?"

"I saw them and waved," Harry said.

"You fellows ask for trouble." The white man shook his
head gently and smiled. "That the only thing?"

"The other baas knocked him down," Enna protested.

"Quiet, Enna," Harry said.

"It's true!" said Enna,

"Quiet!" Maggie snapped.

"You two brother and sister?"

"Yes," Maggie said.

The man's eyes crept over Maggie's ample body.

"Must've been unpleasant for you. I'm sorry. ... All

158

right, kerely relax." He left Harry with us and walked back
to the line of prisoners.

"Thank you, my basie ! " Enna called fervently after him.

"What for?" Harry said bitterly.

"Because he's kind. They'd be kinder if you appreciated
it."

"You don't know him," Harry said.

"There you go again! What's the matter with you,
Harry?"

"Stop it, Enna," Maggie said.

"I saw him peel the skin off a fellow's back this morn-
ing," Harry said. "You never know whether he's going to
kick you or give you a cigarette. He likes it like that. The
other fellow's better."

"Forget them now," Maggie said. "How are you?"

They looked at each other for a while. Harry's face grew
bleak.

"All right," he said

"Really?"

"They kick you around, but what do you expect!"

"There you go!" Enna said.

"And the food?" Maggie asked.

"You get hungry and you eat it."

"Ma sends her love."

"How is she?"

"All right."

"Any message from Mattie?"

"She couldn't raise the fine, Harry."

"Tell them I'm all right." He sucked hard at the almost
vanished cigarette-end.

159

"I brought some," Enna said.

She gave him two packets and matches. He lit a fresh
one. I heard the white man's booming voice and looked
across. The prisoners stopped working. Those who had ciga-
rettes lit up.

"Kind basie" Harry murmured.

"I know about Enna," Maggie said. "Want me to do any-
thing?"

"Better not tell them till I come out."

There seemed nothing more to say. They stared at each
other for a while. Enna grew restless. Maggie noticed it.

"You'll want to speak to Enna," she said. "There's a
nice piece of chicken from my work in the parcel. Take
care."

"I'll be out soon," he said, and it was a prayer.

"You will," Maggie said, and turned away abruptly.
"Come, Lee."

" 'Bye, Lee," he called.

We walked up the sloping land till we came to a huge
boulder. Here we waited for Enna. The big sun was nearing
the horizon and turning orange. Far up in the heavens, a
line of fleecy clouds raced through the sky. Although it was
peaceful and windless on earth, a storm raged in heaven.
Was the eagle caught in that storm?

Down in the valley Enna flung her arms about Harry's
neck and clung to him. A car left the road and bumped
across the veld to the prisoners. The echo of the white man's
voice came up to us:

"Abrahams!"

160

Harry ran back with his parcel. He stood in front of the
white man for a while, then, stuffing his parcel into his shirt,
he joined the line. The white man blew a whistle. The pris-
oners shouldered their axes and formed fours. One of the
two black policemen went to the head of the column. The
other went to the rear. The car bumped to a standstill. The
white man got in. A whistle blew. The prisoners marched
away, an army in striped shirts, carrying pickaxes. And
among them, one of them, marched my brother.

Enna reached us and leaned against the boulder sobbing.
We watched them till they curved away with the curve of
the shining road.

"A gang of prisoners will always remind me of my
brother," Maggie said.

One fine autumn day three white boys pounced on me as
I walked home from work. It was between Braamfontein
station and the Vrededorp subway. The sun had gone down
and the world was bathed in the half-light that precedes
night. I was walking beside the iron railings that fenced off
the railway land from the street. I was running a piece of
wood along the iron bars and noting the variations of each
tinkle. Suddenly three boys were about me.

"I'll have this one," a ginger-headed lad said.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"You're going to fight me," he said.

"We fight fair," another said.

"I don't want to fight," I said.

"You'll fight!" said ginger-head.

161

"Why?"

"I want to kill you!"

"I've done nothing," I cried.

"You're black," the third lad said.

"Ready!"

Ginger-head came at me with fists raised. I dodged his
first blow and noticed what beautifully clear blue eyes, he
had. Then his left caught me smack in the left eye.

"Please. ..." I appealed.

"Fight, black coward!"

A blow on the chest sent me reeling against the iron rails.
I clutched the rails and steadied myself. I saw the three of
them briefly. There was no excitement about them. They
were more like grown-ups than boys. This was a calm, quiet,
methodical business.

"Come on," ginger-head said, coming in again.

Better fight, Lee. But somehow I had no will to fight. I
had no reason to fight, no desire. I raised my hands and
warded off the blows as best I could. Ginger-head cracked
me on the nose and drew blood. This, because it hurt,
stirred me to rage. I rushed in with flailing fists. Ginger-
head gave ground under the flurry. But I did not land a sin-
gle solid blow. He dodged, slipped, and caught all my
punches. Then, as my flurry ended ineffectively, his fist
sank into the pit of my stomach. I gasped and doubled up.
He swung at my unprotected head and caught me on the
ear. I went flat on my back, dazed and hurt.

"Get up!"

I raised myself to a sitting position. The other two
yanked me to my feet and propped me against the iron

162

rails. Ginger-head hit me again, but I did not know where.
Then, as in a dream, I heard running feet. Someone shook
me. The fog cleared. I looked at the black man who sup-
ported me.

"Why did they beat you, son?"
"They say because I'm black," I said tiredly.
"Come," the man said, giving me support as we walked
towards Vrededorp.

Another time, a white man on a motorcycle cleared his
throat and spat as he flashed by. The muck struck me in the
eye. . . .

My mother found a job with a little room attached. I
sometimes spent part of an evening with her in her little
box-room. The Boer family seemed thoughtful and consid-
erate.

Harry came out of jail, subdued, quiet, and depressed.
The scraps between him and Aunt Mattie grew more bitter.
At last he left the house and set up house with Enna in a
room in Fifteenth Street.

Catherine and Jacob Loff got married suddenly one day.
Then I discovered that a child was on the way.

My tenth birthday came and went.

Soon the sharp, high-veld winter was on us. It was very
cold that winter and many people died in Vrededorp. Food
was scarce, so a hungry Reverend Mr. Rogerson walked the
streets, looking pinched and blue. A number of Vrededorp
men broke into grocers' and butchers' shops and stole food
and money. Those arrested received stiff sentences because
crime was on the increase.

163

Aunt Mattie's rent arrears were so big that the Indian
landlord refused to give her any more grace. She found a
house in Sixteenth Street and we moved there. In the re-
moval Aunt Mattie lost half a crown. It was the only money
in the house. She remembered last putting it on the mantel-
piece of the new house.

We were all there Maggie, Catherine, Jacob Loff,
Harry, Danny, and myself. She taxed each in turn, and ac-
cepted their word when they disclaimed all knowledge of
the money. Then she turned to me:

"Then it must be you!"

"I didn't take it."

"You must have!"

"I didn't!"

"Don't shout at me, you little thief!"

"Better search him," Maggie said quietly.

I held my hands above my head while Aunt Mattie went
through my pockets.

"He must have hidden it," Aunt Mattie snapped at last.

"He's been with us all the time," Maggie said.

"He's a little thief!"

"I'm going," Harry said harshly, and went.

"Haven't you hurt him enough?" Maggie said.

Aunt Mattie turned from me, still convinced I had taken
the money. I went out and walked aimlessly about the
bleak, cold world.

It was a Saturday night. Dinny and I walked down De-
larey Street on the way to the bioscope. The Saturday-night
crowds milled about us. A heavy hand fell on my shoulder.

164

I turned and looked into the face of a big, brawny black
boy. His glazed eyes had the dagga-smoker's film over
them. I tried to pull away. He hit me in the stomach, wind-
ing me. Dinny slipped into the crowd and disappeared.

"Don't fight, sonny!" the big boy rumbled. "See this."

I looked at the whip fashioned of coils of thin wire.

"Your skin peels if I hit you with this. Try'n run away
and I'll show you." He clouted me on the side of the head.
"Get up!"

I obeyed. He swished the whip.

"Now run!"

I dared not.

"Come on!"

I followed him through the crowds. He moved with the
easy, springy grace of a wild animal. He pushed people out
of his way. They looked at his face and did not make the
protests they felt.

We met two of his kind near the subway. Each had a lit-
tle boy in tow. One little boy was Coloured, the other was
black. The two big fellows were smoking dagga.

"Wait!" my "boss" snapped.

He went over to the other two and had a smoke with them.
His drugged eyes glittered more unnaturally when he re-
turned.

"Come!"

We went through the subway, up Market Street, past the
big market, into the very heart of the town. This was my
first sight of Johannesburg proper.

The streets were very broad and very clean. Tall build-
ings rose high in the sky. And the streets were bathed in a

165

myriad lights. The pavements were lined with shops. The
shops had huge glass windows, each brightly lit for all the
world to see what was in it. And everywhere, as though
flung into the sky and held.by nothing, coloured lights went
on and off, spelling out things I could not read. Sleek mo-
torcars flashed by in all directions. Well-dressed white
people paraded the pavements, sat in clean, spacious cafes,
lounged in wonderful bars. And everywhere here people
feasted. I passed a window where four people sat at table
watching a man carve a chicken for them. I passed another
where a man and woman sat, heads close together, a huge
box of chocolates and glasses of coloured drinks in front of
them.

My "boss" took me to a crowded corner. He took off his
cap and pushed it into my hands. He fondled the wire whip.
Then he punched me in the ribs.

"I'll cut your skin to ribbons if you don't beg. Beg!"

He crossed the road and watched from the darkest corner
he could find. I stood trembling.

A white man passed, stopped, and turned back. He
looked at me, then flung a sixpenny piece into the cap. A
couple passed. The man flipped a penny. It fell at my feet,
rolled into the gutter. I ran after it. The woman laughed.
For a while after that nothing happened. People went past
as though they did not see me. I shook the cap.

"Penny, please, baas. Penny, missus,"

An elderly lady put a shilling into the cap and mur-
mured: "Poor thing."

A group of slightly drunk young men came along. They
made a ring about me and made bets with each other about

166

flicking pennies into the cap. Passers-by stopped and
watched. They ran out of pennies and used threepenny and
sixpenny bits. This went on till one of them saw three un-
escorted girls on the other side of the road.

After they had gone, my boss came over and emptied the
cap, leaving only a few coppers in it. He had hardly got
back to his quiet doorway when a black boy of his own size
stopped beside me. He breathed heavily.

"Where's your boss?"

"Over there." I pointed.

My boss came out of his shadow and hurried across.

" 'Tecs," the stranger said. "Got my boy and another man
and his boy."

"Van?" my boss asked.

"Yes."

A Black Maria turned a corner far up the road. The
stranger shot off .

"Run!" my boss snapped. "Watch the cap."

I clutched the cap to my bosom and raced after him. We
ran all the way to Vrededorp.

Dinny waited for me outside our house. The night was
cold and he shivered. But he had done forced begging and
wanted to be sure I got back.

The black boy waylaid me three times and forced me to
beg for him. He became the curse and terror of my life. In
the end, in spite of his threats to kill me if I did so, I told
my brother.

I took Harry and Danny to where he hung out. He was
with friends. I pointed him out.

"You the fellow who took my kid brother begging?"

167

"Not on your life!" he cried.

"The kid says so."

The black boy glared at me. "Did you say that, sonny?"

I decided he would kill me in any case now if he could.

"Yes. Three times."

"All right," Harry said.

"Any of you others fighting for him?" Danny asked.

A big black giant smiled and shook his head.

"A man fights for himself, brother."

"I'll take him, Harry," Danny said. "Kid's my friend."

"He's my brother," Harry said.

Harry took off his jacket and gave it to me.

"Come on, fellow."

"I don't want to fight. Look, I won't do it again. I
swear."

Harry moved forward, my ex-boss moved back.

"Look, man" he pulled a ten-shilling note out of his
pocket and flung it at Harry's feet. "Take that. That'll pay
the kid."

"I hear you smacked him down," Harry said.

He leaped in suddenly. There was a flurry, and then my
ex-boss was on the ground with a bleeding mouth and nose.
Harry raised his foot. The others looked on calmly. I turned
away and braced my body.

I went on no more forced begging expeditions. . . .

A stranger called Chris Fortune came home with Maggie
one night. He was small, dapper, and very fair. His coming
cast a shadow over Danny. He belonged to one of the best

168

families in Vrededorp. His manners and clothes were those
of a gentleman. He was one of the small, dying band of
skilled Coloured artisans. He was a cabinet-maker.

His coming brought a bubbling gaiety into my sister's
heart. And on that first night my mother was at Aunt Mat-
tie's. While he drank tea and talked with Aunt Mattie in the
front room, Maggie hugged my mother in the kitchen,

"Mister Right, Ma!"

"Are you sure, my child?"

"As sure as I'll ever be, Ma!"

"All right, my child."

I liked the look of Maggie's young man. I liked the way
he looked at her. I liked him for giving me a sixpence on
that first night.

Danny left us a few days later. He slipped away as quietly
as he had lived among us. I never saw him again.

Enna gave birth to a boy. I visited their room a month
after its birth. A stale smell hung over the place. The one
window was shut. The bed was unmade. A pile of dirty
crocks was stacked in a corner. Cigarette ends lay in the
dust coating of the floor. The baby lay bawling on the bed.
Enna stood oiling her long tresses. Harry sat sullenly in the
only chair in the room.

"Hello, Harry, I've come to see the baby."

Harry stood beside me while I looked at the tiny crea-
ture.

"It's like you," I said.

"Think so?"

169

"Yes."

"Hope he doesn't grow up like him/' Enna said.

"Better sweep this pigsty before you start talking," Harry
said.

"I don't take orders from you!"

"Look at the place! Aren't you ashamed?"

"Aren't you ashamed of never working?"

Their voices grew louder.

"I've been looking! You know that!"

"But you never get anything!"

"Suppose you could!"

"Other men do!"

"You should've got another man!"

"Aren't I sorry I didn't! And all those chances!"

"Don't flatter yourself! No decent man would put up with
filth!"

"You're right! You're not a decent man!"

"I must go," I said, and fled.

I did not really know my brother. We had never spent
much time together. We had never talked. There were too
many years between us. He was my big brother, but that
was about all. There was the blood-relation, and a series of
meetings. When I first met him in Elsburg he had been gay
and spruce, clear-eyed and sure of himself. Now I left him
dirty, unshaven, baffled, bitter, a father, seething with futile
rage, yelling at the top of his voice in a filthy room.

I thought of the other girl who had loved him, dark Em-
ily. Would it have been different if she had been with him?
Why, loving him, did she leave him? And as I thought of
this, I became conscious of the beginnings of a new aware-

170

ness. Something was happening to me and the way I saw
the world in which I lived.

3

Often at the smithy I cleaned Mr. Wylie's car during the
lunch hour. For this he gave me a shilling at the end of each
week. Boeta Dick had raised my wage to three shillings.
Thus, I went home with four shillings every Saturday after-
noon. Half this sum paid for my food and keep. I took a shil-
ling as pocket-money. The other Chilling Aunt Mattie put
away for me. Once or twice she had borrowed from my sav-
ings. She had always asked first. She had always returned it
to my little hoard, which she kept in her mattress.

One lunch-time, after I had cleaned his car, Mr. Wylie
said:

"There are some sandwiches on my desk. Take them."

He drove off. I went to the office. The short-sighted Jew-
ish girl was in her corner, eating her lunch and reading. She
looked up.

"Mr. Wylie said I can have that." I pointed:

"All right."

I took the little package and turned to the door.

"Lee."

I stopped and turned to her.

"That is your name, isn't it?"

"Yes, missus."

"Miss, not missus. You only say 'missus' to a married

woman."

Her smile encouraged me.
"We say it to all white women."
"Then you are wrong. Say 'miss.' "

171

"Yes, miss."

"That's better. . . . Tell me, how old are you?"

"Going on for eleven, miss,"

"Why don't you go to school?"

"I don't know, miss."

"Don't you want to?"

"I don't know, miss."

"Can you read or write?"

"No, miss."

"Stop saying c miss' now."

"Yes, miss."

She laughed.

"Sit down. Eat your sandwiches if you like."

I sat on the edge of the chair near the door.

"So you can't read?"

"No, miss."

"Wouldn't you like to?"

"I don't know, miss."

"Want to find out?"

"Yes, miss."

She turned the pages of the book in front of her. She
looked at me, then began to read from Lamb's Tales from
Shakespear.

The story of Othello jumped at me and invaded my heart
and mind as the young woman read. I was transported to
the land where the brave Moor lived and loved and de-
stroyed his love.

The young woman finished.

"Like it?"

"Oh yes!"

172

"Good. This book is full of stories like that. If you go to
school you'll be able to read them for yourself."

"But can I find a book like that?"

"Yes. There are many books."

"The same one with the same story?"

"There are thousands."

"Exactly like it?"

"Exactly."

"Then I'm going to school!"

"When?"

"Monday."

"I've started something!" She laughed. "But why didn't
you go before?"

"Nobody told me."

"You must have seen other children go to school."

"Nobody told me about the stories."

"Oh yes, the stories."

"When I can read and write I'll make stories like that!"

She smiled, leaned back suddenly, and reached for her
pen. She opened the book.

"Your surname?"

"Abrahams, miss. Peter is my real name, Peter Abra-
hams."

She wrote in the book. "Here, I've put your name in it.
It's for you."

I looked at her writing. "That my name?"

"Yes. I've written: This is the property of Peter Abra-
hams.' "

"But which is my name?"

"Those two words." She pointed. "Well, take it!"

173

I took the book. I held it gingerly. I moved to the door,
backward. She shook her head and laughed. The laughter
ended abruptly.

"Oh God," she said, and shook her head again.

"Thank you, miss. Thank you!"

Her eyes looked strangely bright behind the thick glasses.
"Go away!" she said. "Go away and good luck."

I hesitated awkwardly at the door. Was she crying? And
why?

Yes, thank you, miss. Thank you!
4

"You know he will have missed half the lessons, sir. It's
middle of term, my class is overflowing, and he's big and
old enough to be in standard four. . . . Why didn't you
come at the start of term?"

"I was working, miss."

"Now look here! Do I really have to tell you, a Coloured
teacher, that education is only compulsory for whites and
no one cares whether this boy goes to school or not? Do I
have to read you the illiteracy figures among your own peo-
ple? You're Coloured, I'm not: do I have to tell you about
the condition of you people and your children?"

"No, sir. But"

"I know, Sarah. Your class is three times as big as it
should be; you haven't slates or pencils for all of them;
some are so big they're ready to have babies or grow
beards; you haven't enough benches; you can't control
them. I know all that. But set this against it. A boy at work
hears a story and the story makes him come here. He says:

174

Tlease, I want to learn.' Are we to turn him away because
he hasn't observed all the rules? Is your community so rich
that it can afford to do that? . , . Listen! Pve an idea.
We'll press these big ones. We'll make them do the work of
three days in one. . . . Boy! Peter!"

"Sir?"

"Afraid of hard work?"

"No, sir."

"All right! I'll make you work. I promise youTl read
and write by the end of this year. The rules will be hard. If
there is any trouble or slackness I want the teacher to send
you to me and I shall use the cane, hard. All right?"

"Yes, sir."

"See, Sarah. The boy and I are in a hurry. Help us. We
haven't much time. . . . Take him away!"

"Yes, sir."

"Hello, Sarah! Another?"

"Yes. He and Visser are in a hurry. Visser's thinking up
a new scheme for making the big ones do the work of three
years in one."

"Oh, my God!"

"It's killing."

"One thing to be said for the old boy. He's interested in
Coloured education, and he's the only principal about
whom I can say that in all the years I've been here. And a
Boer! You know he's been in an asylum."

"Yes. Mad Boer poet. Easy enough for him to sit at his
desk thinking up beautiful schemes. We have to do all the
dirty work."

175

"Cheer up, girl. He's not so bad. I must go'n silence my
screaming brats. See you."
"Come."

"All right. You may sit down. This is our new boy, Peter
Abrahams. Make room for him in the corner at the back,
Adams."

"Please, miss"

"Yes?"

"There is no room. We're so tight we can hardly move our
arms to write."

"Peter must have a place. Make room as best you can."

"Yes, miss."

"Now! Put up your hands, those of you who have whole
slates. Not one?"

"They're all cracked, miss."

"It doesn't matter if they are cracked. Up now. One
two. Only three?"

"Mine is my own, miss."

"What you mean, Margaret, is that it is one you bought
and not one supplied by the school."

"Yes, miss."

"Then say what you mean. All right, you may put down
your hand, Margaret."

"Please, miss"

"Yes, Thomas?"

"My slate is cracked across the middle. I can let him "

"Peter."

"Peter, miss. I can let Peter have half. And please, miss,
there's a little room here and he can sit with me."

176

"That is very good of you, Thomas. Thank you. But isn't
that where Jones sits? He'll be back tomorrow and want his
seat."

"He's not coming back, miss. His father's gone to jail, so
he must go to work to help his mother."

"Are you sure of this?"

"Yes, miss."

"It's a shame. You liked Jones so much, didn't you,
miss?"

"That's enough out of you, Adams. Thank you, Thomas.
Is your father alive, Peter?"

"No, miss."

"Then things are not too easy?"

"No, miss."

"Take this card. You'll see children standing in line dur-
ing the lunch break. Join them and show this and you'll get
a free lunch. That's all. You can go to your place."

"Thank you, miss. I'm sorry to make more work for
you."

"Come back here, Peter. I don't want you to think any
more about making work for me or anybody. Understand?"

"Yes, miss."

"We are here to teach and help you. I'm sorry I made
you think that. You've often said something you don't
mean, haven't you?"

"Yes, miss."

"Well, it was the same. Don't think about it. And don't
repeat what you heard me and the other teacher say about
the principal."

"Yes, miss."

177

A B C D E F G,

H I J K L M N,

P Q R S T U,

V W X Y Z makes the Alpha-bet.

Two times one are two,

Two times two are four old woman scrubs the floor.

Two times three are six the hen has many chicks.

Two times four are eight f or school I won't be late.

Two times seven are fourteen haven't a thought in.

Two times nine are eighteen oh golly!

Two times ten are twenty these sums are very plenty!

C is a letter in the alphabet,

A is a letter in the alphabet,

T is a letter in the alphabet:

Put them together and you have a cat.

"Please, miss"

"Yes?"

"Are all the books in the world made from the alphabet?"

"Yes, all the books in the world are made from the alpha-
bet."

"Jee-zus!"

"What?"

"Nothing, miss; thank you."

"Hey! Look at the new one among our hungry lot. He's in
our class. Peter Abrahams. Hey! Peter Abrahams! Like
lining up with the other cattle for a bit of bread and dirty
cocoa? They spit in the cocoa!"

178

"Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

"Shssss! Old Visser's heard you!"

"Hey! No use running away, you little coward! I know
you! Come here!"

"Sir"

"I heard what you said. I've a good mind to expel you!"

"Didn't mean anything, sir."

"Of course not! That's the trouble with you and this
country and all of us. We don't mean anything. We abuse,
deny, outrage, insult, and don't mean anything. You're
looked down upon. Have you learned nothing from it? Must
you look down on someone else? Go away! If I hear any
more remarks from you or anyone else Teacher!"

"Sir?"

"Is there no way we can protect these children from the
vulgar remarks of others while they get their food?"

"No, sir."

"They're being humiliated for being poorer than their
fellows. Snobbery among the oppressed!"

"Let's not play with him. He's got woolly hair like a
Kaffir."

"Go to hell! Yours may be straight, but your skin is
black!"

". . . And that is the story of Joseph, who had a coat of
many colours."

"Is it a true story, sir?"

"Yes."

"Please read us another one, sir."

179

"You're one of the three-class students, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then off to your history class. . . ."

"Ah, Abrahams. So you're letting things slip after only
six months."

"No, sir."

"Are you calling the teacher a liar?"

"No, sir."

"Are you tired of working hard? Letting me down? None
of the others have, you know. Do you want to do only the
ordinary classes?"

"No, sir."

"You'd better tell me all about it."

"It's arithmetic, sir."

"What about it?"

"I can't do it, sir."

"Have you tried?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hard?"

"Yes, sir."

"This record says you show no real interest in it."

"I've tried, sir."

"Do you mean the record is untrue?"

"No, sir. I mean I've tried hard to be interested."

"And failed?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know, of course, that I don't make the laws about
examinations."

"Yes, sir."

180

"Well, unless you get a certain average for arithmetic,
your very high average in all the other subjects won't help
you. That is the law, and I didn't make it. I want to push
you through as fast as I can, but you must work at arith-
metic. Relax a little with the other subjects if you like."

"I like the other subjects, sir."

"I know. But to get where you want to go you can't only
do what you like. Where do you want to go? What do you
want to do?"

"Those stories, sir."

"In the book the young woman gave you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I was wondering whether you had begun to forget
them."

"I'm trying to read it now, sir."

"Getting anything out of it?"

"A little."

"Well, there you have it. Between you and the further
knowledge that would help you get everything out of that
book stands arithmetic. It's like a lion barring your road.
You either turn back because you cannot cope with it, or
you kill it and go on. There is no other way. The makers of
our educational laws have not provided for poets. I want
you to kill that lion and go on. Arithmetic is silly in a poet's
armoury, but you must master it and get that average. . . .
I promised you my cane if you were ever Sent to me. We
must keep our promises. Let down your trousers, then go
back and let the sting of the cane help you kill the
lion. . .

181

"But if the earth is round, sir, why don't things fall off
it? Why don't people and things and the seas fall off it?"

"Because, my dear Arendse, it has a gravitational pull
that prevents all these things happening."

"Then, sir, will you please explain this pull thing to us?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please. . . ."

"Oh, my aunt! Do you, Arendse, and all you others, do
you realize that there is a strict set scheme for each class?
Certain things are taught in standard one, certain things in
standard two, and so on. Gravity and science are things you
shouldn't know anything about till next year."

"But, sir"

"Well?"

"That means that till next year we've just got to accept
your word about everything you say about the earth. And
for a year well go on wanting to know how things stick to
the earth if it is round."

"And you know Mr. Visser told us always to ask if things
didn't seem very clear to us."

"All right! Sit down, Flora, and you, Arendse. Mr. Vis-
ser's specials! . . . But before I go on to gravity, Peter's
been snapping his finger. What is it you want to know, Mr.
Abrahams?"

"When you talked about how to prove the earth is round,
sir, you said the curve of the land was sure proof. But the
land is full of hills and valleys, so how can one see this
curve? And none of us have been to the sea, so we don't
know whether it does curve. So you see, sir, if you answer
Arendse's question before proving the earth is round, it will

182

be hard to believe in this pull, because you won't need it on
a flat earth."

"You are the original flat-earthers. Now listen! . . ."

"Hello, Peter."

"Hello, Ellen."

"Walk with me to the end of the playground."

"I can't."

"Please. Or don't you want to?"

"I want to, but I can't."

"Why not?"

"Why do you ask me when you know I have to line up!"

"Please don't be angry."

"Then don't ask when you know the answer."

"I only asked because you don't have to line up."

"I want to eat."

"I brought an extra lunch."

"For me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I like you. You're the best boy in Visser's special."

"Arendse gets better marks."

"Only in the things you don't like."

"His average is better."

"I heard a teacher say your intelligence was better. And I
agree. Come, I'm shy. I don't want to give you your lunch
where everybody can see."

"I thought you were poorer than me. You are thinner."

"We're poor in everything except food. My ma works
where they waste a lot of food and she brings a lot of it

183

home. There's chicken in your sandwiches. I can't get fat
no matter how much I eat. Suppose I'd better tell you I've
got a bad chest."

"Why?"

"Here, take your sandwiches. We're far away from the
others now. Let's go'n sit under that tree. . . . Nice?"
Mmmm.

"I'm glad. I'll bring you all the nicest things. I've some
sweets for after."

"I've nothing to give you."

"I don't want anything. I just want you to be my boy if
you like me. That's why I told you about my chest. My
granny says one must always tell the truth. But even if you
don't like me, I will still bring your lunch every day. What
I mean is every day as long as my ma stays with us. She
may go away, and then there won't be any more food. . . .
Do you like me?"

"Yes."

"Really? Cross your heart?"

"Cross my heart."

"I thought you did, but I wasn't sure. But I knew you'd
never tell me if I didn't ask you. And it's not easy for a girl
to tell a boy she likes him."

"It's not easy for a boy."

"Not if he's like you. . . . Have some of mine, please.
I can't eat all of it. And a man must eat more than a woman.
I told my granny all about you. She wants me to bring you
home. But you must not come if you don't want to."

"I want to! I'll carry your books this afternoon."

"Good. Oh, I'm so glad you won't be in the line-up again.

184

It made me want to cry when I heard them say things.'*

"Wish I could give you something. Here, I've a top and
some marbles."

"Keep them. Just be my boy."

"I am your boy and I think you're the nicest girl in
school."

"I'm dark and I have kinky hair."

"Who cares! I like you!"

"I want you to top the class for me!"

"No. You must be first. That's what I want. Will you?"

'Til try if that's what you really want."

"You'll be first, I'll be second, and old Arendse third. I
want to be proud of my girl."

"All right! I'll do it, ... There's the bell. Golly, we'll
have to run. We'll be late."

"Give me your hand."

"Not too fast, please. It'll make me cough."

"Old Visser's proud of his specials, Sarah. Nearly a dozen
of them have passed the standard-two exam. The first five
topped even the regular standard-two class. Makes one feel
the awful grind was worth while."

"Yes, he is good. . . . What is it, Peter?"

"Mr. Visser said you might like to see the prize he gave
me for my essay."

"Oh, let me see. I didn't know there was a prize for an
essay. . . . Poems of John Keats. But you can't read this
yet."

"He told me to tell you I couldn't read Lamb's Tales once,
and that brought me here."

185

"The old devil! And I just had nice thoughts about him."
"He wants you to read the Everyman text to me."
"Here it is: 'Everyman, I will go with thee and be thy
guide in thy most need to go by thy side.' Does it mean any-
thing to you?"

"No, miss. But Mr. Visser said I should say it will one
day."

"The old devil! And they thought him too mad for a
white school! . . . Run along, Peter."

186

BOOK TWO

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER

I attended school regularly for three years. I learned to
read and write. Lamb's Tales from Shakespear was my
favourite reading matter. I stole, by finding, Palgrave's
Golden Treasury. These two books, and the Everyman edi-
tion of John Keats, were my proudest and dearest posses-
sions, my greatest wealth. They fed the familiar craving
hunger that awaits the sensitive young and poor when the
moment of awareness comes.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?

With Shakespeare and poetry, a new world was born.
New dreams, new desires, a new self-consciousness, were
born. I desired to know myself in terms of the new stand-
ards set by these books. I lived in two worlds, the world of
Vrededorp and the world of these books. And, somehow,
both were equally real. Each was a potent force in my life,
compelling. My heart and mind were in turmoil. Only the
victory of one or the other could bring me peace.

At home, meanwhile, life had run its course.

Loff had paid down a deposit on a plot of land in the new
Coloured town of Albertville. He had built the first room
and he, Catherine, and the baby, had moved in. They were
building the second room and kitchen. I sometimes went
along to help at week-ends.

189

I saw my brother, Harry, in the streets of Vrededorp.
Sometimes I saw Enna and the little boy. I rarely went to
their room. My brother and his wife fought interminably
and their home was a place of embarrassment to any out-
sider.

Both Enna and Catherine were again pregnant.

Aunt Mattie had aged suddenly. Her feet had swollen
with rheumatism. She walked slowly and with great pain. A
new, subdued, tiredness hung over her. The loud stridency
left her. I rubbed her swollen feet every night before going
to bed.

Only my mother and Maggie seemed unchanged. Maggie
now slept in at the place where she worked and only came
to Vrededorp at week-ends. Then my mother would come
down from her place of work in Upper Vrededorp. We
would walk together in the sunshine. I would tell them about
my days at school, about the new things I had learned. And
they, for their part, seemed to understand that some change
was taking place in me. Often, on Saturday or Sunday
evenings, their friends would come in. There would be cof-
fee and bread fried in dripping. And they would sit talking
about old times or tell stories. Quite often Aunt Mattie
would sit in a corner listening while tears ran down her
cheeks.

Maggie and Chris Fortune had fixed the date for their
marriage and were saving up for their furniture. The day
was very near and they had found a house in City and
Suburban, where only the most select Coloureds lived. But
Maggie very nearly called off the marriage because Chris
Fortune's very fair mother had hesitated about meeting

190

Maggie's very dark mother. The mothers met, however, and
the marriage took place.

Maggie, all in white, made a very lovely bride. Half Vre-
dedorp came out to watch her. My mother wept with pride,
Aunt Mattie with the long look of memory in her eyes.

Maggie wanted me to live with them. But City and Subur-
ban was far from the Vrededorp school, and my mother and
Aunt Mattie were alone now. Besides, I was not really sure
Chris Fortune would welcome me.

With Maggie gone, Aunt Mattie's only source of income
was the little she got from my mother and the illicit liquor
trade. I helped with the trade at week-ends when the mine-
boys invaded Vrededorp in search of drink and women.

The long depression, which was lifting all over the world,
seemed permanent in Vrededorp. Desperately lean times
had come to stay in our lean world.

I still saw the gang, but the fun had gone out of stealing
from the stalls of Indian traders. And whenever the gang
went begging I found some excuse for not going with them.
In the end an awkward restraint grew up between them and -
me. Only with Dinny did I achieve the old intimacy some-
times, but even that did not last long. I was ripe for some-
thing new, the new things my books had revealed, to take
the place of the old life. But what? And how was I to achieve
it? I felt lonely and longed for something without being
able to give it a name. The horizons of Vrededorp were in-
adequate. Where was I to find the new horizons of my
needs?

191

Impelled by something I could not explain, I went, night
after night, on long, lonely walks into the white areas of
Johannesburg. Night after night I left black Vrededorp and
walked along broad, clean, tree-lined streets. I walked slowly
and felt the cool breeze and heard the sweet silences of these
streets. I threw back my shoulders, raised my head, and
filled my lungs with clean air. There was living, breathing
space, and I felt better for being in it.

On either side of these broad streets were strong houses,
made of bricks. Here, had the streets been noisy, the strong
walls would have kept the noise out of the houses; here, had
the wind howled, had the rain lashed, these houses would
have been dry and quiet and warm.

I looked into the windows of these houses. There was the
magic of electricity, A boy could read Lamb's Tales without
strain in such light. And often I saw whole walls of books.
What a sight! Sometimes I saw people at table, eating from
finely fashioned plates on a snow-white cloth. And the chairs
in these rooms were big and comfortable. And the rooms
had space. From some, where a window was open, came the
kind of music I never heard in Vrededorp.

Sometimes, on these nightly walks, I had the urge to
piddle. But the notices on the public lavatories I passed
drove me away:

RESERVED FOR EUROPEANS ONLY

Sometimes I grew tired, but the park benches I passed
said:

EUROPEANS ONLY
Sometimes I had the price of a cup of tea as I walked

192

past cheerful-looking little cafes. No visible sign was up. But
I knew these, too, were:

RESERVED FOR EUROPEANS ONLY

Really, these streets and trees, almost the clean air I
breathed here, were:

RESERVED FOR EUROPEANS ONLY
I was the intruder. And like the intruder, I walked carefully
lest I be discovered.

I longed for what the white folk had. I envied them their
superior, European lot.

The familiar mood that awaits the sensitive young who
are poor and dispossessed is a mood of sharp and painful in-
feriority, of violently angry tensions, of desperate and over-
whelming longings. On these nightly walks, that mood took
possession of me. My three books fed it.
3

One day, Aunt Mattie was caught in the act of serving
drink. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, the place was full of
black and white policemen. The leader of the policemen
grinned as he took the one-shilling tin of skokiaan from my
aunt's trembling hands.

"Got you this time, heh!"

"Yes, basie."

He turned to the mine-boys and their women. "Get, before
I take you too! 55

There was a general stampede. A few minutes later Aunt
Mattie and I were alone with the group of policemen.

"Better tell me where the rest of the stuff is. It'll help
you."

193

"I'll show you, basie."

Black policemen dug up two drums of skokiaan. They
poured the foul-smelling, well-loved liquid down the drain.
Then they knocked holes in the drums. I had invested my
last few shillings in the contents of those drums. We would
have cleared twelve pounds at least. My share of it would
have been two. Now I was broke, and Aunt Mattie was on
her way to jail.

"Ready?" the white man said.

"A minute, please, basie"

"Hurry up! We haven't all day."

"It's my feet, basic."

"Should Ve thought of that before. Hurry!"

"Get my boots, Lee."

I got them and helped Aunt Mattie force her swollen feet
into them.

"Lee"

"Aunt Mattie?"

"Look after this."

It was the tobacco-pouch in which she kept her money.

"Listen carefully. Lock up as soon as I've gone. Use that
money and take the tram to Albertville. Tell Catherine and
then go'n tell Maggie. Perhaps your mother can help too.
Got it clear?"

"Yes, Aunt Mattie."

"My basie"

"Well?"

"Think there'll be a fine?"

"This is your first time?"

"Second."

194

"When was the first?"

"Years ago."

"Then you should get off with a fine."

"Has my basic any idea how much?"

"I should say a month or between six and ten pounds."

"Tell them that, Lee."

"Yes, Aunt Mattie."

"Come on."

"Yes, I'm ready, baas. 'Bye, Lee."

" 'Bye, Aunt Mattie."

I watched my aunt hobble painfully down the street, on
her way to the subway and Fordsburg Prison. Then I went
back to lock up before taking the news of this calamity to
the rest of the family.

The family put all their savings together, and borrowed
more. But it was not till all Aunt Mattie's furniture had been
sold as well, that there was enough to pay the fine. This took
a little time, and Aunt Mattie had to spend a few days in
jail. She came out looking haggard.

She spent a few days with Catherine. Then she went out
and found a job as a housemaid in Mayfair, on the other
side of the railway tracks from Vrededorp.

I now had no home in Vrededorp. I agreed to go and live
with Maggie. But my savings had run out. I decided to leave
school. I would find a job to pay my own way. Somehow, I
would find a way to carry on learning. Night school, per-
haps. I was in my fifteenth year.

195

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER

"Carry your bags, missus? . . ."

The old woman frowned at her marketing list and shook
her head.

I shot away to another likely customer.

"Carry your bags, missus? . . ."

Three other boys jostled with me for the job. A market
policeman approached down the line of vegetable stalls. We
none of us had permits to operate as market carriers. We
could not afford the fee. If the boys with permits caught us,
they gave us a beating. If the police caught us, we went to
jail. Two of the boys veered away and disappeared into the
moving crowd. The policeman was nearly on us. The tall,
red-headed woman watched us with an amused glint in her
eyes. The boy beside me moved slightly to the left. He could
now dodge behind the cabbage stall and be gone in a flash.
There was a crowd between me and safety, and the police-
man was nearly on top of us.

"Your bags, please, missus? . . ."

The red-head grinned at my desperation.

"So long, mug," the boy said, and disappeared behind
the cabbage stall.

I had left things until too late. The policeman was on top
of me. There was no way of escape. A wall of shoppers
barred the way. The red-head's eyes shone with amusement.
Panic gripped me.

The policeman gripped my arm. "Come along!"

"Where to?" the red-head asked quietly.

"It's all right, lady. He knows he shouldn't be here. You

196

know, of course, you should only use boys with permits. If
everyone did that, there wouldn't be so many thefts in the
market and our job would be easier."

"But I don't need a permit for a boy I bring along."

The policeman stiffened. The hold on my arm tightened.

"I beg your pardon, madam?"

"I said he's my boy," Red-head said coolly.

I felt as bewildered as the policeman.

"But I saw"

"He's my boy." Red-head's voice was cold now.

I sensed the policeman's mounting anger. He swung me
about violently. He glared down at me. His face was red.

"That true, boy?"

"Don't answer him, Peter! Take your hands off the boy!"

For a while they stared at each other; then the policeman
released my arm.

"Now you'd better go, or else take me to your inspector."

The policeman studied my face as though he never
wanted to forget it; then he raised his eyes to the woman's
face.

"I beg your pardon, madam."

He swung about and walked away, his neck as red as his
face. The anger died out of the red-head's eyes. The stern-
ness passed from her face. Her body relaxed, became less
stiff and commanding. Her lips creased. Her eyes twinkled.
She chuckled softly.

"All right, Peter?"

"All right, missus."

How did she know my name? . . . She caught the
thought and chuckled again.

197

"Look at your left hand."

My name, in large capitals that covered the back of my
hand, was there.

"Not such a mystery after all, eh?"

"No, missus."

A half-friendly, half-amused smile touched her lips and
kindled her eyes. I fell victim to all red-heads for all time.
She gave me her basket and bag.

"Come on. . . ."

I followed her from one stall to another. I received her
purchases. The vegetables went into the bag, the fruit into
the basket. I pushed through crowded places after her,
jostled against people. I passed market policemen with new
self-assurance. I exchanged hurried words of gossip with
others of my kind who were also protected from the police
and from boys with permits by the baskets and bags they
carried. And the huge market was a hive of buzzing in-
dustry.

She stopped at the corner where they served tea. I could
not follow her to the neat little tables. But she made the
waitress send her black boy to me with a cup. The stares of
passing whites embarrassed me. But I felt safe in the pro-
tection afforded by the red-head. Safe and confused because
I had run up against a white person who did not react and
behave in the way I understood so well. It made it so much
more difficult to know where one was with whites. It com-
plicated the business of building up defences.

My red-head finished her tea, looked at a few more stalls,
then looked at her diamond-studded wristlet.

"Time to go home, Peter."

198

"Tram, missus?"

"No! No trams for us, Peter! We've a car!"

The policeman with whom we had had the run-in earlier
was standing at the big door. He studied my red-head coldly,
insolently. In a frankly insulting manner his eyes moved
over her body, from her trim ankles to her flaming hair. He
looked briefly at me. I knew there would be trouble for me
if ever I ran into that man, no matter where. I memorized
his face.

The red-head paused a few yards from him.

"Give me the basket, Peter."

"It's all right, missus."

"Give it to me, lad!"

The policeman walked away as she took the basket from
my arm. We crossed the street. I looked back. The police-
man had come back to the door and stood watching us. He
moved slowly down the steps.

"Following?"

"Yes, missus."

"Thought he might," she laughed. "Better keep out of his
way."

"I don't need telling," I whispered.

"Heh?"

"Nothing, missus."

She paused and looked at me as though she saw me for
the first time. Behind us the policeman slowly crossed the
street. We moved to a shining black car, sleek, big, and
beautiful. It's body was close to the earth, like the big black
spiders I had sometimes watched on the Ottoman's Valley.

I dumped my sack on the ground beside the rear wheel.

199

Red-head unlocked the driver's door, then gave me the keys.

"This one's for the back. Put the vegetables there."

I piled the bag into the luggage compartment. The police-
man stood, arms akimbo, watching from the edge of the
parking space. I returned the keys. She put the basket of
fruit on the back seat.

"Our friend's watching you, Peter. Waiting."

"Yes, missus."

"Don't think you're safe here."

"I'm all right, missus."

"Can't you find another job?"

"I tried."

"What as?"

"Messenger boy."

"And?"

"Hundreds of others also want to be messenger boys,
missus."

"So it's the market."

"I sell newspapers in the evenings, missus."

"You'd better stay away from the market for a few days."

I stole a quick glance. The enemy had moved a little
nearer. The red-head was in the car, and the policeman was
poised, ready to rush on me the moment the car drove off.

"I'm not always going to carry in the market, missus."

"But you can't be a messenger boy." She sighed, then
grinned. "I'm afraid you will, Peter. You'll be a market
carrier when you're an old man."

"I won't!" I'd almost forgotten she was white.

"I'm afraid you will, boy. . . . Anyway, get in. Can't
leave you to him,"

200

"I'm all right, missus. I can run."

"Get in!"

I reached for the back door.

"In front. On the other side."

I got in beside her. She started the car. It purred gently,
then moved forward with the easy strength of a powerful
black spider. We passed the policeman. The woman looked
at him and inclined her head slightly. A wicked grin creased
her face.

The car purred and gathered speed as we climbed the
slight rise that led to the heart of the city. The red-head
touched a knob. In a few seconds the car was filled with the
popular music of the gay thirties. I stared at the spot from
where the music came. Maggie's house in City and Suburban
had electricity and she had talked of getting a radio. I was
used to the idea of radio. I had seen and heard sets as I
passed shops. But a radio in a car!

"Ill put you off at the station. All right?"

"Yes, missus."

She lit a cigarette. I glanced furtively at her. My eyes
touched her face for a second, then moved away quickly.

"Look if you must!"

But I could not after that.

All too soon we reached the station. She pulled up. She
took a crisp new ten-shilling note from her bag and pushed
it into my hand.

"Thank you, missus! Ill carry your bags whenever you
come to the market! Ill carry them for nothing for a year,
missus! 'Stru's God!"

She grinned and pushed the door open.

201

"Only a foolish fairy princess appears more than once,.
Peter. Good-bye."

I got out. The car shot away with the door still open.

"Good-bye, missus!" I called. But the car was already
swinging round a corner, . . .

For three months, after giving up all hope of a messen-
ger's job, I had carried baskets and bags for mean white
women for coppers they gave grudgingly. In that time I
had been accused of theft, I had been called all the pet
names of abuse reserved by whites for blacks; I had carried
heavy loads to the tram stop, and women had conveniently
forgotten to pay me. I had watched and polished cars and,
an hour or two later, I had had to be content with a penny
flipped in my general direction. Sometimes I had been lucky
and I had received the standard three pennies for the jour-
ney from the market to the tram stop. Sometimes the fee
had been doubled. When that happened, it meant I had hit
upon what we market-boys called a "real lady." "Real
ladies" were few and far between. A market-boy was lucky
if he got one once a week. And to earn anything he had to
carry for at least fifty ladies a week. I had been as lucky as.
most. Like most, I had been caught by a boy with a permit.
He had taken every penny from me and then given me a
beating for poaching on his territory. Unlike most, I had so
far escaped being caught by the police. But as with the
rest, the permit-holders and the police had been the scourge
of my three months at the market. Life at the market had
been hard, rough, and brutal.

Nights I had been in a scramble of another kind, that

202

of the newspaper-boy. I had fought bitterly to be able to
sell a dozen copies of the Johannesburg Star and earn a
penny.

Now the red-head had appeared and thrown me com-
pletely off my balance. The ten-shilling note was still in my
pocket, so it was real. ... I walked across Johannesburg
in a daze.

I was still in my daze when I fell over a black man scrub-
bing the front of a third-rate hotel just above Malay Camp.

"What with you!" he snapped. "You blind or drunk?"

I sat up beside him.

"Sorry, mister. I was thinking."

He threw back his head, leaned back on his haunches, and
laughed. I saw nothing funny in my sitting in a puddle of
water, but his laughter reassured me. There was no need to
jump up and run. At last he quieted down.

"You think with your eyes, boy? . . . No. I know what
it is. It is not thinking. It is dreaming. It is a thing all boys
do. In your mind you were not in this place. You were in
another place. A fine place. And you were another person.
A fine person. Maybe a rich person who could do wonderful
things. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"See! Once, a long time ago, I was a boy too. So I know.
But you must not call it thinking, it is dreaming. Sometimes
a man thinks and does not see. But he stops before he falls.
The man who dreams only wakes after he has fallen. . . .
You are not hurt?"

"No."

203

"Only wet, heh? It is the price of your dream."

I got up and squeezed some of the water out of the seat
of my pants. I walked away.

"Look out for cars when you dream!"

An idea hit me. I went back to him.

"Pm looking for work, mister."

He looked me up and down carefully, then got up. I fol-
lowed him into the hotel. He went into an office and came
out with a short, fat, red-faced white man. The white man
looked me over.

"Jim says you want work."

"Yes, bws."

"I'm no Boer."

"Yessir."

"Name?"

"Peter, sir."

"Surname?"

"Abrahams."

"Thought you were Coloured."

"I'll work hard, sir."

"Don't mind having a Coloured boy. Don't have to mess
around with passes then. One lot for Jim's enough. But I
don't want any nonsense about your being better than him.
Do as he tells you."

"Yessir."

"How old are you?"

"Nearly fifteen, sir."

It's against the law for you to be in the bar. Remember
I've warned you. If a policeman finds you there, you remem-

204

ber I've warned you and you went in there without my
orders. Understand?"

"Yessir."

"Even if I send you there."

"Yessir."

"All right. Now for terms. Pound a month. If you don't
work out your month, you get nothing. Got to be here every
day. You're fed while you're here. And you're under Jim.
All right?"

"Yessir."

"All right, Jim." He went back into his office.

"Come," Jim said.

2

My working day at the hotel began at five in the morning
and ended after midnight. Each morning I got up in the
dark, dressed by moonlight, and set out. I walked thrqugh
dark and silent streets. Occasionally I passed shadowy black
folk. Occasionally the clatter of milk-carts, the clang of
horses' hoofs, rang loud through the silent streets. Some-
times, if I was a little late, the water-carts had passed and
the streets were wet and shining. Usually at night, after the
day's work, I walked alone through the broad, empty, silent
streets of the city while all the world slept. The only dif-
ference was that I often encountered policemen at night.
They usually accepted my word that I was on my way home
from work and let me be. In all the time I worked at the
hotel, I never once walked through the streets of my city
in daylight. And because of the silence of the streets during
my passage to and from my work, I heard the drone of the

205

city clearly: the deep hum without end that seemed to come
from the very bowels of the earth. I called it the song of the
city and spun a web of tired dreams to it. It became the
companion of my dark journeys.

The day's work began in the bar. Jim was hard at work
when I arrived. First, we carried the large number of empty
beer bottles out to the yard. Then, while Jim washed the
hundreds of glasses, I emptied the ash-trays and swept up a
mountain of ash and cigarette ends from the floor, carpets,
and chairs. The horrible stench of stale beer and stale to-
bacco pervaded the rooms of the bar. We opened doors and
windows and toiled silently till a cool freshness crept into
the room, battled with the foul stench, and drove it out. We
polished counters and mirrors, cleaned windows. By the
time we had the bar fresh, clean, and shining, daylight had
been with us for many hours. Jim gave the bar a final in-
spection then grinned at me. The conversation of the morn-
ing began.

"It is good, heh, Beet?"

"Peter Jim."

"Beter. It is no matter, Beet or Beter."

"Never mind."

"Come, Beet. We will eat now."

At the door he paused and looked back. "It is clean now
till tomorrow."

"Yes. Till tomorrow."

That little conversation became our morning ritual.

In the yard at the back was a small room. It was stacked
with crates of beer bottles. It had one free corner in which a
small table stood. This was our rest-room and eating-place.

206

On the table was a Primus stove, two small saucepans, two
chipped enamel mugs, two enamel plates, and two rusty
spoons and a knife with only half its blade. I got water in
one of the pans while Jim lit the stove. I put the water on
and sat on an empty crate. Jim got a pile of left-over sand-
wiches from the bar. I made coffee, which we sweetened
with condensed milk. While we ate we talked.

Once Jim had wanted to go out at night without the boss
knowing. He had brought back a sheet of paper with a let-
terhead, pen and ink, and an old pass to use as model. I had
dated the paper and copied the white man's words:

PLEASE PASS NATIVE BOY JIM WHO IS
IN MY EMPLOY

I had copied the white man's signature.

Next morning, over our breakfast, we had talked about

passes.

"The pass was all right, Jim?"

"I did not need it, Beet. I saw no police."

"I will do it whenever you want."

"Good. But it is wrong that a boy should do it for a man."

"But why don't Coloureds have passes too?"

"It is because they are not so many. Beet. If your people

were as many as the black people, they, too, would have to

carry passes."
"Why?"
"It is a thing of fear, Beet. If you have many enemies and

you are not sure you have conquered them, then, always,

you want to know where they are, what they do, where they

207

go. If it is possible, you want to know what they think. For
that, passes are very good."

"Do you carry many?"

"For a man one pass is many, boy. But these we
carry . . ." He listed them.

When Jim left his Pedi village in the northern Transvaal
he had to go to the nearest police station or Native Affairs
Department. There he got a Trek Pass. This permitted him
to make the journey to Johannesburg. On reaching the city
he got an Identification Pass and a Six-Day Special Pass. He
paid two shillings each month for the Identification Pass.
The Six-Day Special was his protection while he looked for
work. He did not find work during his first six days in the
city. He did not go to the pass office to renew his Six-Day
Special. He was picked up on the eighth day and spent two
weeks in jail as a vagrant. That taught him to go to the pass
office regularly.

He found his first job in a suburb of the city. He got a
Monthly Pass. This was regarded as his contract of service.
Like all house-boys, he got part of the week-end off. Like
others, he wanted to visit places like Vrededorp and Malay
Camp, to drink a little, find a woman if he was lucky, and
get to know the life of the city. But these places were out-
side the district in which he was registered. To go there
without fear of being picked up, he got a Travelling Pass.
When he got to know black people of the city and wanted to
visit them on his Sunday off, he got a Day Special Pass
from his employer, made the journey, and got a Location
Visitor's Pass from the superintendent of the location where
his friends lived. Armed with these two, he could enter the

208

location freely. He had decided, after a time, to lodge with
his friends at the location. His employer had agreed. The
local superintendent had contacted the pass office. Except
for that one short spell in jail, his record was clear. The
superintendent had agreed. He had got his Lodger's Permit
and moved in.

He had met a woman, a nice young one, good to look at.
One who could laugh and who had reminded him of the
one he had left in his village. It had been a good thing. They
had gone out at night. To walk without fear after nine at
night he had to have a Night Special Pass.

But he had been happy with his laughing woman. And
the passes did not matter while he was happy. And, as it is
with a man, he wanted more of his woman. He wanted her
to sleep in his bed every night. And he wanted to be home
in that bed every night. All men are like that. And his
woman wanted that too. So they had gone to the superin-
tendent. And after a time the superintendent had given them
a little room and they had lived as man and wife.

But then there had been trouble at his work. While he
had been a man alone, the hours of work had been of no
moment. And working late had not mattered, because he
had slept in. But a man wants to go home to his wife when
he has one and is happy with her. And this wish of his, this
wish of a man to be with his woman, had made trouble be-
tween him and the white woman. And the trouble had grown
till there had been only bitterness. In the end he had given
notice and asked for his pass that would make him find other
work, and for his money. The white woman had refused to
give him his pass till he had worked out the month's notice.

209

But before that month had passed, the white woman had
called in the police. She had lied and said he had stolen. He
had gone to jail for two months.

He had returned to the location after he had served his
time. But his woman had gone. Another man and another
woman lived in the room. And so he had found this place
where he now worked.

He had ended with a crooked smile: "A man's life is con-
trolled by pieces of paper."

"Are those all the passes?" I had asked.

"Those and the poll-tax and hut-tax receipts."

"Are they passes too?"

"The countryman cannot pass without those, Beet."

He had suddenly burst out laughing then. Bubbling
laughter had shaken his body and forced joyous tears down
his cheeks.

"What's the matter, Jim?"

"I almost forgot the best pass of all. Beet! It is the only
one that makes me laugh!"

"Yes?"

"You have been in school, Beet."

"Yes."

"Well, if you were a black man who dressed and spoke
like white people, you would have that pass. It is for the
black men who are educated and say only the things the
white people want them to say. If you, Beet, were one like
that, you would have this pass."

"What is it?"

"I saw a man with one. He was proud. He looked at all
my passes and said he did not have any. He said he was free

210

of them. I said: 'How is it?' He said: 'I am educated, so I'm
exempted/ I said: 'So you carry no pass?' He said: 'No.'
I said: 'But what if the police stop you?' He said: *I show
them this!' And he showed me a pass! I said: 'It is a pass.'
But he said: 'No,' and grew angry with me. So there it is,
the pass that is not a pass!"

On this particular morning Jim talked about the woman
who had gone while he was in jail. Though it had all hap-
pened over a year ago, the memory of her laughter was
strong with him. He spoke of her as one in a cold climate
speaks with longing of the sun. His strong body leaned
against the crates. He sipped his coffee slowly. His weary,
bloodshot eyes stared into space. I almost felt the laughing
woman was there, so strongly did he evoke her; I won-
dered about her. Where was she? What was she doing? Did
she ever think of him? Did she know how much he longed
for her? Would they ever meet again? And what would hap-
pen if they did? . . .

We finished our breakfast. Then work took the place of
talk.

With buckets and mops we climbed the iron stairways
that led to the forty-odd rooms to be cleaned. Jim went to
one door; I went to the next. I knocked. There was no
answer. I went in.

First, the slops. I cleaned the washbasin with the remains
of the drinking-water. I took up the bucket into which the
white man had emptied his dirty water after washing. Keep-
ing it as far from my body as possible, and without looking
at it, I clattered down the stairs. Empty the bucket. Rinse it.
Up again. Make the bed. Sweep the room. Dust it. Smelly

211

room. Leave the door and window open. So to the next, and
the next, and the next.

When all the beds were made, all the floors swept, all the
slops emptied, there were the forty windows to he cleaned.
After that, there were the doorknobs to polish. Then there
were the landings to be swept and scrubbed. Then there were
the yard and the front. The fat little manager came on an
inspection tour in the late afternoon. He always found some-
thing else to be done.

Jim and I rarely had our lunch before five in the after-
noon. We were usually too tired to do more than nibble at
the focrd. But the silent rest was welcome. After "lunch" and
an hour's rest, during which I invariably went to sleep, we
shifted crates of bottles. We moved the empties out and the
full ones in. This lasted till the bar opened and the white
men returned to their rooms. We split up then. Jim went to
work in the bar cellar. I went upstairs to attend to the needs
of the roomers.

"Boy!"

"Yes, baas?"

"Get me some drinking-water!"

"Boy!"

"Yes, baas?"

"Come and clean up this mess!"

"I say, boy"

"Yes, baas?"

^Come here."

"Yes, baas?"

"Tell the manager get him by himself tell him I've a
visitor. I want a tray. He knows what. Say it's for two."

212

"Yes, baas."

I went and returned with a tray. In it were a plate of fresh
sandwiches, two glasses, two big packets of cigarettes, and a
bottle of whisky. I knocked. The white man opened the door
a slit and peeped out. He opened it wider and took the tray.
I saw a woman's back.

"Here, boy!"

I took the coin. He shut the door in my face.

"Boy!"

"Yes, baas?"

"Boy!"

"Coming, baas!"

"Boy!"

At last the calls grow less, then cease. The bar is shut. Jim
comes wearily up from the cellar. I go wearily down from
the rooms. The day's work is done. There is food, but we
turn away from it.

"Good night, Jim."

"Good night, Beet."

Ahead is the long tramp home through the dark and silent
streets.

Each day was like the one before. The work of each day
was like that of the day before. We did the same things each
day, the same things each night. When I got home to Mag-
gie's place, she and her husband were asleep. When I left
each morning, they were still asleep. I became permanently
tired, permanently sleepy. My eyes grew bloodshot, like
Jim's. I moved with the heavy slowness of a leaden man,
like Jim. I ate less and less. I just was not hungry. Only

213

tired. Always tired. So the first week passed. Each day like
the others. Days without name. I forgot the feel of the sun.
I developed a dry cough that hurt my chest. I did not think
about anything; I was too tired. There was only the work,
and, at the end of the month, the pound.

On the Friday of my second week I jerked awake about
half past four in the morning. It was automatic. I reached
for my trousers. I had to get to work. Then I saw Maggie as
she got up from the chair where she had sat. Her face was
tear-stained.

"Matter, Mag?"

She took my trousers from me and pushed me back into
bed.

"Go to sleep, Lee."

"I must go to work."

"Go to sleep, little brother. You're not going back to that
place. Ma's been here twice. Each time she waited till the
last tram. How do you think I feel when you live here and I
haven't seen you in two weeks?"

"But the work the pound."

"Not there. Go to sleep. Your coughing woke me."

I wanted to resist, to argue, but I was too tired. I lay back
and shut my eyes. . . .

The sun was high when I woke again. Beams of sunlight
fell across my bed under the window. Near by, for my bed
was in a corner of the large kitchen, a kettle sang gaily.
Maggie came through from her front room.

"So you're awake."

"Hello, Mag."

"I thought you had sense, Lee. Killing yourself at what-

214

ever this job is! How'd you think I'd face Ma? Tea? How
do you feel?"

"Tired."

"Tired! You're sick!"

She gave me breakfast in bed. I went off to sleep again.

I woke in the late afternoon feeling like a person again. I
could think again. Yes, it was silly to have kept on with
that job. It would have killed me. Maggie had saved me.

I went back to the hotel in the late afternoon. Jim was
behind in his work.

"You're late. Beet. White man's gone to find another boy.
If you start now, maybe he'll forgive you."

"I've not come to work, Jim."

"What's the matter?"

"It's too hard. I'll find another job."

"All work is hard for us, Beet."

"Not like this."

"Maybe not, and maybe more hard."

"It wiU kill you, Jim."

"You mean it, this thing?"

"Yes, Jim."

"I'm sorry. I like you, Beet. It was good to work with
you."

"I'm sorry to leave you, Jim."

"Maybe you'll be lucky. . . . Here is the white man."

I turned. Another boy, a black boy this time, walked be-
hind him. The white man frowned when he saw me.

"Why're you so late? And you're not working!"

"I'm not working here any more, sir."

"Not working! Then why are you here?"

215

"I want the money for which I've worked, sir. My sister
says it's against the law if you don't pay me for my work.
Two weeks."

The man's face went red. He took a step toward me. I
moved back.

"Against the law!" He spluttered. "You you! . . .
Damned!" Words failed him. He rushed at me.

I dodged him and ran out.

"It'll kill you," I said as I passed the new boy.

I went back to the market and the market-boy's cry:
"Carry your bags, missus. ..." I was back in the scuffling,
scrambling world. The sun shone again. I learned to laugh
again, to run and shout like a boy again. My remembrance
of the hotel soon became a thing of the past, unreal, like a
bad dream.

Summer gave way to autumn.

"Carry your bags, missus. . . ."

"Lookout! Cops!"

Sometimes I met the old Vrededorp drover, Oupa Ruiter,
collecting sheep at the market. I usually tended his flock
while he went on little personal errands. Sometimes I helped
him herd his flock through the busy city traffic and left him
on the outskirts of the town. Once I got permission from
Maggie and my mother and went on a three-day journey
with him. Something of the vast majesty of the land entered
my heart in those three days.

My fifteenth birthday came. My mother came from Up-
per Vrededorp. Chris Fortune and Maggie bought me a Mec-

216

cano set. We had a sumptuous rice meal. And, to end the
evening, I read them a wild-West story I had written.

Winter came: a mild, promising winter.

The police got so strict at the market that winter that the
boys without permits dared not enter it. The foolhardy few
who did were caught. With the majority, I hung around the
tram stop. Often there were vicious fights at the tram stop.
Too many dogs were after too few bones. I collected two
black eyes.

On a corner on the far side of the parking square was an
eating-house for black men, "the Burning Meat." The mar-
ket-boys went there whenever they had the price of a meal.
For three pennies one got a piece of meat swilling in a thin,
oily soup, and a large hunk of bread. The place itself be-
longed to the flies. Almost, we, the humans, were there only
on sufferance. Flies walked over the resin-covered floor,
copulated on the long benches and tables where the men sat,
blackened the ceiling, and made the window opaque. They
walked over the counter on which cooked meat was dis-
played. They fought and did their business on the meat.
And their impudent drone filled the room and made it neces-
sary for the humans to raise their voices when speaking.
I, and all the others, often had to pick out dead and dying
bodies that had fallen into our soup. Sometimes, if a person
opened his mouth to put in food, a fly would shoot in.
Really, the Burning Meat belonged to the flies. But we had
nowhere else to eat, so the flies tolerated us.

All manner of black men came to the Burning Meat. I
recognized those new to the city by their uncertainty, by
their tentativeness and the anxious friendliness in their eyes.

217

The men of the city, the city-born, had cold, expressionless
faces, and there was a hint of arrogance in their bearing.
The educated men I recognized by their shame and furtive-
ness. They came in quickly, quietly, looked at no one, ate
hurriedly, and slipped out again. And if it happened that
they saw another of their kind, they deliberately sat with
their backs to him, gobbled their food even more hurriedly,
and slunk away even more furtively.

On the other side of the parking space, the side farthest
from the Burning Meat, an old Zulu with a pushcart some-
times sold coffee and hot fatcakes. His pushcart and his per-
son were spotlessly clean. Educated black men, and even
some Coloureds, ate there without being ashamed. But for
us, the market-boys, coffee and fatcakes were a luxury we
could rarely afford. One mug of coffee and one f atcake cost
f ourpence and was not half so filling as the threepenny meal
at the Burning Meat. But I had coffee and f atcake whenever
I could.

One day a slim, neatly dressed, collar-and-tie young man
stopped for coffee and fatcakes. While he ate, he read a
paper. I saw the paper's name: the Bantu World. I knew the
names of all the big Johannesburg papers because I sold
them. But I had never come across the Bantu World. I
twisted my body to see better. Yes, the pictures on the front
page were of black people! All the papers I sold had only
pictures of white folk. I tried to read what it said about the
black people's pictures. The young man raised his eyes and
looked at me over the top of the paper. I straightened up.

"Can you read?"

I nodded.

218

"Really?"

"Yes."

He looked me over. A half-smile touched his lips and
creased his handsome face.

"All right. Here, read this to me."

I took the paper and read aloud.

"By God, you can, too!"

"I told you. I went to school."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Working."

"At the market?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I want money to learn some more."

"And you're one of those who stop white women and ask
to carry their bags."

"Yes."

"Couldn't you find a better job?"

"No."

"Did you try?"

"I tried hard."

"And that is why you carry white women's bags?"

"Yes."

"Incredible!" He shook his head and burst out laughing.
"Like another coffee and fatcake?"

While I ate, he kept looking at me. He seemed unable
to control his laughter. He was laughing at me. It hurt. I
could endure the laughter and mockery of whites, but this,
from a black man, hurt. I put down the mug and walked
away. He came bounding after me and grabbed my arm.

219

"You are wrong, my friend, you are wrong. I wasn't
laughing at you. I was laughing at myself. I'm sorry. Come
back and I'll explain. Honestly."

He led me back to the stand.

"Have another coffee and cake with me. ... I really
was laughing at myself. At myself and all the others like me.
You see, we despise you. Among ourselves, in our clubs and
homes, we say it is you and those like you who make things
difficult for us. We see you barefooted, dirty, running about
the streets and markets. It makes us ashamed. We say the
whites see you and think all blacks are like you. We say they
never meet us, the educated, the teachers. So to them all
blacks are the same. And we blame you for it. We do not
try to find out about you, we just blame you. And how wrong
we can be! That was what made me laugh. You showed me
how foolish and prejudiced our own people can be. That
was all. I felt ashamed of myself, and my laughter was
against me and hid my shame. All right?"

"All right."

"What do you want to learn?"

"To write stories."

"I cannot help there. But maybe I can help with a job. Do
you know the Bantu Men's Social Centre?"

"No. But I can find it."

"Good. Go there. Ask for Mr. Peter Dabula. Describe me
to him and tell him I said he might have a job for you." He
studied me again. "Tell you what. You go home and have a
good wash. Put on your best clothes and try to get a pair of
shoes. Then go along. I'll phone Mr, Dabula and tell him
you're coming."

220

"Thank you very much, sir."

"You haven't got the job yet, my friend."

"Thank you all the same."

"Here, keep this paper. Although it's by and about black
people, it's controlled by whites. . . . Good luck, my
friend."

I watched him walk away in the direction of Fordsburg,
then I swung about and hurried home. . . . "Please God,
please, please let me get that job. Amen.". . .

Maggie was mystified by my goings-on.

I laid out my grey flannel shorts and jacket. I found the
old pair of shoes her husband, Chris, had given me. I pol-
ished them till the leather glowed. I inspected my one whole
white shirt carefully. The socks had "potatoes," but I could
hide those. I heated two kettles of water, poured them into
the washtub, stripped, and got in. I soaped myself vigorously
from head to foot.

Maggie gave up her pretended nonchalance.

"What's this in aid of?"

I grinned at her through a mountain of soapsuds that
rolled from my woolly hair down my face and into my
eyes.

"Got a job!"

"Oh. Anyone would have thought you'd got a girl."

"A good job. An educated man told me about it!"

"Where?"

"Bantu Men's Social Centre."

"What's that?"

221

"Don't know."

"Where's it?"

"Don't know."

"You don't know what it is; you don't know where it is.
Are you sure you've got the job?"

"No."

She flung up her hands and laughed.

"Now I've heard everything!"

"A man told me about the job. It was at the market. I'm
going to see a man called Peter Dabula. The man I talked
with said he'd telephone him."

"And where will you find this Peter Dabula?"

"At the Bantu Men's Social Centre."

"And you don't know where or what that is."

"I'll find it."

"I believe you, little brother. You're mad enough to do
anything. I sometimes wonder what goes on in that funny
head of yours."

I found the Bantu Men's Social Centre on the outer rim
of Johannesburg, on the way to Langlaagte and the white
mountains of sand that towered beyond it. It was a huge
building that stood in its own grounds. But for the huge sign
on its front, I would have passed it by as just another Euro-
pean building.

I hesitated uncertainly on the pavement till two well-
dressed black men speaking English passed me and went in.
I followed them. There was a passage that widened into a
rectangular hall. Doors led off to right and left. On the first

222

door on the left was the word: "Secretary." The two men
passed that and entered the second door on the left. I
knocked on the door marked "Secretary." No one answered.
Again. Still no answer. I heard voices and looked about me.
To my right, a flight of stairs led to a first-floor landing.
Two men were leaning against a balustrade, talking.

I called up to them: "Excuse me, please "

"Yes, son?"

"I'm looking for Mr. Dabula, please."

"Try the office."

"I have. There's no answer."

"I should wait. Mr. Rathebe won't be long."

From the other side of the huge door that faced the
passage came a deep voice, touched with the velvet quality
of organ notes, singing a familiar song.

The organ notes stopped. Another, lighter voice, without
the magic quality of the first, sang the same words, tried to
make them sound the same, but failed. Then the magnificent
voice sang a little more of the song. And again the lighter
voice repeated it. If only the lighter voice would leave the
other alone! Others must have shared my feeling, for a man
came out of the door where the two had gone in earlier. He
pushed the great door open. I saw part of a huge hall.

"Hlubi, man!" the man called. "The fellows want to hear
Robeson. Turn it up!"

"All right."

Black men appeared from everywhere and stood in
silence.

That was a black man, one of us! I knew it. I needed no
proof. The men about me, their faces, their bearing, carried

223

all the proof. That was a black man! The voice of a black
man!

The glorious voice stopped. The men went back to what
they were doing. The moment that had given us a common
identity was over. Robeson the man had called him. A name
to remember, that. I would find out about that man.

"Some voice, heh, son?" a man said to me.

"Yessir!"

"He's an American Negro," the man said, and moved
away.

I followed him through the door where the greatest num-
ber went. It was a long room, spacious, and with big win-
dows that let in light. At one end was a billiard table. Two
men, in shirt-sleeves, played. At the other end were shelves
filled with books. Comfortable settees were ranged about the
room. Men sat reading or talking. Others watched the game.
They all spoke English here.

I moved over to the bookshelves. I wanted to touch the
books, but held back. Perhaps it was not permitted. Typed
slips showed what each shelf held: novels, history, sociology,
travel, Africana, political science, American Negro litera-
ture. ... I stopped there. American Negro literature. The
man had said Robeson was an American Negro. . . .

A man got up and came over. He ran his finger along the
American Negro literature shelf and took out a book.

"Excuse me. Can I look at these?"

"Of course," he smiled.

I reached up and took out a fat black book. The Souls of
Black Folk, by W. E. R. Du Bois. I turned the pages. It
spoke about a people in a valley. And they were black, and

224

dispossessed, and denied. I skimmed through the pages.
anxious to take it all in. I read:

"For this much all men know: despite compromise,
war, struggle, the Negro is not free."

"The Negro is not free.". . . I remembered those "Re-
served for Europeans Only" signs; I remembered no white
boys ever carried bags at the market or ran from the police;
I remembered my long walks in the white sections of the
city, and the lavatories, and the park benches, and the tea-
rooms; I remembered Elsburg; I remembered Jim's passes;
I remembered the Burning Meat; I remembered Harry at
Diepkloof; I remembered Aunt Mattie going to jail; I re-
membered spittle on my face. . . . "The Negro is not
free."

But why had I not thought of it myself? Now, having read
the words, I knew that I had known this all along. But until
now I had had no words to voice that knowledge. Du Bois's
words had the impact of a revelation.

Elsewhere I read:

"I have seen a land right merry with the sun, where
children sing, and rolling hills lie like passioned women
wanton with harvest. And there in the King's Highway
sat and sits a figure veiled and bowed, by which the
traveller's footsteps hasten as they go. On the tainted
air broods fear. Three centuries' thought has been the
raising and unveiling of that bowed human heart, and
now behold a century new for the duty and the deed.
The problem of the Twentieth Century is the problem
of the colour-line."

225

I read on and found a reiteration:

"The problem of the Twentieth Century is the prob-
lem of the colour-line the relation of the darker to
the lighter races of men in Asia and Africa, in America
and the islands of the sea."

For all the thousands of miles, for all the ocean, between
the land and people of whom he wrote and my land, Du Bois
might have been writing about my land and people. The
mood and feeling he described were native to me. I recog-
nized the people as those among whom I lived. The only
difference was that there was no laughter in this book. Here,
in our land, in the midst of our miseries, we had moments
of laughter, moments of playing. Though like us in every
other respect, the Negroes in The Souls of Black Folk
seemed very solemn, without laughter. But for all that, Du
Bois had given me a key to the understanding of my world.
The Negro is not free. . . .

I replaced the book and reached for others. There was
Up from Slavery; Along This Way, by Weldon Johnson; a
slim volume called The Black Christ; a fat volume called
The New Negro. I turned the pages of The New Negro.
These poems and stories were written by Negroes! Some-
thing burst deep inside me. The world could never again be-
long to white people only! Never again!

I took The New Negro to a chair. I turned the pages.

FROM THE DARK TOWER

"We shall not always plant while others reap. . . ."

226

"Are you the young man who's been looking for me?"

For a while I stared foolishly at the neat little man who
stood over my chair.

"My name's Rathebe."

"Yessir!" I shut the book and jumped up.

"Well, young man?"

"I'm looking for Mr. Dabula, please."

"Your name?"

"Peter Abrahams."

"What's it about?"

"A job. I met a gentleman who said he'd phone."

"That's right. Mr. Dabula's expecting you. Go up the
stairs and it's the first door on your right."

I replaced the book and followed Rathebe out bf the
room. He entered the door marked "Secretary." I climbed
up the stairs. The voice of the man called Hlubi reached me
from the big hall. He was practising without Robeson now.

"Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there when they nailed him on the cross?"

I knocked on the door.

"Come in!"

I went into a small office. A young man sat at a desk. In
front of him was a typewriter with a sheet half filled with
writing. The young man was small and chubby not much
taller than myself, but well filled out. He had a round face,
smooth and dark brown. His forehead was large, large
enough to give the impression that his hair receded. His
hair, a shade less uncontrollably kinked than mine, was cut
short and very well groomed. He gave the impression of

227

quiet freshness. He studied me with brown eyes that sug-
gested gentleness. Indeed, this gentleness of the eyes seemed
a thing common to all the men I had seen at the Bantu Men's
Social Centre that afternoon. It was almost as if I had met
a new kind of hlack person.

"Mr. Dabula?"

"Yes. What can I do for you?"

"I met a gentleman who said "

"Ah! You're the young man from the market." His eyes
ran over my neat and proper dress. "I expected "

I grinned and helped him out: "I had a proper scrub.
Nearly didn't know myself."

"Sit down. . . . You've really been a market-boy?"

"Yes."

His face creased into a smile.

"Well now, about the job." He explained:

This was the office of the black section of the Boy Scout
movement. In South Africa even this international organiza-
tion for co-operation, manliness, and understanding was run
on segregation lines. The white scouts had one organization,
the blacks another, and the Coloureds yet another. As in all
other spheres, there was no intermingling between black and
white. The black scouts were called Pathfinders. And this
little office was their headquarters.

He outlined my tasks as office-boy. I would have to file
letters and keep the files in order. I would have to deal with
the orders for scout badges, whistles, lanyards, hats, and
belts; make them up into parcels, make out the invoices, and
post the parcels. My wage would be ten shillings a week.

"What's your writing like?"

228

I did a specimen for him.

"Atrocious," he grinned. "All right. Start in the morn-
ing."

I went down to the library and my newly discovered New

Negro.

We shall not always plant while others reap

The golden increment of bursting fruit,

Not always countenance, abject and mute,

That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;

Not everlastingly while others sleep

Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,

Not always bend to some more subtle brute;

We were not made eternally to weep.

A man called Countee Cullen said that to me. And this
man loved John Keats in a way I understood.
A man named Langston Hughes said:

Fm looking for a house
In the world

Where the white shadows
Will not fall.

Then he checked me with: .

There is no such house,
Dark brother,
No such house
At all.

There were many others. Stirling Brown wrote with the
authority of a man who had had a long talk with history.
Claude McKay stirred me to aggressive pride:

229

Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe;
Though far outnumbered let us still be brave,
And JOT their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

I could go out and spit in a white man's face! . . . For-
tunately, the mood passed long before I met a white man.

Georgia Douglas Johnson stirred me to pride in the dark-
ness of my mother and sister; and Jean Toomer:

Caroling softly souls of slavery,

What they were, and what they are to me,

Caroling softly souls of slavery,

stirred me to the verge of tears.

In the months that followed, I spent nearly all my spare
time in the library of the Bantu Men's Social Centre. I read
every one of the books on the shelf marked: American
Negro literature. I became a nationalist, a colour nationalist,
through the writings of men and women who lived a world
away from me. To them I owe a great debt for crystallizing
my vague yearnings to write and for showing me the long
dream was attainable.

My mother came from Vrededorp that night and we had
a little family party. I told them about my job and about my
discovery of American Negro literature. I tried to tell them
what it meant to me. But they were not really interested.
America and Harlem were at the other end of the world.
And in Coloured terminology Negroes were black people

230

whom both whites and Coloureds called Natives in their po-
lite moments. I gave up my attempts, sat back, and listened.
They talked happily about the little rounds of their days. I
realized, quite suddenly, that I was rapidly moving out of
this Coloured world of mine, out of the reach of even my
dear mother and sister. I saw them with the objective eyes
of a stranger. My mother touched my arm.

"You're growing up fast, Lee. ..."

I looked into her eyes. Her lips curved in understanding.
She had caught my thought. She was still with me.

A world of activity opened to me. I joined the Path-
finders, attended their meetings, and read all the literature
on Scouting. I learned the very useful things each scout
knew.

In three weeks I had saved up enough to buy a ten-
shilling postal order. The Bantu World carried a weekly ad-
vertisement of a correspondence school. The rate was ten
shillings a month. I took their "General Education" course.
Also in the Bantu World I saw an illustrated offer of ten
beautifully bound volumes entitled Practical Knowledge for
Att, which could be had on easy terms. I sent off for these.

Often I brought my lessons to the library of the Bantu
Men's Social Centre. The atmosphere there was more con-
ducive to learning than at home. Also, there were usually
others studying. Some, like myself, had correspondence
courses. Others, the more advanced, studied independently.
And if I got stuck I could always find someone to help me
out.

231

Sometimes, of an evening, I listened to the debates of the
Social Centre's Debating Society. Sometimes I went into the
big hall and watched men rehearsing their songs and dances.
Almost every evening, after the day's work, my boss, Peter
Dabula, went into Rathebe's office downstairs. Others would
be there and they would sit talking. I wormed my way into
these sessions and became a silent, unobtrusive listener.

Rathebe talked fascinatingly about his travels. He had
been to England and America. And we never tired of hear-
ing him tell of his experiences. In England he had lived in
the homes of white people, had sat at table with them! Eng-
land had no colour bar. A man could go where he pleased
when he pleased. A man was just a man. Of course, people
had looked. He was different. But there was no colour bar.
And he had met Negroes living in England. They had made
it their home. Why, the great Paul Robeson lived there!

But Harlem! Harlem ... the city of Negroes. A city
within a city: not a suburb, not a location, not a slum area,
a city. . . . We hung on his words; words spoken in an
easy, subdued manner stirred our hearts and minds, and
led us on to wild dreams.

So many questions stirred in me; so many things I
wanted to know, but I dared not ask lest they turn me out.
They had forgotten my presence. Best leave it like that.

Once one of Rathebe's listeners was moved to exclaim:
"Freedom!"

Rathebe's words gave us some slight yardstick with which
to attempt an understanding of the meaning of freedom.
And, to a man, his audience dreamed of one day leaving
this land. They all expressed a desire to go to America.

232

America held the promise. America was the land of hope
and opportunity.

My mind was divided. The call of America's limitless
opportunities was strong. The call of Harlem, Negro col-
leges, and the "New Negro" writers, was compelling. But
Charles Lamb, John Keats, Shelley, and the glorious host
they led made a counter call. And my mind's eye saw a
peaceful land that offered peace to a poet.

Ye who have yearn'd

With too much passion, will here stay and pity,
For the mere sake of truth; as 'tis a ditty
Not of these days, but long ago 'twas told
By a cavern wind unto a forest old;
And then the forest told it in a dream
To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam
A poet caught as he was journeying
To Phoebus 7 shrine; and in it he did fling
His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space,
And after, straight in that inspired place
He sang the story up into the air,
Giving it universal freedom.

So as the others expressed their dreams of getting to
America, I tried to take stock of the two forces that pulled
me, first this way, then that. And it seemed that America
had more to offer me as a hlack man. If the American
Negro was not free, he was, at least, free to give voice to his
unfreedom. And there was promise for me in the very fact
that so many of them had risen to high eminence.

Yet England, holding out no offer, not even the comfort

233

of being among my own kind, could counter that call be-
cause men now dead had once crossed its heaths and walked
its lanes, quietly, unhurriedly, and had sung with such
beauty that their songs had pierced the heart of a black
boy, a world away, and in another time.

I decided. I would go to England one day. Perhaps I
would go to America afterwards, but I would go to England
first. I would go there because the dead men who called
were, for me, more alive than the most vitally living. In my
heart I knew my going there would be in the nature of a
pilgrimage.

But Harlem! A Negro city! Imagine Countee Cullen
walking down a street and meeting Langston Hughes! And
then imagine Paul Robeson joining them! And Du Bois!
And Stirling Brown. ... Go on! Chuck in Pushkin too!
And then let them talk! Imagine. . . .

One day I discovered there were early-morning gym
classes at the Social Centre. I got up earlier and joined
these before starting my day's work. I was easily the skin-
niest runt in the class and became body-conscious. I began
to read the "Are you a man or a mouse?" ads in the Bantu
World. I came across an offer by Charles Atlas to make a
"he-man" out of me if only I would give him a seven-day
trial. I wrote to Mr. Atlas's South African address. I told
him I wanted to be turned into a "he-man" by his Dynamic
Tension course. The snag was that I could not at present
stretch my money to meet his course. I explained my
budget:

2s. 6d. a week was set aside for my correspondence
course;

234

2s. 6d. a week to pay off the price of the ten volumes;
2s. 6d> went to Maggie for my keep;
2s. 6d. for clothing that I needed badly, and pocket-
money.

But I promised to set 2s. 6d. aside to pay for my "he-man"
body as soon as I had finished paying for the books. I had
no reply from Mr. Atlas.

I wrote to another body-building expert, Mr. George F.
Jowitt. He replied, explaining in a kindly letter that he
could not build up my body on credit and that all I really
needed I could do by myself. He suggested a lot of fresh air
and exercise.

To aid the fresh air and exercise, I later borrowed ten
shillings from my savings for clothes and spent it on a large-
size bottle of "Vikelp" tablets. These were advertised as
made up of precious life-giving minerals from the bed of
the seas. They were guaranteed to put "pounds of solid,
healthy flesh" on my body. I spent a large number of pen-
nies weighing myself. In three months I actually put on two
pounds in weight!

Periodically, there were dances at the Centre. Usually on
Saturday nights. Young men brought their wives or girl
friends. I attended some of these, but never worked up the
courage to ask a young woman to dance. Instead I took
lessons from Maggie at home. Even these, however, did not
give me the needed confidence to approach a strange young
woman. Even my new long trousers, moral supports in
everything else, could not support me to the point of asking
to dance with a young woman.

But my life was full, and Vrededorp, the market, the tin-

235

smithy, all seemed to belong to another lifetime, in another
world.

Peter Dabula responded to my lust for learning and
helped me learn to type. Because everyone at the Social
Centre spoke English, it became a habit with me. I thought
in English. It took the place of Afrikaans as my first lan-
guage. My range of words expanded, and with it the range
of my thoughts. All my days and half my nights were
crammed with learning, working, watching, listening, and
the long, long dreams of youth.

Winter gave way to spring.

I fell in love that spring.

When I got home one evening, I found Maggie and her
friend Rachel on the veranda. From other verandas other
women also looked out. They flung words at one another
across the street about the standard of the neighbourhood
being lowered.

A new family was moving into a house in the little alley-
way that connected our dead-end street to the next. These
loudly spoken remarks were for the benefit of that family.
I watched the new family and the pile of junk they stacked
on the pavement from the dray-cart.

The women were right. This was a slice of the slummiest,
filthiest Vrededorp and Malay Camp moving into our "se-
lect" area. The beds were of the wooden variety we had
called "bugs' heaven" in Vrededorp. They had cracks and
nooks in which armies of bedbugs lived. From there, at
night, the bugs came out and feasted on human blood. In

236

our Vrededorp days Aunt Mattie had turned out the house
once every fortnight and we had attacked the enemy with
innumerable kettles of boiling water and Jeye's Fluid. But
somehow, we had never succeeded in making the army any
smaller. We killed millions of swollen bugs at each turnout,
only to meet millions more the next time.

And the people were slumland's children: the old woman,
hard and ageless, whose rasping voice carried to us as she
interspersed her instructions with curses; the tough, brutal-
looking young man who carried all the heavier things; the
two fat, squat, ribald younger women who spoke at the top
of their voices; the litter of dirty children of all shapes and
sizes; all this was slumland suddenly catapulted into aspir-
ing City and Suburban.

And we, the aspiring, were ashamed to see ourselves as
we had once been. We resented being reminded of our
origins. Having escaped the slums, we dreaded slipping
back, and we resented savagely the turning of our new
homes into a new slum area. All this resentment was flung
at the new arrivals. Had they left their junk, dressed in their
best and moved in with even one suite of new furniture
bought on the instalment plan, the women would have
turned out with cups of tea. For then the new arrivals would
have declared their repudiation of the slums and would
have been, like us, the aspiring. But they had brought the
slums with them, defiantly. So the voices of the women were
bitter against them. And they, sensing hostility, became ag-
gressively louder and more vulgar.

By the time darkness fell they had moved nearly all their
things in. And though it was a warm spring night, they lit a

237

fire. The houses, here, all had grates. But theirs was the
kerosene-tin fire of Vrededorp. As their house was smaller
than the others, they had no veranda, but there was a little
clearing in front of the house.

I went in when Chris arrived from work. We had our
meal. I did my chores and my lessons. Maggie talked in-
dignantly of the new arrivals. She and Chris went off to
neighbours to talk over this new problem. The whole street
was united against the strangers. I went out to look at them.
About me stood men and women, watching the strangers.

Their fire was glowing red and smokeless. And they sat
round it eating their evening meal. Their laughter rang up
and down the street. And in the background, more con-
trolled, more respectable, were the angry, protesting voices
of the aspiring; among them, my sister's.

The tough young man went into the house and came out
with a guitar. How many were there, I wondered. I counted
them. Four grown-ups: three women and one man. Four
children: two boys and two girls. I had not seen the bigger
girl earlier. About my size. Something about her stirred my
interest. The man plucked at the guitar strings. The old
woman pushed a white clay pipe firmly into her mouth and
lit it. One of the women began singing. Soon the others
joined in. Only the girl did not. She sat with her head
lowered, looking into the burning fire. I knew what it was.
She felt and was hurt by the hostility of the aspiring. I felt
ashamed for my sister suddenly. I wanted to tell the girl that
Maggie was really a warm, kind-hearted person. . . .

I walked up the street and turned left, up the sloping
land, away from the city and people and houses, in the di-

238

rection of the towering mine dumps. I climbed the rising
land till I stood on a green hill Ahead, on the other side of
the land dipping away into a valley, the mine dumps tow-
ered white against the moonlit sky.

I turned and looked at the city. A sea of twinkling, multi-
coloured lights leaped to the eye. They threw up the out-
lines of buildings. They made the wide streets shine. They
spelled out advertisements. I could map the city by its
lights.

That was the heart of it there, where it was almost as
light as day. I could see cars and trams clearly. And the out-
lines of people moving. White people. To the left, and a
little towards me, was Malay Camp, an inky black spot in
the sea of light. Couldn't see anything there. Dark folk
move in darkness: white folk move in light. Well, Malay
Camp wouldn't be a slum if it were as light as the city. Slum
is darkness. Dark folk live in darkness.

Beyond Malay Camp, a little to the left again, was white
Fordsburg. White: lights. Black: darkness. A strip of dark-
ness ran through black Fordsburg and became a big .black
blob. Vrededorp. And to the left of it, that world of light
was Mayfair. And the patch of light to the right of it was
Upper, white, Vrededorp.

To the right of me, beyond the heart of the city, lights
moved away in waves. Those were the white suburbs: there
was Hospital Hill; beyond it, out of sight, was Parktown
and the other suburbs of light. Light is white: dark is black.

And from the beautiful city a soft, eternal hum drifted up
to me. And all else was silent.

The fat yellow moon hung low over the city. A cluster of

239

bright, dancing stars looked down on it. One exploded and
streaked across the city, leaving a tail of light in its wake.

. . . Dear God! Has earth a fairer land? Can there be
one as fair? And if there can, can I feel for it as for this?
And can my heart ever ache for the people of another with
the purity it does for the people of this? The whites here
sing a love song to the land, from within. Would they have
me sing it from without? Dear God, wherever you are,
whatever you are, look down in pity on my unwisdom, on
the unwisdom of man, and help me love this land as it
should be loved. This land has made me, shaped my beat-
ing heart and wayward dreams. Dear God . . .

I stayed there for a while, a little self-conscious and
ashamed at the intensity of my emotions. New feelings, elu-
sive and uncontrollable, played on my heart and mind. A
need different from all the other needs I had ever known
moved me to longing. And I did not know what I longed
for.

I left the green hill and went home.

From quite a way off I saw the girl standing under the
lamp at the corner of our street. I walked faster. As I
neared, one of the boys joined her. They talked for a while,
then the boy went away.

I could see her clearly now. She leaned against the lamp-
post, looking at a book by the lamplight. She wore a cheap
cotton dress that revealed her slim young body. Her long,
kinky hair was pulled back straight and tied in a bun at the
nape of her neck. Smooth brown skin stretched tight over a
round face.

I neared the lamppost. The longing left me. A new cour-

240

age led me on. I stopped beside her under the lamplight.

"Hello," I said.

She looked up from her book. I smiled.

"My name's Peter. I live here. I saw you move in."

"Hello."

"What's your name?"

"Anne."

"I like it."

Her shy smile revealed a gap where a front tooth was
missing.

"You don't mind my talking to you?"

"No."

"I'm glad."

I looked at her. She looked at me. I could think of noth-
ing more to say. She closed her book and leaned her head
against the post. I put out one hand and balanced myself
against the post.

Time and the world stood still while a great and aching
happiness crept into me and spread through my body.
Many years, many ages later, one of the boys approached
us.

"Gran wants you, Anne."

"I'm coming."

"She said now!"

"Go on. I'm coming."

He turned and went back.

"I must go," she said.

"Yes."

Neither of us moved for a long while.

"Anne!"

241

"That's Gran." She smiled.

"She sounds angry."

"She isn't really. ... But I must go now."

"Yes."

Unwillingly we moved down the street together. We
moved as slowly as we could, making one step last a long
time. But at last we had to part. We were near the fire. All
her family turned to look. This disturbed me, though Anne
did not seem to mind her family seeing us together. She
put out her hand. I took it.

"Good night."

"Goodnight. . . . Anne Anne "

"Yes?"

"Please come for a walk tomorrow night. . . ,"

Her lips curved in a quiet smile.

"All right. I'll ask Gran."

"Perhaps she'll refuse."

"She won't. I know Gran."

Suddenly Gran's rasping voice cut at us. "How long do I
have to wait while you stand holding hands!"

I released Anne's hand hurriedly.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

I slunk away from the watching eyes around the fire.

At home, Maggie had friends in for a game of cards.

"Hello, Lee. . . . Want to join? Take my place while I
make tea."

"No!"

I went through to my section of the kitchen and flung
myself on my bed.

242

"I'll be damned," Chris said, "He usually pesters us to
play."

I lay in a wakeful dream far into the night. And Anne
was the heart of the dream.

I stood under the street lamp. In my pocket was a large
bar of chocolate, and in my hand was a quart bottle of
ginger beer. Our first night out would be a party.

There she was! . . . No. The girl who came to me was
shorter and quite squat, not slender and long-limbed like
Anne.

"Hello. You, Peter? Pm Loo. Really Anne's my aunt, but
I can't call her auntie because I'm twelve and she's only
fifteen."

"Isn't she coming?"

"Oh yes! She's ready. Gran wants you to come and get
her."

"Why?"

"Gran says she has a home and there's no need for you to
meet on street corners. Really, Gran wants to look you over.
She's funny. Says she doesn't want me all over again."

"Why?"

"Because I have no father, and my mother wouldn't tell
on the man who made me. , . . Come on!"

I followed her down and into the house. They were all
there, waiting to look me over. I endured their silent scru-
tiny for a painful half -minute. Then Anne came out of the
other room and came to my side. She took my hand in hers
and tried to still my trembling.

"This is Peter, Gran. . . ."

243

She named her relatives for me. They said things to me.
But I was too dazed to understand. The only comfort in the
world was Anne's hand in mine. I clung to it while voices
droned about me. At last Anne pulled me to the door. The
ordeal was over.

We walked up the street and turned the corner. Anne
slipped her arm through mine. She chuckled softly.

"They liked you so much, and you were so frightened."

"Did they?"

"You heard what Gran said."

"No."

"But you said 'yes.' "

"What did she say?"

"Don't you remember anything?"

"No."

"Not even the promise you made?"

"No. What did I promise?"

"I'll tell you later if you want me to."

"I can't think or understand when I'm frightened."

"You did shake so. I'm sorry. But Gran understands. It's
because you're not used to big families."

"Did they see me shaking?"

"Yes. That's why I took the bottle from you. Gran
thought you would drop it. Better now?"

"Yes."

We were silent after that. We walked through the streets,
past people and houses. We walked till there were no more
people, till the houses were behind us, and only we walked
in that place. We climbed to the top of the green hill. We
looked across the valley to the mine dumps, which lay white

244

in the moonlight. Then we turned and looked at the lights of
the city, and at the islands of darkness in that lighted city.

I said: "This is my place. You're the first person I
brought here."

"I'm glad," she said.

"It is because I love you," I said.

"And I love you," she said.

We went down on the green grass. We sat holding hands,
leaning against each other. Above us, in a cloudless sky,
was the big moon, the Milky Way, and the Southern Cross.
At last I turned my eyes from the city and looked at the
girl beside me. She was beautiful, the most beautiful girl I
had ever seen. And she was beside me. And her hand was in
mine. And she loved me. And I loved her. I remembered
lines from a poem written by one of the "New Negroes." I
said it for her.

"I can't understand all," she said.

I made a literal, line for line, translation into Afrikaans.

"I like it," she said.

The poem had mentioned breasts. I reached for her left
breast. She stiffened, then relaxed immediately.

"Why did you do that?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I forgot what you said."

"What did I say?"

"Really want me to tell you?"

"Yes."

"Gran asked if you've ever had another girl. You said no.
Only when you were little, at school."

"Yes, that was Ellen."

"Yes. You told us her name. Then Gran asked if you'd

245

ever slept with a girl. That was when you shook terribly.
But you said no. Gran said it would make it easier for us."

"Why?"

"Don't you know about these things?"

"No."

"Didn't anybody your mother ever tell you?"

"No."

"Oh, we know all about it. But then, girls must, so that
they know what they are doing."

"But why did Gran say it was easier for us."

"Because you are not as keen to do it as those who have."

"Is that true?"

"Gran says it is and she knows a lot."

"And you've never done it?"

"No. Boys tried to make me, but I didn't love them."

"Will you do it with me?"

"If you want to."

"Any time?"

"Any time you want to."

"Now?"

She hung her head and sighed.

"Yes, if you want to."

"Do you want to?"

"No. ... But I'll let you if you want to. I'm your girl."

"I don't want to."

"I'm glad."

She relaxed and raised her head. "I'm so glad," she re-
peated.

She leaned more trustingly against me. I put my arm
about her shoulder. I took out the bar of chocolate and put

246

it on her lap. She undid it and put a square of chocolate
into my mouth. A load seemed to have lifted from us.

"Is that all your gran said?"

"She said she would trust us both. She said you were free
to come and go as you pleased and take me where you
liked. She said if we felt we must sleep with each other we
should tell her and she would try to help us so that we
shouldn't get a baby. It was then you promised. . . ."

Something emerged from the fog of funk in which I had
faced her family.

"Yes! I remember. I promised I would marry you and
we wouldn't have a baby till then. And I will!"

"We'll have to wait a long time," Anne said. "And men
sometimes get tired."

"I won't get tired of you. You're beautiful!"

I opened the bottle of ginger beer. We drank.

"Peter"

"Yes?"

"I don't want to sleep with you and have a baby, because
we are too young. But I've seen boys leave their girls be-
cause they got tired of waiting. If you ever get tired, don't
go and sleep with other girls. Come and I'll let you. Gran
will help."

"I'll never get tired!"

"I want you always."

"I want you always, Anne."

We had finished with sex.

I lay on my back, my head pillowed on Anne's lap. I told
her of my work, my studies, my dreams. The moon travelled
east. The world went to bed. We ate all the chocolate, drank

247

all the ginger beer, talked till we tired of talking, and then,
hand in hand, we went happily down into the city.

The passing days only enhanced our rapture. I lost my
shyness with Anne's people. An odd understanding grew
between Gran and me. Anne and I walked every night. But
though I did not work at my lessons with the same pas-
sionate fervour, I did not neglect them. Indeed, I gave my
love lessons in English. I wanted her to read the things I
read, to enter fully into my private world. We had stormy
scenes when she could not grasp some simple literary point.
Once she left me in tears because I had railed at her for
reading a passage badly.

Occasionally we went down to Malay Camp on a Satur-
day night to see a film. Occasionally we went into the heart
of the city because Anne liked looking at the pretty dresses
in the shop windows.

Once, on a Saturday night, she stopped at a window that
displayed pretty dresses. Two young white women were
looking at the same window. Anne grabbed my arm.

"Peter! That one there! Oh isn't it lovely? That's the
one I want when we are rich!" Her eyes were bright, her
lips parted.

The two young women turned their heads. They studied
Anne and her shabby dress. They looked at the beautiful
dress she admired. They burst out laughing. Till that mo-
ment Anne had been unaware of them. She looked quickly
at them.

The joy went out of her eyes. Her dark skin looked

248

parched and pale suddenly. She shivered and hurried down
the street, head downcast. I followed her. The laughter of
the young women followed us.

I caught up with her near Park Station. Her arm trem-
bled to my touch. There was restraint between us. I led her
into the station and the "non-European" tearoom. She went
to a corner table. I got two cups of tea and followed her.

The place was crowded with Coloured and black people.
By the standards of the Burning Meat it was wonderfully
clean and comfortable. Only a few flies made sport of the
cakes on the counter. And there was more room. By the
standards of some of the white places we had passed it was
drab and shoddy.

We sat drinking our tea in silence, not looking at each
other. Presently the shadow would pass. We would push it
as far down as we could. And in a little while, perhaps, we
would look at each other. We would touch hands and smile.
And, by stages, we would go back to being young and happy
and in love.

A sudden hush came over the tearoom. Three white
policemen walked in. All eyes turned to them.

"Natives, get your passes ready!" one of them snapped.

"Let's go," Anne said.

I looked at a young black boy who sat at a table with his
girl. They were both quietly and neatly dressed. Their
clothes were better than ours. They looked like two young
people who came from better homes than ours. In all likeli-
hood they were both better educated than we were. Their
behaviour was that of refined people.

249

The black boy took out his wallet and began searching
for his passes. His girl lowered her head and stared at the
table-top.

I got up and followed Anne out, past the policemen at
the door. We were Coloured and therefore free of the purely
physical impact of this humiliation.

We hurried home without speaking. We parted at her
door without our customary kiss. She looked at me on the
point of parting.

"Peter"

"Yes?"

"You say we're as good as they are."

"Yes."

"Do you really believe that?"

I didn't really know.

"Yes, Anne."

"Then why do these things happen?"

I could not answer that. I did not know how. But her eyes
told me she had found answer in my silence.

"Goodnight. . . ."

"Good night, my Anne. . . ."

I had worked in the Pathfinder office for about three
months. During that time I had filed numerous letters
headed: "DIOCESAN TRAINING COLLEGE, GRACE DIEU,
PETERSBURG." These were signed: "S. P. Woodfield."

I learned from Peter Dabula that Canon Woodfield was
the principal of the college as well as being assistant chief
scout and operative head of the Pathfinder movement. I

250

was always very careful about his invoices and the letters
Dabula permitted me to type that went to him.

One day, as spring was slipping into summer, Canon
Woodfield turned up at the office. He was an impressive
little man, short and stockily built. There was an air of au-
thority about him which flowed from more than the mere
fact that he was white. His coming threw Peter Dabula into
a whirl of nervous activity. The twinkle in Canon Wood-
field's eyes suggested that he enjoyed the stir his unex-
pected coming caused.

I did not think of Canon Woodfield again till some weeks
later. One morning, Peter Dabula told me that at a meeting
the night before, the committee had decided they could not
keep me on at the office. Orders had been small of late, and
the movement could no longer afford an office-boy.

My plans and dreams crumbled.

"What'll you do?" Dabula asked,

"Don't know."

"What about your course?"

"I'll try and find another job to pay for it."

"Or go back to the market?"

"Perhaps."

"It won't be the same you know: you've changed."

"I'll find something."

"Ever thought of going to college?"

"College?"

"Yes; like the Diocesan Training College?"

"But how will I pay?"

"Work your way. Boys did it when I was at college."

"Really! Can /do it?"

251

"Why not write to Canon Woodfield, He can only refuse
you."

I wrote to Canon "Woodfield that night. . . .

A few nights later I returned from work to find a letter,
addressed to me, lying on the sitting-room table. The post-
mark was Pietersburg. I tore it open. . . .

"Mag! Mag!"

"Oh God! What's the matter, Lee?" She rushed in, wor-
ried.

I flung my arms about her and whirled about the room
with her. "Hell take me! He'll take me!"

"Stop it, Lee! What are you talking about?"

I stopped dancing. Maggie went to a chair and sat pant-
ing.

"Now tell me what it's all about."

"I'm going to college!"

"What for? Going to be a teacher?"

That was the only thing to go to college for.

"No."

"Then why? And where'll you find the money for books
and things?"

"Here." I gave her the letter.

She looked up after a while, a bit dazed.

"But this is far away, in Pietersburg, Where's that?"

"Up in the north."

"And you really want to go?"

"Yes."

"But why don't you go to the Normal College at Vrede-
dorp?"

252

Her eyes filled with tears. They spilled over her lids and
ran down her face.

"Please don't cry, Maggie. This is what I really want."

"Oh, Lee 99

I went to her then. Suddenly I was the elder, the stronger.
I put my arm about her. She leaned her head against my
chest. I ran my fingers through her long, wavy hair.

"Ill come back, Mag. 95

"AH these books and all this learning of yours some-
times worries me. Whatll you do with it? And will you
be happy?"

I hurried to Upper Vrededorp later to tell my mother.
She was resting in her little room before giving the whites
their evening meal.

"Hello, Lee.' 9

How was I to tell her? How would she take it? I had not
expected Maggie to cry* Would my mother cry too?

"How are you, Ma?"

She laughed. "It must be something important. Fm quite
all right. Now tell me."

"Fm going away, Ma. Fm going to a college in Pieters-
burg. They are willing to take me as a worker-scholar."

I watched her anxiously.

"What work will you do?"

"Father Woodfield 9 s letter says I can work in the college
office."

"Then it won't be too hard."

"No. ... Is it all right, Ma?"

253

"Has Mag been upset?"

"She cried."

"It's her soft heart. Don't let it worry you. I'll talk to
her."

"And you, Ma?"

"I'm happy for you, my child. Very happy."

"Then you really don't mind my going?"

"A mother always minds. But don't you think about that.
You go, and I'll pray to God to look after you."

Later, after the washing up, we went to black Vrededorp
to see my brother, whom I was unlikely to see again before
leaving. We found Enna and her mother and the two little
boys. The room was a little more tidy than it had been on
my previous visits. But Harry was not there. For a while my
mother talked to Enna and her mother, and played with her
two little grandsons; then we left. Enna did not know where
Harry was or when he would return. She thought he was out
gambling.

As we walked away from Vrededorp, my mother said
heavily:

"It is a bad place. I'm glad you are going out of it."

I told Anne the news later that night.

We climbed our hill and sat looking down at the lights of
the city. We did not have much to say to each other. The
little we had, we said on the way back.

"It will be lonely, Peter."

"I will come back."

"It will be as lonely as it was before we met."

"I will come back, Anne. I love you."

254

"No, it will be worse because I will remember you."

"We can write."

"I can't. I'm not educated like you."

"You must!"

"I'll try. But it'll be so lonely. You may find an educated
girl like yourself and never come back to me."

"I'll come back to you."

"How long will you be away?"

"I must stay on and work in one holiday, so it'll be a
year."

"A year's a long time. . . ."

"I'll come back."

"If you don't"

"I will!"

"Please! If you don't, will you remember me?"

"Always. ... But I'll come back. You'll see."

"I'll remember you always and always. Oh, Peter "

Ask me to stay and I'll stay, Anne. I'll stay for you. For
you. Just say it. ...

"Do you want me to stay, Anne?"

She did not answer.

We passed a street lamp. Its light touched her eyes and
made her teardrops glisten like precious stones.

With Canon Woodfield's letter had been a list of required
things: blankets, towels, soap, clothes. There was also a
voucher permitting me to get my rail ticket at a reduced
rate. I had just over a week before the new term began.

Chris presented me with a strong leather suitcase. Maggie
and my mother cleaned and pressed all my clothes. These

255

just about met the clothes requirement of the list. I wrote to
the correspondence school explaining the new position and
asked to end my course with them. Their reply filled me
with panic, I had either to complete the course or to pay
for it or else they would take me to law. I sent the letter to
Canon Woodfield. He wrote back reassuringly. He would
deal with it. I had better see that I arrived on time for the
start of term.

The night of departure. The platform clock showed two
minutes before nine.

"Better get in," Maggie said.

I turned to my mother. Behind her, in the background,
Anne stood alone. I had moved between her and Maggie
and my mother while we were waiting. Now I wanted all
three of them to be together. I looked from my mother to
Anne. My mother understood. She turned and held out her
hand to Anne.

"Come, my child, it's time for him to go."

Anne drew near uncertainly.

" 'Bye, Mag. Thanks for the sandwiches and money. Say
'bye to Chris for me."

Maggie flung her arms about me.

I turned to Anne. " 'Bye, Anne. . . ."

I couldn't kiss her in front of all these people, in front of
Maggie and my mother.

"Kiss her, you gawp!" Maggie cried in tearful laughter.

We kissed.

"I'll come back."

256

"Good-bye, Peter."

I turned to my mother. The whistle blew. I clung to her.

"Take care of yourself, my child. Write. . . ."

I got in. The train began to move. I leaned out to them.
Now, at the last moment, I saw my mother wipe her
eyes. . , .

Good-bye, my loves, good-bye.

The train gathered speed.

257

CHAPTER 3

De-bo-rah

The stars are weeping,

De-bo-rah

The night is sleeping,

Wait for me,

I'll surely be,

Under your window to-night. . , .

The light baritone drifted gaily up to me. That was
Reuben, nicknamed Bing after the great Mr. Crosby.

I sat in the moonlight, under the old marula tree that
marked the highest point of the land. The week of "treat-
ing" O f the old students initiating the new by light-hearted
bullying, ducking, parading, and other general tortures
was over. I had ceased being a "greenhorn," a "thing," a
"dumb newy," at the mock baptism ceremony thelnight be-
fore. I was a student now, a person, the equal of all the
others. Those who had called me "monkey face" yesterday
called me "Peter" today and sought my friendship. The tra-
dition of "treating" had been satisfied and set aside till
next term, when I would take a hand in "treating" the new
students. Now I had my first moment of peace. Sitting un-
der the old marula, I took stock of the place. The night was
warm. The moon was bright.

Grace Dieu the Grace of God.

It was a shallow, wide-bottomed green valley. A quiet,
peaceful valley, miles away from the nearest farmstead, and
eighteen miles from the town of Pietersburg; a valley in

258

which low white buildings nestled. Far down to the left, off
the sandy track that led to the big road and the outside
world, stood the church, the finest building in the valley.
About it trees grew. To the right of the church, and almost
hidden by the shading trees, were the homes of the fathers
of the Church, who were also our teachers. There were
three white fathers: Father Woodfield, the principal; Fa-
ther Jones, Father Adams. There was one white lay teacher,
Mr. Jansen, an Afrikaner. I never found out where the
handful of black teachers lived. To the right of the homes
of the white teachers, and making one corner for the cen-
tral quad of the valley, stood the college office. In line with
the office, but moving upward to where I was, stood the
large students' communal dining-room. Adjacent to it, after
an interval of space, the long, low classrooms began. Be-
yond the classrooms, and completing the quadrangle, were
the dormitories. In the centre of the quadrangle was the
belfry.

A river, nearly always dry, but cut deep in the earth,
bordered our valley on the right. Across it was a bridge. On
the other side of the bridge, in what must once have been
part of our valley, was another quadrangle of low white
buildings. That was the part of the college where the girls
lived under the protection of the Sisters of Mercy of the
Church of England.

And all about, beyond these two groups of low white
buildings, the virgin veld, green and austere, and infinitely
beautiful, swept away in all directions, rising and falling.
And the air here was charged with a quiet peace that
caressed tenderly. No deep hum came from the earth. No

259

lights shone as in the city. Instead, there was the intermi-
nable song of the cricket; the private little light of the glow-
worm in love. In the bright light of the big moon, and with
the tolling Angelus, this was indeed the Grace of God. And
there was Grace in the peace it brought to my heart and
mind.

I took easily to my new routine of study and work. It was
easy to learn in that peaceful place. And the work in the
office was not exacting. From light and airy classrooms I
went to a neat little office. Arithmetic and maths still gave
me headaches. I mastered all the other subjects easily. I
swept and dusted the office, did occasional typing, and
worked hardest on the stencilled monthly college magazine
that Father Woodfield edited.

The food was adequate, but only just. But the fees were
very small and I was one of a host of non-paying scholars.
Food could not be improved without increasing fees. And
the parents of most students could just barely afford the
fees.

Between work and study and sleep, I learned to play.
There were tennis and football. We also had athletic events.
I learned to turn the earth and make things grow from it.

On my afternoons in the office, Father Woodfield some-
times talked about his home in England, his days at Oxford,
and the English countryside. Fathers Woodfield, Jones, and
Adams were the first white men whose colour I forgot. After
a very short while they were just men, men of God, men
without colour. The Afrikaner, Mr. Jansen, was a big,

260

gentle-natured man with a tentative manner. He soon broke
down the reserve all non-whites have towards Boers. He
played football and tennis with us. In the end, I forgot even
his colour and we had long sessions on Afrikaans poetry
and prose. Through him I discovered the rich body of
Afrikaner literature and the beauty of the language itself.
I wrote some Afrikaans verses, which we discussed.

Tall, thin, serious Father Adams was the literary expert.
I wrote an essay that pleased him one day. At the end of
class he invited me to his rooms to look at his books and
borrow any I might like to. I went that evening after sup-
per. We talked books, writing, and writers till five minutes
before lights-out. That night began a new series of literary
studies for me. At last I could talk about my reading, check
my understanding of it.

Father Adams was a purist about both spoken and writ-
ten English. He set an exacting standard in these private
lessons. Whenever I used big words or made clumsy and
almost meaningless sentences, he sent me to the Bible:

"The Bible says: c Jesus wept.' I suppose that would be
too simple for you. Read the Bible if you want to see how
good English should be written!"

I read the Bible and saw.

Our days began and ended in the church. We attended
chapel before breakfast each morning. After that the sisters
marched a column of girls across the bridge to school. The
day ended with the sisters marching the column of girls
back across the bridge after the evening service. And be-
tween morning and evening we had the Angelus. Through-

261

out the day, the bells interrupted us at work or study or
play. We left whatever we were doing and turned our faces
to the tolling bells. We crossed ourselves and responded:

"Hail, Mary, full of grace!
The Lord is with thee;
Blessed art thou among women,
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, mother of God,
Pray for us sinners,
Now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

After the echoes of the last toll we crossed ourselves
again and went back to our duties or our play.

On Sundays we had more services than during the week.
Those who were full members of the Church went to early-
morning Mass. Then there was the ten-o'clock service.
There was a catechism class for those preparing for con-
firmation. I attended this. And there was a Sunday school
for the youngest students. We also had an afternoon service.

Sometimes both white and black people came in from the
surrounding country for Mass or the afternoon service. The
white visitors sat in the front row, males on one side of
the aisle, females on the other.

Religion, and the symbolism of religion, were all about
us, real and compelling.

Father Woodfield confirmed me, with others, one beauti-
ful autumn morning. Later I received my first Communion
at his hands.

I was a full member now of the fellowship of the Christ

262

who offered life and offered it more abundantly, who
taught: "Love thy neighbour as thyself."

Alone that night, I went into the empty chapel. I got
down on my knees. . . ."Dear God, dear Jesus, help me.
Please help me.". . . Then I went up to the old marula
tree and looked down into the valley that had been named
the Grace of God.

Vrededorp, the market, the dark places, and those past
hurts were forgotten. There was peace here, and I was
happy. I was among people who were as brothers one unto
another, and there were books, and the land was beautiful.
Almost, I was in another land a land free of hurt, insult,
colour prejudice, and poverty.

I had four special friends. Dan Koza and Reuben Bing
Makubele, were from Johannesburg. Both were bigger
boys than myself; but we were all from the big town, and
that was the common bond. The third was a "first-genera-
tion" Coloured boy, the offspring of a present-day mixed
liaison. His black and white parents had not set up house
together, and he had not been born in a big town where the
Coloured community could have assimilated him. He was
much fairer than I, fair enough to be a high-veld Boer. His
hair was straight. But he had grown up in a black rural
area as a black boy with a white skin. This had created ten-
sions in him, which the college, and contact with boys from
the cities, were gradually easing. He was growing less ag-
gressive, less eager to fight whenever he thought anybody
was disparaging him.

263

These three were intensely interested in a young man in
America who was making a name for himself as a prize-
fighter. They got copies of a magazine called the Ring.
They stuck photographs of this young man on the walls
near their beds. They never tired of talking about him.
They knew the details of every fight he had been in, the
length of time in which he had beaten his opponent. To
them he was the most important man in the world, the
greatest hero of our time.

One morning I found my friends in moods of black
tragedy. They could not eat their breakfasts. Later Bing
skipped classes and went to bed sick. I tried to find out
what it was all about.

"What's wrong?"

"Pm sick, man."

"Why?"

"The Black Uhlan smashed the Brown Bomber last
night"

"You mean in boxing?"

"What else?"

"But if a black man smashed a brown man, why should
you be sick?"

"Go 'way, Peter. You're dumb."

All through that day, and the next, and the next, the
gloom hung over my friends. In the end I went to their pile
of Rings and found out that the Black Uhlan was a white
man from Germany. Their misery made sense then.

That moment of misery was only matched and surpassed
by a moment of joy that came a very long time afterwards
when they woke the sleepers of a whole dormitory in the

264

small hours because the Bomber had crushed the Uhlan. I
woke to find Reuben dancing with his little radio in his
arms.

The fourth and most intimate of my friends was a strap-
ping, long-limbed boy called Jonathan. He came from a
near-by native village. We had struck up a friendship when
he had first come as a day scholar, making the long trek
between college and his village daily. His excellent work in
class had earned him a place as a boarder. As a worker-
scholar he looked after Father Jones's rooms and did his
laundry.

Jonathan had never been to a big town. He had never
been on a train. The little dorp of Pietersburg was his clos-
est contact with the ways and world of white men.

Often at the end of the day we went on long, rambling
walks across the veld. Sometimes we went through the wire
fence that marked the college bounds. Sometimes we set
traps for springhaas. The land here abounded with them.
And sometimes we caught one. Then, for a few days, there
would be enough meat to make our thick pap more palat-
able. But most often we would fling ourselves on a strip of
soft grass and lie talking.

Jonathan had the most innocent eyes I had ever seen. His
eyes, his smooth, black, open, countryman's face, and his
rippling muscles had led many of the boys from the towns
to regard him as simple. I found a sharp, clear-thinking
brain behind the simple-seeming face, and a warm, com-
passionate interest in the city-world he did not know. He
even laughed kindly at the city boys' condescending atti-
tude to him.

265

"They do not know the country. They do not know how
much a man learns from it."

Usually he led me on to talking about life in the city.
Once, after I had told him how I had run from the market
police, he shook his head.

"And you were not ashamed to run like a dog before a
white man? 5 '

I tried to explain. Jonathan only understood the shame
of it.

"Others do this too? Black people?"

I told him about the passes and the pick-up vans around
Vrededcfrp and Malay Camp.

"And grown black men do this? Even when they've done
no wrong?"

"Yes."

"I do not understand. These white people are Christians.
They believe as we do. They go to church. I do not under-
stand."

"You will if you go to the city."

"I will go to the city."

I wrote home. The answers told me all was well. I sent a
few of my poems to the Bantu World. They were published.
The Zulu poet Dhlomo wrote me a letter of encouragement.
Some months later I sent another batch. A new editor had
taken Dhlomo's place. From him I got a note. In the note
was a postal order for five shillings. The note said:

Dear Peter,

They will all praise. Few will think that a poet must
eat. This is an investment so that you will speak for

266

us one day. Call on me whenever you need. Look me
up when you get back.

Yours,

FEZILE B. TEKA

I had turned my first literary penny. I wrote a bubbling
letter of thanks to Mr. Teka. He replied briefly:

"I have faith in your future."

I wrote a long letter to Anne. A month later I received a
tear-stained, incoherent reply. I wrote again. I received no
reply.

The seasons passed. The year came to an end. School
ended. Students went home to spend Christmas with their
families. Father Woodfield was travelling to Johannesburg
and gave me a lift.

The first thing I noticed was that strangers lived where
Anne had lived. It dulled the joy of home-coming. I
knocked on Maggie's door.

"Who's there?"

I knocked again. I heard footsteps. The door opened.

"Hello, Mag."

"Lee!"

We flung our arms about each other and danced with joy.

"How are you, Lee? When did you arrive? Why didn't
you write? Did they feed you well? You've grown, Lee.
You're a big man now. You're thinner? Why are you so

267

black?" Her words tumbled out fast, "Have you eaten?
Are you hungry? I've a chop for you. Come in, darling!
Come in!"

She hustled me into the kitchen. While she fried the
chop, she kept flinging questions at me. She gave me no
time to answer. Then, quite suddenly, her words dried up.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Lee?"

"It's nice to see you, Mag. How's Ma?"

She stared at me for a while.

"You've changed," she said slowly, frowning.

"I've grown," I said.

"It's more than that."

She was more subdued after that. She sat opposite me
and watched me eat. There was a curiously intense quality
about the way she watched me. It was as if she would force
something out of me with her eyes.

"Matter, Mag? I'm the same me."

She said nothing. Her eyes said: "No, you're not." And
because she had made me aware of it, I realized I had
changed. I had a new, seeing coldness that had nothing to
do with coldness of feeling.

In the late afternoon we set out together for Upper Vrede-
dorp and my mother's place of work. Maggie was dressed
in her best and had made herself look very pretty. She came
from her bedroom smiling. I saw the anxiety behind her
smile.

"All right to go out with my educated brother?"

"You're beautiful, Mag."

We walked to the tram terminus in the heart of the city,
near the City Hall The white conductor stared at me as I

268

followed Maggie on the tram. She saw it. Her eyes blazed.

"It's all right. He's my brother. He's Coloured."

"Enough of your lip," the conductor snapped.

"Go on, Mag."

We went upstairs and sat in one of the two back seats
reserved for non-Europeans. Maggie shook with rage.

"Forget it," I said. "He's done nothing."

The tram moved off. The conductor came up and took
our fares.

"Don't know how to behave with educated people!"
Maggie snapped.

The conductor stared at her, then clattered down the
stairs.

The tram turned a corner and rattled down the incline
past the market. I looked at the corner where the Burning
Meat had stood. It was still there. Were the flies still in
control? A crowd of market-boys, scruffy and nondescript,
gambled on the now empty parking square. The old man
with his fatcakes and coffee was still there. Nothing had
changed.

The tram rattled past Fordsburg, down towards the
Vrededorp subway. It emerged on the other side. There
was the stall to which I had led my gang on that first thiev-
ing raid. I could have been any one of those scruffy boys
scrapping down there on the pavement. Nothing had
changed here. There was Nineteenth Street, the street on
which I was born.

The tram swept on. We got off at the top, where it turned
up to Newlands. Maggie and the conductor exchanged bale-
ful looks. Then the tram rattled up the side of the cemetery.

269

We crossed the wide street and went to my mother's place
of work.

She was standing over a washtub in the yard. There was
a huge bundle on the ground beside her. She looked small,
very small and frail. She raised her head. Weary eyes
looked out of a drawn face. Then the face changed.

"Lee! . . ."

I was caught up in waves of emotion and could see no
more till the white woman came out of the house.

"My son, missus," my mother explained. "He's just come
back from college, missus."

"From college?"

"Yes, missus."

"You must be very proud and happy."

"Yes, missus."

"Why not take the day off, Lina? I'll see to the food to-
night. Leave the washing till tomorrow. You want to be
with your son today."

"Yes, missus. Thank you, missus. He's a good boy."

"I can see that. He looks quiet and well behaved. I've
just made a pot of coffee. Would you like some coffee and
cookies, young man?"

I looked at the smiling, kindly, motherly face. She meant
well. But she looked so rested, so strong and healthy, so
comfortable. I looked at my mother. So frail and small and
so weary-looking.

"Have you lost your tongue, Lee? He's shy, missus."

I looked into the kindly, comfortable face.

"Thank you very much."

The woman flushed and turned her eyes away from mine.

270

"Then it's there, Lina." She turned and hurried into the
house.

My mother shook the soapsuds from her pitted hands,
then wiped them. Her eyes touched my face.

"You want to be careful, Lee. They're not used to edu-
cated Coloureds."

"I'll help you, Ma," Maggie said.

"You go into the room," my mother said to me.

That afternoon we looked up the rest of the family.

We found Harry in Fifteenth Street. He and his family
lived in another tiny, untidy room, in the same yard as the
rest of Enna's family. He was not completely sober. Enna
was nagging him because her grandmother had paid their
last rent. His two boys, both potbellied and with bowed
legs, played in the dirty yard. Enna sat in the sun, and her
mother combed her long tresses while she nagged.

I said: "Hello, Harry."

He said: "Hello, my little gentleman brother. Hear
you're a college man now. Don't be snooty about it. I sat
in a dice school last night with two college men, and they're
even worse than I am. Don't be snooty. You'll be like me
yet."

"See what he's come to!" Enna cried.

I played with the two boys while my mother and Maggie
talked to Enna's family. My brother went into the room
and flung himself on the dirty bed. . . .

We found Catherine and all her family at Albertville.
Aunt Mattie was now too infirm to work and lived with
them. Catherine's husband was out of work. He and his
stepfather were putting up a new shed. Catherine's two fair

271

little girls played in the sun. Though the younger of the
two, when Catherine stood beside Maggie, she looked years
older.

Here, as in Vrededorp, they were really too concerned
with their own problems to share my mother's and Maggie's
joy at my home-coming.

On the way back at sunset, I asked about Anne.

"They moved about six months ago," Maggie said.

"Do you know where to?"

"No."

"Didn't Anne give you the address?"

"No. I told her to come and see me the night you left,
but she never came."

"Such a nice quiet girl," my mother said. "I liked her."

That night they talked worriedly about what I was to do
with all my education. Whites did not like to employ non-
whites with too much education. And why didn't I want to
be a teacher? Writing? Would that feed me? And what
would I write about? And why did I want to tell the whites
how bad things were among us? It would only bring more
shame on us.

They were happy to have me back, but behind their joy
was an anxiety they could not quite keep from me. I had
changed. What was to become of me? What could I do with
all my learning?

I visited the office of the Bantu World next morning. Mr.
Teka received me warmly. He was a young man with
shrewd, kindly eyes and a very dry manner. He sent for tea

272

and we talked. He asked about my college. We talked about
books and poetry.

"We talk about you sometimes," Teka said. "We worry
about your future. You know the Dhlomo brothers write in
the vernacular. There are one or two others. The only place
they can publish is the Lovedale Press. And they must be
careful what they write. Well, we wonder about you. You
write in English and already you are touching things that
should not be mentioned. See what I mean?"

"Yes, I see."

"Good. We say among ourselves: 'He can become a
teacher, but even then he will have to be careful what he
writes or else he will have to put it away.' And someone
else says: *If only he were in another land! 5 And another
says: There is no future for him.' See, your poems have
reached us. And we think and talk about you; and we
wonder and hope." He leaned back and raised his eyes to
the ceiling. "We hope, my friend, we all hope. We know the
road is hard, but still we hope. Perhaps it is unfair, but we
hope."

A boy brought in the tea. Teka's mood changed. He
talked about his home and childhood with amusing dry-
ness. I gave him a batch of new poems. He made a little pile
of three halfcrowns and pushed them to me.

"It is not much, but a man wants to help. . . ."

I spent days at the Bantu Men's Social Centre. Some-
times I borrowed a racket from one of the members and
had a game on the Centre's court. Sometimes I attended

273

their discussions and debates. The little office upstairs was
closed. I rarely saw Dabula. I gathered that he had found
another job. Rathebe still ran the Centre with quiet effi-
ciency. Mark Hlubi, the man who had tried to imitate Paul
Robeson that day when I first arrived at the Centre, had
won some kind of award and was going to England to study.
This was the talking-point at the Centre. Who had given
him the scholarship? The Bantu Welfare Trust? No one I
asked seemed sure. I put out feelers. The Welfare Trust was
only for pure-blooded Africans. And though the Africans
might accept me as one of themselves, the whites who ad-
ministered the trust would not. Those to whom I spoke
thought it crazy, but there you are.

Sometimes of an evening I wandered through slumland
hoping to come across Anne or a member of her family. I
went to Malay Camp, Jeppestown, Doornfontein, Fords-
burg, Vrededorp, Sophiatown, and Albertville. But I found
no sign of Anne and her people. Perhaps they had left the
Rand. People often moved from town to town on the Golden
Reef. Perhaps one member of the family had found a job
in one of the neighbouring towns and they had all gone
there.

At last the holidays ended. I returned gladly to Pieters-
burg and the peace of Grace Dieu. Except for Maggie's
home and the Bantu Men's Social Centre, I had felt out of
place in Johannesburg. I had been on the outside of things.
The things I had wanted to do had been "reserved for Euro-
peans only." There had been the concerts and theatres, the

274

libraries and the parks, the bookshops and the clean, fresh-
looking tearooms. All these I had wanted, and I had found
them out of bounds. I had wanted Anne a girl to take on
long walks and talk to, quietly; the warm, living presence
of a woman. But Anne had gone away and I found no other
like her. I had gone to two Coloured "Grand Hops." But I
was a stranger without a partner and I did not drink. That
made contact difficult. I had had more fun at a dance at
the Centre. But that had been the only one the Centre had
given during my holidays. I had been pushed off a moving
bus once and endured the cold stares a crowd of Europeans
had turned on a presuming non-European. I had been bun-
dled off a pavement and walked away as though it had not
happened, for fear of being set upon by a group of young
drunks. I had queued up at the O.K. Bazaars, a big depart-
ment store, while the young assistant pointedly ignored me
as long as there was one white shopper in sight.

It was good to return to that peaceful valley after all this.

My friend Jonathan took me on a long walk the first
night after assembly. The moon was big and high. The
night was clear and warm. The silence of the veld, after the
city, was very powerful. We went past the old marula tree
and up to the boundary corner. The low white buildings,
sprawling in the moonlight, were out of sight behind the
rising land. We walked along the boundary fence to the
other corner. I sat on a giant ant-hill under the moon. All
about us, engulfing us, was the vast stillness of the land.

"I want to talk," Jonathan said.

275

"Talk," I said.
. "It is about the city, your city. You know I went there."

"You said you would go."

"Yes. I went. You said I would understand. But there is
a thing I do not understand."

"What is it?"

He thought gravely for some time; then he said:

"I have told you about our village. I will take you there
one day and you will see how it is. There is not much for a
man there if he knows the ways of white men and the good
things of the white man. The ways of the white man are
better than our ways. I know that. There is more for a man
in them. But this is the thing I do not understand. , . ."

Quietly, gravely, he talked about it.

A boy is satisfied with his village, and the life of his vil-
lage, because he knows no other. That is his life. That is the
life of his ancestors before him. And, for him, it is a good
life. He herds his cattle and observes the rules and laws of
the tribe. He is content.

And then the white man comes into his contentment. The
white man shows him new things and new ways. And he is
no longer content with the old ways. The white man says
the key to this world is to become a Christian and to have
knowledge and education. The boy looks at the things of
this new world. He finds them good. The toilet where the
chain is pulled and the waste matter is flushed away is
cleaner, healthier, and more desirable than the hole in the
ground or the foul-smelling can that is cleared two or three
times a week; clean running water from taps means health-
ier lives and the end of the many water diseases of the well,

276

the river, or the unclean spring; the journey by train is
faster and more comfortable than the long trek on foot or
by ox-wagon; roomy houses that let in air and light so that
a man wakes fresh in the morning are superior to the dark,
airless huts of old; electric lights instead of grease lamps
and darkness; the superior medicine of the white man; oh,
a whole multitude of new things makes the new world more
desirable than the old.

And so he becomes a Christian and he goes to school.
Knowledge brings new desires, new beliefs: the God of love
in place of the pagan gods of war; the new view of the
stranger, the foreigner, as a brother to be welcomed rather
than an enemy to be destroyed or feared; long dreams of a
new life; new ways of thinking and responding open to
him. The vision of the humble Christ, the Father of all men,
of all races and colours, supplants the little gods of old. And
so the boy turns his back on the old world of his ancestors,
opens his arms wide, and reaches hungrily for the new, su-
perior ways that offer a whole new world. And so, a new
man, he goes to the city to see and get to know. All his fu-
ture, now, will be linked with the city. Even if he is to spend
the rest of his life in the country, he must go to the city be-
cause it is the symbol of this new world. . . .

Jonathan's quiet voice was silent for a while. He turned
his dark face so that I saw only a stern profile.

"It is difficult," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"I went to the city," he said. "And I learned these things
are not for me."

"I told you," I said.

277

"I did not believe. You know how the boys from the
cities lie,"

"Yes."

"They should have told me. I believed it was for me too.
It was wrong for them not to tell us. . . ."

"Would it have changed anything?"

"I don't know. But it is better to know. . . . Did a white
person ever spit in your face?"

He turned his face to me again. I looked into his eyes.

"Yes."

"In mine too."

Autumn gave way to the harsh high-veld winter. Morn-
ings were bleak: hard frost on the earth and sharp, pene-
trating coldness in the wind. Each morning a long line of
boys ran briskly round the outer line of the football field.
It was the best way of starting the day with some warmth.
The classrooms, so wonderfully cool in the hot summer,
were terrible places in the winter. The hardier boys fought
the cold with cold: they took icy showers first thing in the
morning. They rubbed themselves till their dark skins
glowed. They seemed refreshed and claimed they were
warm. I tried it once. The icy water struck me and I was
paralysed. I could not move my arm to stop the flow. My
teeth chattered. I turned a bluish black. Jonathan came to
the rescue. I could not walk, so he flung me across his
shoulder and carried me to the dormitory. He covered me
with my two blankets, piled his own two on top, and bor-
rowed four more. I came alive again in time to reach the

278

dining-hall before late-comers were shut out. I was not of
the hardier type. . . .

I was in the final phases of my second year at college. I
was in my seventeenth year of life. I had decisions to make.
My work at the college office had revealed how many ap-
plications from students, both paying and non-paying, had
to be turned down because there was no room and because
the classrooms were full.

Of a total population of roughly 8,000,000 non-Euro-
peans, about 500,000 were at school, about 6.5 per cent.
Of these only 2.4 per cent received post-primary education
of any kind. On the children of the 2,000,000 Europeans,
the state spent something like 10,000,000 pounds: on those
of the 8,000,000 non-Europeans about 1,000,000 pounds.
The real burden of non-European education was carried by
the missionaries. Without the missionaries of all denomina-
tions, but mainly the Anglican missionaries, much less than
the half a million students would have been at school that
year. And certainly less than 2.4 per cent, probably less
than .5 per cent, would have received any post-primary edu-
cation.

The college at Grace Dieu was a teachers' training col-
lege. I had no intention of taking up teaching. Was it right
for me to take the place of someone who might become a
teacher and help the missionaries in their fight against il-
literacy?

"I don't know what I'm going to do, 5 ' I had told Canon
Woodfield one day.

"There is a great need for teachers, Peter," he had said.

279

His eyes had twinkled understandingly. I had turned to
my work fealing a cheat. I was keeping a would-be teacher
out, and in doing so, I was robbing the thousands of others
that teacher would have taught.

But it was not so simple and purely altruistic as that. This
pattern of thought was partly the result of another and
flowed out of a need.

In the months after his visit to the city, Jonathan and I
had again and again brooded over the way the white man
treated the black. We had worked it down to Christianity.
The white man believed in God. He had brought God to us.
God taught: "Love thy neighbour as thyself." Christ came
that we might have life and have it more abundantly. The
Church taught that we were all brothers of Christ, one with
another. . . . And the whites, those who had spat on us
and on others, were all Christians. The equation did not
work out. Where was the error? In the religion? In the
white people? In us? In God or in man? And how were we
to work it out?

Here, in this peaceful valley, the equation worked out.
The fathers who taught us lived up to their teaching. They
were good men and they poured their lives into good work.
Belief was translated into reality. We were the witnesses.

But we would leave this peaceful valley and go out into
the big world. And there, among the whites, it did not work
out. It did not work out when whites came to our church.
They sat in the front row. What made it so very difficult for
us was the fact that the equation did work out with the fa-
thers and indeed with the sisters from across the little
bridge. But we had proof that the rest of the white Chris-

280

tians of our land were not like the fathers and the sisters. If
there was any fault that we could lay at the door of the good
fathers and sisters, it was that they had taught us too well.
They had made Christianity a living reality for us, a way of
life, a creed to live by, to measure our relations with others
by. And the tragedy lay in the measuring.

The equation did not work out. And in the harshness of
our young idealism we demanded that it work out as logi-
cally as a problem of mathematics. And it did not.

Where was the error: in man or God?

And so, under the pressure of my own and Jonathan's
brooding, I thought of the would-be teacher whose place I
was taking and thereby cheating thousands of others.

I wrote to Teka from time to time. He wrote and sent me
copies of the Bantu World. My poetic efforts had spurred
one or two other black boys on. Their poems were pub-
lished. One of them wrote really brilliant verse. Teka
thought he had the makings of a first-rate poet, and his let-
ters said this young man and I must meet next time I got
back. Then one day I received a note of acknowledgment to
a letter of mine. It said that Mr. Teka had left the Bantu
World. He had left no forwarding address. The tone and
signature of the letter were those of a European. My last
real contact with Johannesburg was gone.

It was customary for boys to be given periodic week-end
leave to go out of bounds. Armed with a week-end pass,
they usually went to the native location on the fringe of Pie-
tersburg. Jonathan and I decided to have a week-end off.

Father Woodfield's eyes twinkled as we collected our

281

passes that Friday evening. There was no real need for me
to have a pass. I was Coloured. I had a sudden moment of
fear as we stood in front of him. Would he say I did not
need one? If he did, it would be a barrier between Jonathan
and me.

Father Woodfield looked from me to Jonathan. The
twinkle in his eyes deepened and carried a smile to his lips.
He wrote our names on the two printed slips and signed
them.

"Thank you, Father," Jonathan said.

"Thank you, Father," I said.

"Behave yourselves and be back before lights-out on Sun-
day."

"Yes, Father. Thank you."

We got a lift on the provision truck early next morning.
Perched on the back of the truck, our feet dangling, we
were swept away in a whirl of choking dust. The truck
bumped and bounded over the uneven, dusty road. It was
so old that its noisy rattle made talk impossible. Through a
thick haze of dust we watched the rolling land sweep away
in all directions.

And again I was struck by the aloofness of the land. Just
so would a proud, austere man stand in his dignity, relaxed,
yet aloof. Not stiff, nor bending, just a silent, firm, relaxed
presence, commanding respect in just being. Is there a land
with the compelling power of this African land? Can any
other land be cold and austere and yet tender? How does
one tell of such a land, of the feel and hold of it on the
hearts and minds of its children?

I turned to Jonathan. "It is wonderful!"

282

The rattling truck drowned my voice.

His lips formed a word: "What?"

I shouted louder: "I love it!"

He shook his head. I waved my arms to take in the land.
He shook his head again. I gave it up.

A watery, pre-spring sun sat above the eastern hills when
we got to the wide macadamized road. The dust settled. The
rattling and violent shaking of our bodies eased. The truck
pulled up. We jumped off and stretched aching legs. The
driver took the cap off the boiling water-tank. Steam blew
out of the engine. He filled it with cold water.

A fine coating of dust covered us from head to foot,
turned us into figures of grey dust. Our hair and eyebrows
were coated with it. We spat dust, cleared our noses of dust,
coughed dust, and blinked dust out of our eyes. We turned
dust out of our pockets. We scratched our heads and raised
dust clouds. We were possessed by great thirst, but the mo-
tor needed all the water. So we continued on our journey,
bearing our thirst as best we could.

We passed a few farmsteads. We passed black folk on the
road. They walked with the steady, unvarying pace that cov-
ered great distances. At last we could see the dorp's church
spire far ahead. The truck slowed down as we neared a
group of sand-hills some way off the road. We jumped off.
We waved to the driver. He waved, then accelerated.

We turned off the road and made for the sand-hills. On
the other side of the hills the sand was damp. We found the
dampest spot. We dug with our hands and made a deep
hole. While water filtered through, we stripped. We shook
the dust out of our clothes, then dressed again. The hole

283

now was half filled with clear water. We cupped our hands
and drank. Then we washed the dust out of our hair and
faces. We covered the hole so that others who passed here
might find water that had been made clean by the earth. We
continued our journey to the little dorp.

We reached Pietersburg a little before noon. It was very
much like Elsburg, one of scores of little Boer dorps scat-
tered up and down the land: a station, a church, a few rows
of houses that make a few streets, a police station, a post of-
fice, and a few shops. A quiet place where life moves
quietly, unhurriedly. And near by, as in Elsburg, as in all
the other little dorps, was a location of blacks who worked
in the homes of the whites.

We went to the station first. The truck was there, but the
driver had gone. The truck would be there till late that af-
ternoon. We jumped on the back of the truck and rested.
That way we were safe. This was known as the college
truck. We had passes to show we had a right to be on it. The
police could not accuse us of anything. After our rest we
went to have a look at the town.

"We may meet some of the other boys," Jonathan said.
"Then we can go to the location.' 5

"Yes," I said.

"My friends will give us good food," he said. "You will
like them. They are country people like me."

"What shall we take to them?"

"Bread," he said. "They will like that."

We walked to the heart of the little dorp.

"It is a nice place," he said.

"It is," I said.

284

"Maybe one day we will have little towns like this for
ourselves. I prefer it to your big city. There is too much
noise in your city and a man cannot think. In a place like
this I would be content. Perhaps I would be the teacher at
the little school. It would be nice."

"I want to live on a farm," I said. "If I have the money
one day, I will buy me a farm."

"But you are of the city."

"I would still like to get a farm."

"And the city?"

"I will visit it. But I like to live in a quiet place."

"You won't have time to write if you are a farmer. Our
land is small, but my father works all the time, and I, too,
when I am at home."

"Yes," I said, "but I will get someone to help."

"You will need many helpers if it is a big farm."

"I want it to be very big."

An open trap drawn by a prancing grey with a shining
coat turned a corner and shot past us.

"A beautiful horse," Jonathan sighed. "A beautiful
horse."

I had been more interested in the cheerful young couple
on the trap. They made a fine picture.

"And I will go around like that," I said.

"With your wife?" Jonathan's eyes mocked affection-
ately.

"Why not!"

"You are such a dreamer," he laughed. Then he grew
serious. "I wonder if a man who is not white can buy a
farm."

285

I did not know. We carried on in silence along the quiet
street. This point of reality had spoiled the illusion. Far
ahead we saw the shops.

"Ill get the bread," I said.

"I will pay half," he said.

"I have more money than you."

"I will pay half," he said firmly.

We reached the shop.

"Come," I said.

"I will wait," he said.

I went in. There were two women, one man, and the
storekeeper in the shop. They all stared as I entered. The
man behind the counter smiled at the others, then moved
slightly to my end of the counter.

"Ja klonkie?"

Better behave, Peter.

"A loaf of bread, please, baas."

"You're new here?"

"Not many of his kind around," the other man said.

"They prefer the towns," one of the women said.

They waited for me to tell them all about myself.

"I'm from the college, baas"

"The Kaffir college?"

"Yes, bws."

"But you're Coloured, aren't you?"

"Yes, baas."

"Then why are you at a Kaffir college?"

Careful, Peter.

"Because my parents want it, baas"

"Let him go," the second woman said boredly.

286

The storekeeper reached under the counter. He put a loaf
of bread on it and pushed it in my direction. I put my coin
on the counter. He took it, counted out the change, and put
it beside the unwrapped loaf. I gathered up bread and
money and hurried to the door. As I reached the door I
flung myself forward in a dash. Too late, I saw the looming
figure of a giant of a man.

The big man's arms shot out and caught me.

"0-0-o-o-p-s!" he grunted gaily.

Then he saw my colour. My feet were off the ground. The
laughter passed from his eyes. Disgust contorted his big tan
face. He flung me away like one near the point of nausea
through touching human waste. I hit the ground bodily. The
bread and money went flying.

In a daze, I heard a woman's voice say something about
"church arrangements." A booming voice, tinged with dis-
gust, rumbled something about a "black baboon." I
scrambled quickly to my feet. They might come out. Then
Jonathan was beside me.

"Come!"

We gathered the bread and money and hurried down the
street, back to the station. We did not look back. We got on
the back of the truck. I sat shivering.

"Are you hurt?" Jonathan's voice was tight.

"No." I felt awfully tired and numb.

I looked at Jonathan's face. It was bleak. He avoided
looking at me.

"We will go back," he said. "I think it is better, heh?"

"Yes," I said.

We got off the truck and took the road out of the little

287

dorp, the road back to the college. We did not talk, There
was nothing to talk about. In the late afternoon, we went off
the road and sat on a green hill while we ate the loaf of
bread. Then we set out again. My brain began to function
once more.

. . . Perhaps the truck would stop and pick us up on its
way back.

Yes, perhaps it would. The truck rattles. The truck rat-
tles. Yes, damn, the truck rattles. It is no use. Why did he
look so sick with disgust? The other wouldn't have mattered
if he had not looked so sick with it. Am I really like ordure
to him? Only the touch of that could make me feel and look
as he did. Only that. Only that. Sick with disgust. Only that.
Yesterday I phoned the station. The white man said good-
day to me. And I said: "Please reserve a first-class single
compartment for Canon Woodfield." And he said: "I will
do that. Thank you. Good-bye." The disgust one feels when
touching human waste. A first-class compartment and hu-
man waste. White and black. No! The truck will pick us up.
You're only making it worse by being so tense, Jonathan.
Relax. Let's try to forget it. Not the same as spittle. But that
disgust. And the first-class compartment. No! ...

Savagely, insistently, my mind forced the error of the
equation into the peaceful valley called the Grace of God,

Late that night I knelt in the dark and empty chapel. I
knelt in front of the black statue of my patron saint, St. Pe-
ter. I offered him the error Jonathan and I had found in the
equation. Why was it so? God had made miracles for white
folk; would He make one miracle for one black boy? Would

288

He make it now, please? That bowl of water at your feet,
dear St. Peter. . . .

Jonathan moved from the shadows of a tree as I came out
of the chapel. We moved slowly across the silent quad to
our dormitory.

We lay awake far into the night, each aware that the
other was awake. And our burning hearts ached as only the
hearts of the young can.

A shadow now lay over our friendship. The weeks to the
half-yearly holiday went heavily.

At last, end of term came. I was packing my suitcase on
that last night. At his bed, next to mine, Jonathan was also
packing.

"Peter"

"Yes?"

"Are you coming back?"

"No."

"I thought not. I will miss you."

"I will miss you, Jon."

"Have you told Father Woodfield?"

"I can't. I will write to him."

"Yes. It is difficult. But you must write. He likes you and
it will upset him. . . . What will you do now?"

"I don't know."

"Let us walk for the last time."

In silence, under the early summer moon, we visited our
old haunts.

In the morning I took leave of my dear friend Jonathan
and turned my face from that peaceful valley called the
Grace of God.

289

BOOK THREE

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER

I lay staring at the patch of moonlight on the wall. . . .
But afterwards? What were we to do afterwards? And was
she sure? Really sure? . . .

She tapped lightly on the wall.

And what of the other two? My friends? Would they still
be my friends afterwards?

I heard her move. I got out of bed and stood staring at
the door. She tapped again, but only once. I went to the
door and opened it. The house was very quiet. Two steps
and I was at her door. I turned the handle quietly. The door
moved without squeaking.

"Thought you'd never come," she whispered.

The moonlight touched her face with cream and roses.
Her hair was a dark halo about it. Her eyes were pools of
bottomless depth.

"They might be awake," I whispered.

"Stop worrying. You'll find out what they think tomor-
row."

"Do they know?"

"Better shut the door and come. . . . They'd have to be
blind not to. Come."

I hesitated, and all my past was in my hesitation. She
drew back the bedclothes. I went to her. . . .

"D'you really think they know?"

"You're stiff and cold. Relax. Of course they know. Any-
one would think love is unnatural. Forget your missionary
inhibitions."

"You love me? Really?"

293

"You're with me, aren't you?"

u But do you?"

"Of course. Oh, my poor Peter, stop shivering."

"Sure you want to?"

"I was seduced a long time ago, so stop worrying about
that. There now, you're shocked. Shouldn't have told you.
But it's true. You have a poet's romantic ideas about sex.
But you'll learn."

I lay beside her afterwards, completely relaxed, but ut-
terly depressed.

"All right?" she murmured.

"Yes."

"Let's go to sleep."

She nestled against me and closed her eyes. Cream and
roses beside me; a woman's hair in my face the scent of
dry leaves and mystery. But it had all gone wrong. It had
not been as it should have been. The beauty my mind had
charged it with had not been in the act. My fault? I did not
know about these things. But, for all my ignorance, I had
wanted it to be an act of dedication. It had worked out as
liberation without dedication, freedom without beauty.

Beside me, she breathed evenly in sleep. I eased myself
away and got out of bed. She stirred.

"Where you going?"

"To my room."

"No."

"I'll oversleep here."

"Oh "she groaned. "All right. . . ."

I knelt beside her and gathered the cream and roses to

294

my bosom. The beauty would come. It had to come. The
beauty must come.

"I love you, my dear, I love you."

"Good night, dear," she murmured, half-asleep.

I went back to my room and got into bed. I lay staring at
the patch of moonlight on my wall. I was wide awake. My
brain was too active for sleep.

Between this moment and that other when I had taken
leave of my friend Jonathan, nearly two years had passed.
I was nineteen now, and this was the year 1938.

On reaching Johannesburg, I had written to Father
Woodfield and told him I was not returning to college next
term. I had not had the courage to offer him the error Jona-
than and I had found in the equation, so I had made some
excuse about not intending to be a teacher, I had expected
him to be done with me after such ingratitude. I had re-
ceived a gentle letter from him. He was sorry I had decided
not to return. Perhaps I would be happier at St. Peter's sec-
ondary just outside Johannesburg. I could work for my ma-
triculation there. It was near my home. He had written to
the principal, Brother Roger, about me. He had also been in
touch with Mr. J. D. Rheinalt Jones, director of the South
African Institute of Race Relations and Chief Scout for
South Africa. Mr. Rheinalt Jones was willing to help. Both
Mr. Rheinalt Jones and Brother Roger expected me to get in
touch with them.

I had felt in a false position but unable to do anything
about it. I had no way of coping with kindness. With a feel-
ing of guilt and a sense of double-dealing, I submitted. I

295

had seen Mr. Rheinalt Jones and I had gone to St. Peter's.

In Brother Roger, a tall, handsome man with the austere
and hawk-like features of a red Indian, I had met my first
Christian socialist. Through him the world of visual art and
classical music had opened to me. He had introduced me to
the English poetry of my day. I had grown familiar with the
work of Auden, Day Lewis, Isherwood, and Spender. He
had presented me with William Plomer's beautiful little
book / Speak of Africa. Through Brother Roger I had made
my first white friends, a young brother and sister, Sammy
and Phyllis Lieberman.

In my holidays I had gone to the beautiful University of
Johannesburg, and there, in the offices of the Institute of
Race Relations, I had worked. I found young men and
women there who seemed untouched by the racial disease of
the land. Men like Julius Lewin. There, for the first time in
my life, a white woman had served me a cup of tea. But
there had been restraint: an unspoken, unexpressed concern
lest they go too far in their intimacy or lest I forget that out-
side these offices the racial laws were still in full flower.

At St. Peter's a motherly woman teacher of English, Mrs.
Lindsay, took over where Father Adams had left off, and
she helped me on my journey into the golden realms of lan-
guage and literature. With her I first discovered the inde-
pendent life possessed by a work of art and the strange loy-
alty art demands of those who would serve it.

At St. Peter's, too, I had met a young couple. The woman
had been with child and the man had had wrestling
matches with the boys on the lawn. These had been the first
white people to invite me to their home as a guest, the first

296

white people who had sat at table with me. Gradually, over
a period of time, they had nursed my friendship, had made
me see that it was something they valued and desired. Then,
in easy stages^ they had offered an explanation of all the
things that obsessed me: colour and the error Jonathan and
I had found in the religious equation.

They had called their explanation Dialectical Material-
ism. They had called the creed by which they lived Marx-
ism.

Marxism had the impact of a miraculous revelation. I
had explored this new creed with delicate care. I had mea-
sured its adherents by their creed. A profound revolution
had taken place in my heart and mind.

And I had tested the new creed called Marxism against
the reality of my experience and the darkness of my land.
And only by the Marxian theories of economics and impe-
rialism had the racialism of the land made sense. Marxism
had supplied an intelligent and reasonable explanation for
the things that happened. Had it also the key to the solving
of these problems?

My circle of white friends had extended. And only the
Marxists had seemed wholly free of any taint of racialism in
their dealings with me and other non-Europeans. But I had
found subtle and dangerous complications as I had moved
deeper into this Marxist world. I had found two major fac-
tions: Trotskyists and Stalinists. To each, the other was the
greater enemy, greater even than the racialism of the land.
I had listened to brilliant discourses about two men, one of
whom preached "permanent revolution" and the other "rev-

297

olution by stages." And I had found a viciousness of abuse
and vilification between the supporters of these two men.

Although Marxism had offered a reasonable explanation
of the world in which I lived, the factional abuse and coun-
ter-abuse disturbed me. And I had still to find, under the
political creed, something that would take in human feeling,
love and laughter, poetry and music, and the dear warmth
of pure, motiveless friendship. Had Marxism any room for
the compassionate humanity that pervaded the life and
teaching of Christ?

Thus I had, in 1938, left school and gone into the world,
groping after the meaning of life. Once, to know why would
have been all. I had found out why. But in finding out, I had
created a new need.

Could the creed of Marxism raise all men to the full mea-
sure of a dignified humanity?

Early in 1938 I had been "discovered" by the European
press. Oliver Walker of the Daily Express had written a fea-
ture article, "Coloured Boy Poet." He had used some of my
less "revolutionary" poems. The face of a skinny, soulful-
looking young man had stared at the whites from their pa-
pers. I had gone after a clerk-and-messenger job shortly
after the feature appeared. The white man had said:

"I know your face. You're the Coloured poet."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, we don't want you."

So my friend Harold, who had wrestled on the lawn at St,
Peter's, had taken me into his temporary trade. We had
spent the nights repainting a block of city offices, and the
days talking Marxism, attending meetings, and reading.

298

My mother and sister had grown worried about me. My
new Marxist language had disturbed Maggie's religious
mind profoundly. My mother had been silent, but I had
sensed her unhappiness and her fears for me. This new,
challenging language of mine could only lead to trouble.
Sooner or later my new attitude would lead to a head-on col-
lision with the white lawmakers. She had had a harrowing
dread of that.

I turned away from the patch of moonlight on the wall. It
had shifted and narrowed to a sharp point. I got out of bed
and went to the window. A bright, reddish-yellow light was
creeping into the sky from the east. The weeks of painting
offices had got me used to staying awake all night and sleep-
ing by day. Anyway, it would soon be daylight. Next door,
and in the other room, they were all sleeping. Lucky people.
I went back to bed. I got in and turned my back to the wall
of light. What would Harold and Cath say if they found out
about tonight? Cath and Jane are sisters. Jane says they
know. Do they? And what would they say?

It had been saddening. It had left a heavy load of depres-
sion on my mind. It should have been different, an act of
love and dedication, an act of beauty. It had been without
beauty and she had not seen that. Spender echoed through
my drowsing mind.

For I had expected always
Some brightness to hold in trust,
Some final innocence
To save from dust;

299

That, hanging solid,
Would dangle through all
Like the created poem
Or the dazzling crystal.

And It had been without beauty. I closed my eyes. , . .

"Peter! Wake up, Peter! Here's a cup of tea."

I rolled onto my back. Jane, dressed and ready to go to
work, stood over me with a steaming cup of tea. The early-
morning sun streamed into the room with dazzling bright-
ness.

"Hello."

" 'Morning, sleepy woolly head. Drink this and then you
can go off again. I'm a working woman."

I took the tea. "You all right?"

"Of course. Still worrying?" She ran her fingers through
my woolly mop. "Wish I had your curls."

"Tell that to Coloured girls. They want theirs straight."

"And we pay to curl ours. ... I must go. See you to-
night. Wish you could come and meet me. Oh damn! I'm
sorry. This stupid set-up maddens me. I can't go anywhere
with you. See you tonight."

She went out. I tried to sleep again, but could not. She
was right. I would not be able to take her anywhere, not
even on quiet walks. For us just to be seen together would
bring disaster. It was bad enough when Harold and I trav-
elled together. Still, better not think of that now. A lovely
girl. Must have been my fault that last night had fallen flat.
But she said she'd been seduced a long time ago. By whom?

300

And had she been willing? A man wants to offer himself
cleanly to the woman of his choice. He wants to say: "Here,
take all my heart and all the untouched purity of it. This is
the best I have to offer." And he wants to hear her say:
"And here is mine, as purely untouched as yours, and all
for you. . . ."

I heard Cath and Harold in the kitchen. I got up, went to
the bathroom, and then dressed. I went to the kitchen. Cath
was feeding the bady. Harold, in dressing-gown, prepared
toast.

"Good morning," I said.

" 'Morning, Peter," they said.

The flaxen-haired, blue-eyed little girl opened her arms
to me. I hugged her.

"Good night?" Harold asked gruffly.

"Rather restless," I said.

I intercepted a look between them. Jane was right. They
knew.

After breakfast Cath and the child went out. On the point
of going, she touched my shoulder.

"I'm for you, Peter. You know that."

Yes, they knew.

It came out into the open as Harold and I washed up.

"Peter"

"Yes?"

"Anything between you and Jane?"

"Yes."

"We've seen it 'brewing. Talk about it last night?"

"Yes."

He embraced me with gruff affection, then turned away.

301

"I want you to know we think you're good enough for
anybody."

"Thanks, Last night, Harold"

"You went the whole way."

"Yes."

"Serious?"

"I think so."

"Jane's a nice kid, but there are problems. I don't mean
about that. She knows how to cope. I mean political prob-
lems."

"I'll be all right."

"I know you will, Peter. . . . Funny thing about women.
Really, we shouldn't have this baby, but there you are. The
ideal thing would be to do without them. For you more than
me. You're not likely to find a woman as developed as your-
self among your own people. That's why I say I couldn't
marry a non-European myself. It isn't colour, but the level
of development. You're in the same situation. And for you
it's a dilemma. In the present set-up your society is not
likely to throw up many women who could be your intel-
lectual companions as well as your bed companions. And
there isn't much of an alternative, is there? Not in this coun-
try. But, as I said, we're with you. You're good enough for
anybody."

Here at least, with these two friends of mine who were
Marxists, the creed had measured up to reality. They had
said colour was an artificial barrier. Now, though not de-
liberately, I had tested this belief and found them true to it.
Was the Marxian creed, then, the true creed? If it could

302

make people acknowledge my humanity so completely, with-
out any reservations, why was it also charged with such
strong factional hatreds?

Harold went out later to see about a job. This was a white
suburb of Johannesburg, so it was safest for me to stay in-
doors. There was a fine collection of books, most of Gol-
lancz's Left Book Club editions. I had cigarettes, paper, and
pencil. I read and wrote.

For two weeks Jane and I spent evenings together. We
read and talked and listened to records. During the day
Harold went his way and I went mine, each hunting for a
job. At last he got a job as supervisor to a gang of native
builders. He hated it, but there was no money in the house
other than the little Jane brought. My job hunt proved ut-
terly hopeless.

On rare occasions Jane and I went to the homes of other
comrades. She did not like these outings, because we had to
travel like strangers till we reached our destination. And
these visits usually turned into serious political meetings.
But these and the political meetings were the only outings
on which we could venture together. Harold and Cath looked
on helplessly as our frustration grew. No theoretic analysis,
however sound, could help us now. We grew irritable with
each other, quarrelled, made up, and quarrelled again. We
grew desperate. I told her to go out by herself, and quar-
relled with her for doing so. The end came as we sat alone
one night.

"It's no good!" she cried suddenly. "Perhaps I don't un-

303

derstand your poet's temperament. I want fun even if we
can't go out together. You're always tense and anxious. It's
getting on my nerves. I don't think it's any good, Peter. I'm
sorry, but it just isn't."

"We can get away from here."

"That's silly. We haven't a penny."

"You're right. So"

"So I'm calling it off. There are mixed couples who man-
age in the Cape. Perhaps they're different from us."

"We could go there and try."

"It's no good."

"Don't you love me any more?"

"That's another thing. Love's so important to you. It
even interferes with your having fun. I just can't. I'm
sorry."

"All right, Jane."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that!"

She left me and I sat alone. Really, -I had been waiting
for this, dreading it. There could be no other end. What I
had expected on that first night had not come. But even if it
had, the end would still have been this, still the same. This
end had been inevitable long before the beginning. Spender
had it:

What I had not foreseen
Was the gradual day
Weakening the will
Leaking the brightness away,
The lack of good to touch

304

The fading of body and soul
Like smoke before wind
Corrupt, unsubstantial.

I was glad the end had come, glad with a desperately ach-
ing heart.

When Harold came in later that night, I said:

"I'm going."

"Going? Where?"

"I think I'll try to get down to the Cape. It may be easier
to get a job there."

"Jane?"

"Not only that."

"But it is ended?"

"Yes. It is ended."

"You sound almost cheerful. I'll write to the comrades in
the Cape. They'll help."

"No. ... All right. But give me the letter. It may take
time to get there."

I loved my friends Cath and Harold, but I had had
enough of their particular brand of Marxism. I did not want
to step into the same setting down in the Cape. I need not
deliver the letter.

"We'll miss you, Peter."

"I'll miss the three of you, Harold."

"And Jane?"

"I don't know."

"Don't swing from extreme softness to extreme hard-
ness."

I looked at him soberly. Marxism aside, this man and his

305

wife had, by the nature of their friendship, helped me to the
point where I could look beyond the whiteness of a white
man's skin and see and comprehend his humanity. I knew
that if I told him this he wotild say it was because they were
Marxists. But I had met other Marxists who had been un-
able to do this. It had come out of their sense of humanity
and their essential goodness as human beings.

"I want you to know how I feel about you and
Cath. ..." I choked on the words.

My friend nodded. "We feel the same about you, laddie."

I went to Max Gordon's Office the next morning. Gordon
had built up a black trade-union movement on the Rand.
Blacks were not allowed in white unions. Black unions were
not recognized by the state, the white unions, or the agencies
of the employers. There had been black unions on the Rand
before Gordon's time. The most famous of these had been
Clement Kadalie's Industrial and Commercial Union. But
these had been, for the most part, little more than move-
ments of political protest, with little, if any, genuine trade-
union content. Indeed, the members of these unions saw very
little, if anything at all, for their subscriptions. The Com-
munists, too, had had a hand in Rand trade-unionism among
the blacks.

But it was not till Max Gordon appeared on the Rand
that black trade unions were formed that really served the
interests of their members, and that were run on business-
like trade-union lines. Nominally, Gordon was a Trotskyist,
but his determined refusal to turn his unions into part of the

306

Left faction fight made him unpopular with the majority of
his comrades. The African workers, on the other hand,
trusted him. Gordon trained a number of African trade-
unionists. Among the most Outstanding black unionists
working with Gordon were Gana Makabeni, an ex-Com-
munist, Dan Koza, who had been a fellow student of mine at
Grace Dieu, and D. Gosani. That year, 1938, Gordon had
formed a joint committee of native trade unions and was
again trying to get recognition for his unions.

In person, Gordon was a small, cheerful, fresh-faced
young man with a quiet, casual manner and a sunny,
crooked grin that suddenly made him appear shy.

I went into the basement in Commissioner Street from
where Gordon ran his unions. Part of the big room had been
partitioned into little cubicles. Gordon and his assistants
occupied a cubicle each. Rows of benches covered the rest
of the room. And on the benches sat the black workers of
the city, waiting to see their leaders and tell them their prob-
lems. Others were unemployed and sat patiently waiting for
Gordon's phone to ring. When it did, they looked up hope-
fully. And if Gordon came out of his little cubicle after a
phone call, they grew tense.

I passed among the waiting workers and went into Gor-
don's cubicle. He was dealing with two men.

"Ah, Peter."

"Hello, Max."

"Sit down. There's material here for a story for you."

He turned back to the two workers. I sat in a corner and
listened. The phone rang. He picked it up.

"Yes? . . . Yes. Yes, I can do that. How many? . . .

307

Four dyers. I'll send them over straight away. Yes. You know
our members are good. . . . Oh, I say Yes. . . . No.
. . . There is this question of a rise. You know the rest of
the trade's accepted this threepenny rise? . . ."

He put down the phone and sat beaming for a while. Tall
Dan Koza came in.

"I say, Max"

"Fve got it, Koza! The whole trade. We'll draft a new
agreement."

"Your threepence?"

"Yes! And improved conditions!"

The two trade-unionists, the black and the white, laughed
with the joyous gaiety of boys who had won a great prize.

"We'll get recognition yet, comrades!"

Then they went back to work.

And all through the morning and well into the afternoon
I sat in my corner watching and listening. The picture was
absorbing. Here a new social and political consciousness
was in the making. The black man of the past, the peasant,
was being turned into a townsman, a modern man who was
part and parcel of the highly industrialized world of the
present.

On a different mental and emotional level, my friend
Jonathan had gone through the same process. Christianity
and the knowledge it brought had made the tribal past in-
adequate. So he had turned to the Christian present and
future. These working men had found the tribal economy in-
adequate when the new taxes, the new offerings, and new
prices of the white men came. So they had turned to the city,
which is the industrialized Christian present, for work.

308

Both the working man and my friend Jonathan had found
the good things of this present

RESERVED FOR EUROPEANS ONLY

We left the office late in the afternoon and walked to
Gordon's flat. As we climbed the stairs to his modest home,
he sighed tiredly and said:

"One day, a vigorous and strong native trade-union move-
ment will grow up. None of the government's prohibitions
and restrictions and arrests will count for anything then.
And that movement is going to play a key part in the politi-
cal emancipation of all non-whites. So, for the present, I ask
for a threepenny rise, for a recognized and proper lunch
hour, and for decent and safe conditions of work. It's a small
beginning, but it's a beginning. That's what was wrong with
earlier efforts. They didn't know how to start,"

We entered the flat. Max went into the kitchen and pre-
pared a bread-and-cheese-and-salad-and-coffee lunch. I
cleared the table in his bed-sitting-room.

"Zena rang my office and asked for you. Wants you to
phone her."

I stiffened. "Tell you what about?"

"No. She only said it was important. Sounded funny.
Anything wrong?"

"No."

"Now you're sounding funny." He poked his head through
the door and looked at me. "You're a bad liar, so shut up."

"What's her number?"

"It's on the pad."

I found the number and rang. She answered the phone
herself.

309

"Hello. Peter here."

"I gave up hope of your calling. I rang Max yesterday be-
cause I didn't know how else to reach you. I want to explain
about yesterday morning."

"I understand, Zena."

"Please"

"Honestly, I really do. There's no need to explain."

"I must. And you're making it terrible for me."

"But I tell you"

"Please listen to me, Peter. I must. Please "

"All right."

"The man you saw me with yesterday morning is stink-
ingly rich and just as prejudiced. He'd just been telling me
how over-sexed all blacks are supposed to be. ... How
angry he got with white women who behaved well, you
know all about it. . . ."

"Yes."

"The point is, Peter, he can give me a job I want, a well-
paying job. . . . And then, as we left the coffee-place, we
passed you. Do you see?"

"Yes, I see."

"He's a Jew, Peter, like me, and he's more prejudiced
than any Boer I know. It makes me sick. And then I had to
meet you and pass you as though I didn't know you. I've
been feeling sick ever since."

Behind me, Max put the food on the table. Then he re-
turned to the kitchen. How could I ease the pain in this
woman's voice?

"Zena, I know many more Jews who aren't prejudiced.
And I know Coloureds who are prejudiced, and blacks,"

310

"But / had to pass you."

"It could have happened to anyone."

"But it happened to you and me. And I was the gutless

one.

"It's over. . . ."

Max brought in the coffee, sat down, and began to eat. I
felt him looking at me and turned my back to him.

"Peter, please, will you come and see me? ... Will you
come tonight? Please. . . ."

"Yes."

She gave me her address and rang off.

"A most illuminating conversation. All yeses, noes, and
I-sees."

"You know, Max, this country does mess people up
badly."

He looked at me in mock horror. "How bloody pro-
found!"

"Stop it!"

"Seriously. Are you in love?"

"No. I was. But that ended last night."

"Zena?"

"Of course not. Jane."

"What's the trouble with Zena? Colour?"

"Could be."

"Thought it was about the only thing that could get her
quite as upset. She has a good man, you know." His eyes
went impishly mocking.

I cheered up. "Stop being foolish. I know and like her
man. I'm seeing her tonight."

In a flash, Gordon was in deadly earnest.

311

"One of those street scenes of no recognition, heh? . . .
Don't be hard on her, Pete. She's a good woman. . . .
Really, of course, real friendship between black and white is
impossible in this country. You know that."

I had not thought about it. But, thinking of it then, I
realized he was right. Real friendship, friendship that had
the creative force of building up wider areas of understand-
ing, was impossible between black and white in our coun-
try. The precondition, freedom of association, did not exist.
Those whites who associated openly with blacks were fore-
doomed to social and economic disaster. It needed courage
on the level of near-martyrdom for even a Communist white
to associate personally, on the level of friendship, with a
black.

"Max!"

"Well?"

"I want to get out of here. I want to go down to the Cape.
I'm feeling choked."

"Good idea. It'll help for a while."

"It might help for good."

"Don't be a bloody fool. You know, and I know, that
there's no room for you here. Who wants a writer? The
whites? Sure, if you'll be a performing monkey and tell
them how happy you are with your lot. The blacks? They've
no time for reading. Most of them can't read. And those who
can are concerned with improving their miserable lot, not
with reading poetry. You could become a propagandist, but
you are too much of a bloody artist for that. You'll never be
satisfied with being only a propagandist. You look at too
many sides of a question. And it'll get worse as you develop.

312

So what's left? Nothing. Nobody wants you, or, at least,
even those who do don't know it. Who's going to buy what
you write and give you a chance to eat?"

"All right. So black writers are unwanted."

"I'm not saying they're unwanted. The facts say that. The
facts say a man must eat or he dies. The facts say there is no
future for you here. You've known it in your heart all along.
Keep to your plan and get out of here. You may, as a writer,
exert an influence on events from afar if you succeed. You
can do damn all from here. I'll write to Goolam Gool in
Cape Town. He's a doctor. He's got a big house. He's been
to Europe. Don't see why he shouldn't help. At least you
can have proper food for a few weeks. When do you go?"

"Stop pretending you're such a tough bastard!"

"Shut up and tell me when you're going."

"When I can raise the fare."

"Ha! That'll mean next year!"

"I think I'll make it in a day or two."

"I'll write to Gool tonight."

Zena opened the door.

"Hello, Zena."

"Peter oh, Peter!"

"It's all right, my dear."

I closed the door. We went into a small, soothing, green
room. A small table was laid for two.

I had been wrong about one important thing. I had not
thought about the other side of the penny. The racialism of
our land did not hurt only those who were not white. Bas-

313

ically, it hurt all of us, black and white alike. I would have
to remember that, always. This deep, overflowing hurt of
Zena's was the other side of the penny. And, really, her hurt
was greater than mine. "Whatever it had done to me, and
other blacks, racialism had never driven us to this brand of
shame and guilt that verged on self-hate. The sensitive, un-
prejudiced whites of our land walk a dangerous emotional
tight-rope. And the non-whites rarely understand it.

We ate. Then we sat in the sheltered moonlit garden with
a glass of beer each. We did not talk much, but we got as
near understanding each other as I have known white and
non-white to get in our land. We both knew that the corrod-
ing influence of the laws of our land could destroy this un-
derstanding if we met daily. But I was leaving. Normal
friendship was not possible, so it was best that I leave on
this high note of understanding. And it was good to leave
the strange and harsh city in which I was born with the
knowledge that the white girl beside me had suffered as
grievously from the colour bar as I had done. The knowledge
was sadly, but hopefully, comforting. The other side of the
penny. . . .

"When do you leave?" she said at last,

"I'll try to raise the fare tomorrow. I'm selling some of
my books and my typewriter."

"Oh. Now listen to me, please. I've got that damned job.
The wages are stupidly high. I'll have more money than I
need. I've only a few pounds now, but please take them. I'd
feel so much better about the job. Please. Keep your type-
writer and write that book. Please say you'll take it! Dedi-
cate that book to me and I'll be more than paid. Yes! . . ,"

314

"You may wait a long while."

"Ill wait for it. You'll take the money?"

"Yes. You'U get your book."

"I know I will!"

"You and my mother!"

"She must be a' fine person."

When I left, her man thanked me silently for Zena's new
cheerfulness. I felt good. . . . The other side of the
penny. . . .

315

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER

I reached Cape Town on a dull and misty morning. The
journey down had taken a week. I had started it with three
pounds in my pocket. I had got off the train twice. Once in
the Orange Free State, and once on the borders of the Cape
Province. I had spent four days moving from one village to
the next. I had built up a picture of non-European life. But
for slight differences of detail, the picture had been the same
as in the Transvaal. Everywhere, I had found the great ma-
jority of the people living in poverty and hunger, in sickness
and misery, in shanty homes, and with uncertainty and fear
for companions. As I had neared the Cape border, I had
noticed the numerical increase of Coloureds over Africans.

When my three pounds were spent I had gone back to the
railway line and continued my journey. Now I was in Cape
Town.

I was tired, and terribly hungry. I had lived on cups of
tea since I had left the last village a day and a half back. I
had one and threepence in my pocket but I wanted to hold
on to that till I was sure of the morrow. I left my suitcase
with "Baggage" and went to look for a telephone. Gool.
Gool. Dr. Goolam Gool. I found the number and phoned.
The phone kept ringing. I held it for ten minutes, but no one
answered. My stomach rumbled with hunger. What now? I
put down the receiver, pressed the wrong button, and lost my
tickey. Only a shilling left now, and I had made no contact
and knew no one. Better nurse the shilling in case Gool did
not appear.

I left the phone box and went out of the station. A fine,

316

invisible sheet of misty wet permeated the atmosphere. My
clothes felt slightly damp. All about me, Coloureds moved.
There were two or three of them for every black or white
person I saw. I watched a bus go by. It was filled with
Coloureds. They sat everywhere, upstairs and down. The
racial line was not so rigid here as in the Transvaal and the
Free State.

I crossed the parade-ground and walked in the direction
of District Six, the big Coloured slum area. I passed the old
fort that the first white settlers under Jan Van Riebeck had
built. Table Mountain loomed over the town, as though in
everybody's back yard. Its top was completely hidden in a
white cloud the traditional tablecloth.

District Six is on a steeply sloping hill. At the foot of the
hill, on the edge of the district, I saw a nondescript cafe:
neither clean nor dirty; the kind the poorer whites fre-
quented in Johannesburg. My stomach rumbled again. I was
slightly light-headed. Better have a cup of tea. . . .

I waited till I saw a Coloured man go in. I followed him.
A fat, cheerful, big-bellied Greek 'welcomed me with a large
smile. The cheapest food on the menu was sausages and
mashed potatoes at one and six a portion. I wondered if I
dared ask for a half-portion. The Greek came to me.

"What'll it be?"

I stared blankly.

"Oh. Waiting for someone?"

He seemed friendly and interested.

"Yes. Hope my friend knows I arrive today."

"New here? . . . Where you from?"

"Johannesburg."

317

"Long way. Been there myself once. Business too sharp.
Cuppa tea while you wait?"

"Yes, please."

He went away and came back with the tea.

"Why not ring your friend?"

"I did. No answer."

"Don't worry. He'll come back. Stay here awhile. Ring
later on my phone. You know nobody else?"

An idea stirred in my brain.

"May I use your phone?"

"Sure thing. I get your number if you like."

"Thanks. I want the Cape Standard''

"I get it for you. Mr. Manuel comes here sometimes. Fine
writer, Mr. Manuel. . . . Something to eat?"

"No."

"Ah, go on! We can settle later."

"I don't know Mr. Manuel."

"I send it over and we settle later. All right?"

"Thank you, Mister"

"Fatty. Everyone call me Fatty. No Mister, heh?"

"Thanks, Fatty. I'm Peter."

"Fine. I get the Standard and send the food. What you
have?"

"Sausages and mash."

"Best in town!"

A haggard young woman who might have been Greek, or
pale Coloured, brought me the sausages and mashed pota-
toes. I was half-way through the meal when Fatty called me.

"Your call. I think it's Mr. Manuel."

318

I took the phone. Fatty waved his arms at someone. The
voice at the other end said:

"Hello? Hello? 55

"My name is Peter Abrahams. I wonder "

"What name?"

"Peter Abrahams."

"The poet?"

"Yes."

"Hello, Mr. Abrahams. I'm Manuel, assistant editor.
Why didn't you let us know you were coming? I could've "

"I've just arrived. I'm supposed to stay with Dr. Gool,
but I can't get him on the phone. I wonder if "

"Where are you?"

I turned to Fatty. "Where am I?"

"I tell him." He took the phone from me. "This is Fatty,
Mr. Manuel. You know my cafe. . . . Yes. . . . Yes, I'll
make him very comfortable. . . . Good-bye." Fatty put
down the receiver and beamed at me, "Mr. Manuel comes.
. . . Yes, I was right. You learn to know people in my
trade. When I see you, I say to myself: 'That one is different.
It is in the way he looks at people and things. It is in the
eyes.' You learn these things in my trade. . . . The girl
keeps your food warm. Now she brings it. ... Mr. Manuel
says you're a big writing man, a poet."

"I'm broke."

"What the hell! Money ain't everything."

I suddenly felt cheerful. The prospects were much brighter
now. Manuel would soon be here, and he would help. I
grinned.

319

"You'll never get rich if you think like that."

"What the hell again! I do my business; I make a little; I
have my friends and I eat a lot: I'm fat and happy. I laugh
a lot. My name is Fatty. Money ain't everything."

"It is when you're broke."

"You think it is, but it never is. One day I will tell you of
the Greek poet who lived in my village when I was a boy. He
sang a song about the happiness that you cannot buy. . . .
Here's your food. Now you eat. One day I will tell you of
that poet. . . ."

I went back to my table and finished my meal. Manuel
arrived soon afterwards.

He was a big, copper-brown young man whose present
bulk gave warning that he would be as fat as Fatty in a few
years' time, if not fatter. He stood a head higher than the
taU Greek.

"I've heard so much about you, Mr. Abrahams. I'm glad
to meet you. Welcome to Cape Town."

"You'll never know how glad I am to meet you, Mr.
Manuel!"

So this was the man who, under the pen-name Gemel, had
turned out the finest pieces of journalism yet done by any
Coloured South African.

We talked about writing, and about the only two Coloured
newspapers in the country. He made notes for a profile of
me. We had tea and cakes. He paid Fatty for all I had eaten.

As we left, Fatty touched my arm. "Come back, my
friend. Come even when you are broke. You can always pay
another time. Money ain't everything. And I want to tell
you of that poet in my village."

320

"HI come back, Fatty."

Manuel took me to a photographer. The ghastly result of
that visit appeared on the front page of the Standard on the
Saturday, two days later.

I phoned Gool at the photographer's. A suave, cultivated
voice answered immediately.

"Dr. Gool?"

"Y~e-S."

"Peter Abrahams here."

"Ah, yes. Gordon wrote me. Where are you?"

"Near the Parade."

"I'll pick you up in about fifteen minutes. Afraid you'll
have to go with me on my afternoon rounds. Your bags?"

"One. At the station."

"Get it and I'll meet you outside the station. 'Bye."

I turned to Manuel. "What's he like?"

"He's the leader of the young intellectuals and of the Left
wing in the Liberation League. . . . You'll find out all
about that."

Manuel walked with me to the station, paid for my suit-
case, and then slipped three halfcrowns into my hand.

"Sorry it's not more. You deserve more for all your stuff
we've used. But they don't believe in paying writers, or me."

When Cool's car appeared, Manuel left me abruptly.

"You know where to reach me. Good luck. Peter."

"Thanks, George."

The man who was to be my host got out of his car. He was
tall and graceful: a light brown, but more Arabic and Malay
and Persian than Negro had gone into the brownness. His
features were sharply defined. He seemed assuredly relaxed

321

and aloof. He wore his fine clothes with the casualness of
those born to wealth. Forget his light-brown- skin and he
could be any successful doctor or business man anywhere in
the land. I thought: "This man has never gone hungry, has
never known the stark misery of want and poverty." I grew
worried. I had not expected this when I had accepted Max
Gordon's offer. I picked up my case and moved hesitantly
to him.

"A-ah! Abrahams!" he beamed. "Welcome!"

The welcome in his voice was genuine. He pushed my case
into the back.

"Sorry you have to go the rounds with me. But it'll show
you the poverty in which the masses live. A writer needs to
know that. Cigarette?"

I took a menthol-cooled cigarette.

"I'm most grateful for your taking me in like this, doc-
tor. . . ."

"Say no more; our comrades are always welcome. How's
Gordon doing with his unions? . . ."

The car purred and moved off. A white pedestrian hurried
out of the way. . . .

I lay on my back and listened to the sound of the surf. The
warm sun beat down on me. I kept my eyes closed. To the
left, on a green hillock overhanging the sea, Goolam Gool
played with his wife. Not much more than a year earlier, his
wife had been a young woman in purdah, behind the Moslem
veil. Now, she was playing in the sun in a bathing costume.
But, more important to her, she was a revolutionary Marxist,

322

rapidly becoming tough and skilled in the vicious art of
Marxian Trotskyist invective. Behind them, in a sweet green
hollow, Cool's sister, Jane, and her boy friend lay quietly
talking. And all about me was beauty and the eternal voice
of the unending sea. Without opening my eyes, I could see
the dazzling blue sky, far away so far away that it was
nothing but an eternity of space. And there, almost just be-
hind me, almost so that I could reach up and touch its cloud-
kissed top, was Table Mountain. Cape Town had no point
from which it could not be seen. What a thing to have in
your back yard! And everywhere, in the nooks and crannies
of the sloping land, grey-white houses lay, half-hidden by
luxuriant trees. Oh, the sun! And the sea! And the green!
And the gold! Oh, paradise! This must have been the Garden
of Eden that announced the beginning of time! The beauty
of this land brings an ache to the heart of a man. A man
wants to say thank-you for such beauty. A man needs to offer
reverence and homage to the force that makes the green leaf
sprout, to the force that makes his own heart ache.

Cool's sudden laughter reached me above the sound of the
sea. Cool. . . . Yes. . . .

It was over two months since that day he had picked me
up at the station. He had taken me to a lovely little house in
a suburb of Cape Town called Wynburg, a "mixed" area.
Coloureds and whites lived side by side.

For me, the transition had been remarkable. I had gone
into what was, in the Transvaal, a comfortable "European"
home. I had eaten regularly. My diet had been balanced. I
had eaten, for the first time, well-prepared green vegetables
with each meal. The day had started with a tall glass of fruit

323

juice. The sallowness had gone from my skin. My body had
begun to fill out. My eyes had strengthened surprisingly. I
had discarded the steel-framed glasses Canon Woodfield had
got for me at Grace Dieu.

At week-ends we had driven out to the sea. It had always
been the same four people, with me as the odd one. The sun
and sea and air had worked on me.

Some evenings Goolam and I had driven into Cape Town
and visited the home of his brother. The elder Gool pos-
sessed all the qualities of an Eastern epicurean. He loved
good food and good music, and his home was filled with
things of beauty. I met a number of white artists and non-
political intellectuals at his home. I was fascinated by the
grace and sophistication this man had gathered about him.
I had not believed it possible for a Coloured man in our land
to be as far removed from the ugly realities of life there. But
then I had also believed, before coming to the Cape, that no
Coloured doctor or lawyer existed in our country and that no
Coloureds lived on an economic level that compared favour-
ably with that of the majority of whites. And then I had met
the Gools.

But the Gools, and the family with which they were linked
by marriage, the Abdurahmans, were singular exceptions in
the general scheme of Coloured poverty. With the handful of
Indian merchants in Natal, and the three or four African
families like the Jabavus and Sogas, they formed the very
small group of wealthy non-Europeans. Indeed, of the ten
million non-whites of the country, no more than a dozen
families knew the meaning of economic security and genuine
freedom from want.

324

Once, I had met Edward Roux at one of the gatherings of
the elder Gool. He was tall and gaunt and there was some-
thing in his face that said the man had suffered much. I had
not been ahle to say a word to him. For Roux had long been
a hero to all non-whites who questioned the scheme of
things.

Roux had sacrificed a brilliant academic career to work
for African freedom. The wrath of white authority had
broken on him. He had become a Communist, had been in-
volved in nearly all the labour and political struggles of the
blacks. He had taught blacks tq read and write, had or-
ganized night schools, and worked out a basic English for
black workers. Then there had been a change in the Com-
munist line. Roux had not agreed with the new line. He had
been broken. His fine record had been swept aside in the
campaign to "discredit" him among the blacks. But in this
the Communist Party had failed. They had, however, suc-
ceeded in driving him into the social and economic wilder-
ness.

I had wanted to talk to Roux that night at the elder Cool's.
But I had been driven to silence by his quiet sincerity and
the marks of suffering on the man. Instead, I had again
marvelled unhappily at the ruthlessness with which the com-
rades seemed determined to herald the New Future. I wanted
to believe in that New Future which promised the equality
and security of all men. If only they had room for pity, com-
passion, and mercy. ... If only they allowed for the hu-
man heart. . . .

In the Transvaal I had met only one Coloured man who

325

was interested in politics. He had been a Communist. The
rest the teachers, artisans, casual labourers were too busy
trying to keep alive to bother about their Coloured lot. Or if
they bothered, they did so in silence and in private. In the
Cape, political interest was intense. The Coloureds had, sub-
ject to qualifications, the right to vote. Unlike their Trans-
vaal and Free State brothers, they could affect local issues.
Their attitude could even determine the results of a few
parliamentary elections. The most popular Coloured leader
in the Cape, Cissie Gool, estranged wife of the elder Gool,
sat in the Cape Town city council. Her father, Dr. Abdurah-
man, had had a seat in the provincial council. Father and
daughter were in opposite political camps: the Jfather repre-
sented the conservative leadership of old Coloured families;
the daughter was the champion of the miserably poor, and
the Communists supported her. Her organization, the Na-
tional Liberation League, was thrustful and young. Col-
oureds from all walks of life flocked to it. At their meetings
and parades they sang their anthem:

Dark folk, arise!

The long, long night is over;

Faint in the east,

Behold the dawn appear:

Out of your evil dream of toil and sorrow,

Arise, ye dark folk,

For the dawn is here!

And her father's group, the African Peoples Organization,
once the most famous Coloured body in the Cape, was little

326

more than a name. It had never been popular with the mass
of the ordinary Coloured people. But they had followed its
lead at election times because there had been no other lead.
Now all were for the Liberation League.

Teachers and professional men made up the inner council
of the League. And Goolam Gool was the leader of the Left
wing inside the council of the League. He had behind him a
group of young teachers who were the most brilliant young
intellectuals in the Cape, skilled in debate and public speak*
ing. Goolam Gool's Left wing was a potent minority inside
the League. Gool took his line from one of the two Trotskyist
factions in Cape Town. And Cissie Gool was suspect because
of her relations with some Communists, though she was not
a Communist herself. So the old Trotskyist opposition har-
ried what they regarded as the old Stalinist betrayal. This
Trotsky-versus-Stalin scrap at times assumed more impor-
tance than the interests of the "masses" who looked to the
League for leadership.

Early in my stay with Gool I had been introduced to this
"inner struggle" for power. It had soon grown clear that
Gool expected me to join on his side in the factional fight.
His sister spoke with more frankness about my becoming a
"stooge" to be launched against the "Stalinist stooges." *

Things had come to a head a little later. A Coloured cul-
tural body, the New Era Fellowship, had invited me to lec-
ture on the prospects for the growth of non-European litera-
ture in South Africa. Some Communists turned up for the
lecture. At the end of my little piece, Gool phrased a ques-
tion so that only one answer could be given. I refused to
accept the premise of the question. After him a Coloured

327

Communist, John Gomas, phrased another in like manner.
I agreed with what he was leading up to. I answered the
question and so said the things he, the Communist, wanted
me to say. Cool's face had flushed when I had not accepted
the premise of his question as correct. Now I had answered
the Communist. The Stalinists had scored over the Trotsky-
ists! The rights and wrongs of the question were unimpor-
tant beside this fact. Really, what I had heen trying to say
was unimportant except where it endorsed one line or the
other. Yet both Gool and Gomas were bitterly opposed to
racialism, and both were sincere and honest in their strivings
for non-European emancipation. And each was all that was
untruthworthy to the other. Labels had conquered the
men. . . .

Again Gool's laughing voice cut into my thoughts. And
the sea was about me, and the sky above. The sun had trav-
elled far to the west. I opened my eyes and sat up. The trees
were starting to cast long shadows. Night, as yet unseen, was
racing on. Although Gool had said nothing after that meet-
ing, I knew it had finally convinced him that I was no good.
The break could not be long in coming now. And I would be
glad when it came.

I walked down to the roaring sea.

Gool had taken me in. He had housed me and fed me.
When I had mentioned finding a job, he had dismissed it
laughingly, had overridden me with his easy charm. But a
man cannot live on the kindness of another for ever. And
there had been something clean and acceptable about his
kindness. I wanted to tell him of my gratitude. But I knew
the shadow of Left-wing political intolerance would be over

328

our parting. I did not mind that. What I minded was that
this political intolerance would stop the expression of the
genuine gratitude I wanted to convey to him before I left.
And I wanted to say to him: Of all the Coloureds I've met,
you are, most completely, most naturally, free of the slightest
hint of prejudice, upwards, to the whites, or downwards, to
the blacks. And that is important.

But I left him, two days later, with only time for a hurried
"Thank you very much for everything."

On my own again, I drifted back to District Six and
Fatty's. I had no money, so I slept in the office of the Libera-
tion League. I rarely spent a night there alone. There were
others who had nowhere else to go. Fatty fed me one meal a
day on the cuff. Finding a job seemed impossible. For the
few jobs that were advertised, there were numberless ap-
plicants. And the whites were not inclined, in any case, to
give jobs to "a well-known Coloured agitator." I went down
to the docks. But there, toq, Cape Town's Coloured "skol-
lies" waited in their numbers for one ship that might need
one more stoker. And these men were giants beside me. No
captain was likely to look at me while they were about. Oh,
damn their rippling muscles! Damn the hair on their chests!

Cape Town docks were out, I would have to try another
tack. I went to the passport office.

"What do I do to get a passport, please?"

"Going to study?"

"No."

"What're you going for?"

329

"Just going."

The man's face hardened. "Any money?"

"My fare." I lied.

"Any more?"

"Fifty."

"You'd have to leave the fifty as a deposit. How would
you live?"

"Deposit for what?"

"In case you can't pay to get back."

"I see."

"Well, how would you live?"

"I have relatives," I lied again.

"In England?"

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty."

"Got a letter from your parents?"

"No."

"They know you want a passport?"

"Yes."

"You'll have to bring a letter from them, from your
father."

"He's dead. Will my mother do?"

"Yes. . . . What's your name?"

He wrote it on a slip of paper.

I went back to the office of the League and wrote to my
mother. While I awaited her reply, I typed a thesis of some
three hundred foolscap pages for a Chinese student. He gave
me a pound and a parcel of groceries for this job.

330

My mother's letter of consent arrived a few days later.
Would she see me again before I went away? She wanted to
look at my face just once more. England was so far away. I
must take care of myself and behave myself when I got to
the world of white people.

I went back to the passport office with the letter. I still
had ten shillings left of the pound I had earned from the
Chinese. I had cleared up my account with Fatty.

The man who had spoken to me the first time faced me. I
took the letter out of my pocket.

He read the letter, then looked at me. His eyes were cold
and remote. They looked at a thing, not a person. I forced
myself to speak, though I knew it was hopeless.

"You said I needed a letter of consent."

"I can't give you a passport."

"But you said I have the money. I can get it and show
it to you."

"You can't have a passport!"

"But why?"

He lost his temper. "I said you can't have a passport!"

I took my mother's letter and slunk out. No use wasting
any more time there. And there was no authority I could
appeal to. I went back to District Six.

This year, 1938, was the year the South African Govern-
ment made its first moves to deprive the Cape Coloureds of
their right to vote on the same roll as the whites. Hertzog
was Prime Minister, and Smuts was his deputy. In 1936 the
Hertzog government had removed the blacks of the Cape
from the voters' roll. The two major organizations of the

331

black people, the African National Congress and the All
African Convention, had protested to no effect. One or two
of the more far-sighted of their leaders had called on the
Coloureds for joint action and had warned that the Coloured
vote would go, after the African vote. A miserably small
handful of Coloureds, chief among them Goolam Gool, had
shown interest and tried to work with the Africans. The rest
had been indifferent. The Africans in the Cape had lost their
right to vote on an equal footing with the whites. Now the
turn of the Coloureds had come.

The National Liberation League formed a non-European
United Front to fight the Hertzog bill. The United Front
wooed the African organizations. In spite of the earlier Col-
oured indifference, the two big African bodies gave moral
support. Perhaps this was largely due to the part Gool had
played in their struggle. And quite a surprising number of
lesser African organizations came into the United Front.

A day of national protest to wind up with a march on the
Houses of Parliament was planned. I flung myself into the
work of preparation.

At last the day arrived. Delegates poured into Cape Town
from all corners of the province, and from farther afield.
The streets of District Six seethed. The office of the Libera-
tion League was crowded. Throughout the day a conference
was held. Documents were drawn up listing the harsh dis-
abilities under which non-Europeans lived. Delegates made
fiery speeches.

That evening a monster meeting was held on the parade-
ground. The huge ground was packed with dark faces. The
atmosphere of tension spread from the Coloured area to the

332

areas of the whites. Police and soldiers were brought out in
force. They were armed and made a ring about the monster
meeting. Beginning with Cissie Gool, speaker after speaker
stirred the vast throng to a new realization of the misery of
their lives in such a fair and pleasant land. . . . Look at
this land on which the warm sun shines. Look at the vine-
yards and the orchards; look at the wheat-fields and corn-
fields; look at the vegetable gardens. Who work in them?
You, the dark people of this land. Who get the rewards of
your labours? They do, the white people. Nowhere else on
earth do white people do as little real work and live as well
as they do here. Do you know why? It is because they have
slaves to do the work for them. You sow and they reap. You
sweat and they have beautiful homes. You hunger and they
are well fed. Remember your own homes; and with that in
mind, remember the homes in which you work. For your
one room, how many rooms have they? Remember the meals
you eat. For your dry bread and coffee, what do you put on
their tables? And remember the places where their children
play. And your children? Why, the slum streets are good
enough for your children. Turn and look at what they have.
And then look at what you have. They have all and you have
nothing. Is it because they work harder than you? You know
the answer to that. You know who does the real work. They
say you are not civilized. They say you don't understand
machines. And they have a law called the Civilized Labour
Policy with which they want to make sure that you never
understand machines.

They say you're not educated. They tax you, pay you
starvation wages, and spend so little on your education that

333

it becomes impossible for you to educate your children.
They speak of democracy. General Smuts has quite a way
with words about freedom. But when you say: "I am a man
too; what about this democracy and freedom for me?" the
Smutses talk about "parallel development" and about "de-
veloping along your own lines." They lie. And you know
they lie. And they know they lie. They do not believe in de-
mocracy. It is all a mountain of hypocrisy. They believe in
slavery. Their pass laws, their colour-bar laws, their Civi-
lized Labour Policy, their taxation without representation,
the low wages they give you, the miserable conditions in
which they keep you: these are the chains of your slavery.
But all their soldiers and all their police cannot keep you
there for ever. Let us tell them that. Let us tell them we have
had enough! Let us fight to be free! Dark folk, arise!

And a voice cried: "To Parliament! Let them know how
we feel!"

The procession formed. The toughs of District Six flanked
their leaders. I strayed out of the tight little group. A huge
giant grabbed me and lifted me bodily. He pushed his fierce
face close to mine.

"Damn you! Stay there! You're a damn leader now!"

My laughter angered him so much, I thought he was going
to swipe me into kingdom come.

The procession moved. Directly in the path it took, sol-
diers stood, their arms at the ready. There was a moment of
ugly tension, then the soldiers broke and gave way. The
procession turned into Parliament Street. I heard the tinkle
of glass as huge shop windows were knocked in. Most of the
windows had iron grilles to protect them, but all those that

334

did not have such protection were smashed that night. A
cordon of police that barred the way was swept aside. Angry
slogans rent the air:

WE WANT FREEDOM!
DECENT HOMES!

WORK!

DOWN WITH SEGREGATION!
FREEDOM!

We neared the Houses of Parliament. A body of members
had come out to the steps of the House to see what was going
on. They soon retreated to their chamber because of the
angry, howling crowd. One tipsy member tried to address
the crowd from behind the protection of the high iron bars.
This infuriated the crowd. They flung whatever came to
hand. A handful of "skollies" tried to shin up the bars. The
tipsy member fled.

The procession swept on past Parliament. There were no
white people on the streets that night. . . .

Back at the League office, I heard stories of clashes be-
tween the police and groups of marchers who had continued
to roam the town at the end of the official demonstration.
When most of the demonstrators had dispersed, police vans
swooped through District Six arresting and attacking whom-
ever they saw on the streets. In the early hours of the morn-
ing they raided the office of the League. With others, I got
away through a window and over a roof. . . .

The monster demonstration was a seven-day sensation
throughout the country. A number of Coloureds and police

335

had been injured in the clashes. A number were in hospital.
Some of the injuries had been serious. Arrests had been
made. The papers were full of the affair. Some papers re-
vived talk about the "Black Peril." There were a number of
court cases. Questions were asked in Parliament. The pro-
posed bill was postponed. For many days police vans
haunted District Six. Whites did not come near it. Coloureds
did not venture far from it. In the end, excitement died
down. The League seemed to have exhausted itself in that
one giant effort.

Though an active participant, I had been shaken by these
events. I had seen a terrifying quality in mob anger. At best,
mob justice would be savagely brutal and blind. Had the
whites seen the portent in that night? Could they visualize
that night, expanded to take in the whole country and with
all the dark folk gone blind with anger? For it seemed to me,
after that night, that unless the whites did something to stay
it, a day would come when non-European anger would burst
throughout the land, and angry black voices and angry black
hands would be raised against the white citizens of our land.
And it seemed unwise and stupid, against their own inter-
ests, for the whites to push the blacks so hard towards that
horrible and ugly day. For it would be a horrible and ugly
day for us all. ...

One day I found a message at the League office that my
sister was in Cape Town and had been looking for me. I
hurried to the address she had left. I found Mag in an over-
crowded little slum house in District Six. This was the home

336

of a relative of Chris's. She fought back tears as she told me
her story. Chris had lost his good job. Things were bad on
the Rand. He had suggested that they try the Cape, where it
might be better. They'd been here awhile nearly a month.
He'd gone out looking for a job every day. But Cape Town
was full of skilled Coloured cabinet-makers. They had a
small room. She remembered her beautiful house and fine
furniture, and the tears finally flowed. She had eked out a
living for them by hawking fruit and vegetables. She
touched my hand.

"They all seem to know you here, Lee. They say you're a
leader and friends with rich people like the Gools. Can you
help?"

"Have you any money, Mag?"

"A little."

"Enough for two single tickets back?"

"I think so."

"Well, get those two tickets. Get them and go straight
back home. I don't think Chris will get a job here. There
are fifty men standing by for every job there is. Sure there's
less colour bar here, but there are also fewer chances of mak-
ing a living. Life is hard for the poor here, harder than in
Johannesburg in some ways. Go back, my love. Go where
Ma can help and advise you. If you spend the money your
fares will cost now, it may take you years to make it up
again. And you'll be very unhappy here."

"But can't you help, with all your important friends?"

"Darling, I haven't a penny and I haven't a home."

"But when you wrote about going to England "

"I know: you thought I had money. Well, I haven't."

337

"And nowhere to sleep. Oh, Lee "

"Don't worry about me. I'm a man and alone."

"But will you ever get away?"

"I'll get away. What about you? Will you go?"

"Chris will be difficult."

"You insist."

"He likes it here. But I think you're right. We'll go back
and start again. I can get a job there. I don't like this place."

"It's all right, but hard."

"Yes! We'll go back!"

I recognized decision. Nothing Chris said would change
her now.

"Better make it as soon as possible, Mag."

"But what about you. Lee?"

"I think I'll try and get to Natal. A seaman told me it's
easier from there. There are not so many Coloured giants
there. The Indians are more my size."

"Got your passport?"

"No."

"Then how'll you get away?"

"I'll get away. But don't worry about me. Look after your-
self and get home, Mag."

We remembered old times. Soon I was cheered by Mag's
laughter. She was a woman born for laughter, my plump,
smooth-skinned, dimpled sister. I carried her laughter away
with me. She would be all right. She would go back to where
she could cope. I thought of my quiet, introspective mother.
Really, my mother had performed a miracle in giving us a
sense of family without the support of a husband.

A stranger stopped me on the stairs to the League office.

338

"Aren't you Mr. Abrahams?"

"Yes."

"My name's Roderiques. I've just been in there trying to
get your people to give me some help. They say they can't.
Perhaps you'll persuade them. . . ."

"What's wrong?"

"Can we talk somewhere?"

I led him to Fatty's. He cheered up as we entered the cafe.

"Ah! It's good to see you, my friend. I see your poem in
the Standard. I like that one. . . . Two teas?"

"Please."

We sat in a corner. Roderiques looked at me out of clear
green eyes. He was small, with reddish kinky hair and a fair,
freckled face. His mouth protruded. He smiled anxiously.

"Look, man, I've not eaten since last night. I'm sorry
but I'm sick with hunger. . . ."

I laughed. It had to be me.

"I haven't a penny, but I can get you a meal."

"Ill pay you back. I swear. . . ."

Fatty brought the tea.

"Could we have something to eat, Fatty on the cuff?"

"My cuff is good for you. ... As usual?"

"Yes, please."

In a little while Fatty brought two plates of sausages and
mashed potatoes. We ate in silence. Roderiques pushed his
plate away.

"You know the Cape Flats?"

"I've seen them," I said.

"Well, the place I'm talking about has about fifty families.
The men mostly work on the docks as casual labourers.

339

Well, they have no school and they are too poor to send their
children to Cape Town. Their leader is a good man. He's a
dock labourer, but he's also a preacher. He asked me to start
a school. It is about the school that I want help."

"What kind of help?"

"I need everything. I've got the children and a tin church
and that is all. I haven't one book, one slate, or one black-
board. Can you persuade your people to give me some
money about a hundred pounds and some books?"

"I know they won't do it. It's a waste of time to ask
them." I made up my mind. This Roderiques did not look
the pioneering kind. There was something faintly unwhole-
some about him. But I would go and see and give a hand.
And I thought I knew where I might be able to get help.
"But I can give you another kind of help," I said.

"Any help will do. What?"

"I can come along and help you with the school for a
while."

"Of course, I'd like that. But how will we teach them?"

"Let me come with you now and see the place. Tomorrow
I'll get in touch with someone who'll help with books."

"And money?"

"No. But with everything we need."

"Really think they will?"

"I'm sure they will if they can. . . . How much is the re-
turn fare? P1I borrow it from Fatty."

"Don't worry, I have a season ticket."

"I haven't."

"Oh, you'll use my season. We'll meet at the other end."

340

The sun was down when I got off the train. Roderiques
waited for me.

"How'd you do it?"

He smiled with secretive cunning but gave no answer.

We walked away from the small station and soon entered
the desolate world of the Cape Flats.

Entering the Cape Flats was stepping into a new Dark
Age.

The earth here is barren of all but the hardiest shrub. It
is a dirty-white, sandy earth: The sea had once been here.
In its retreat it had left a white, unyielding sand, grown
dirty with time. It had left almost a desert. And in this desert
strip, on the fringe of a beautiful garden city, men had made
their homes. They had taken pieces of corrugated iron and
tied them together with bits of string, wire, and rope. They
had piled sacking on top of this. The "fortunate" had made
floors; the unfortunate had the sandy earth for floor. Into
these hovels men had taken their women. They had called
these places home. They had lain with their women. And
their women had brought forth children. And the children
grew, stunted like the shrubs on this desert strip.

The people gathered in their tin church to hear the result
of Roderiques's mission. A tall, haggard man with greater
authority and assurance than the rest, but with the same
parched skin and bloodshot eyes, moved among them as we
entered. I found it hard to believe that these dried-up crea-
tures were human till I looked into their eyes and heard

341

their voices. But they were such humans as I had not seen in
all my wanderings through the land!

The preacher came to us. The people stood up. The oil
lamp cast shadows that made phantom forms of them.

"This is Mr. Abrahams from the League." Roderiques's
voice was hushed and sanctimonious. Automatically he
pressed his palms together as a Jesuit brother might do in
chapel.

The old man took my hand. He spoke normally:

"I have heard your name, Mr. Abrahams. You are one of
our leaders. It is a great honour. . . ."

Roderiques cut in on the quiet voice of authority: "They
would not help. Then I met Mr. Abrahams and "

"Report it to all of us, Mr. Roderiques. That is what we
are all here for."

Roderiques seemed put out, but nodded. He moved
slowly, measuredly, to the preacher's platform. He went on
one knee in front of the little cross, crossed himself, and then
stood up. He went through an elaborate little ceremony of
bowing and crossing himself, his lips moving all the while.
At last it was over. He mounted the platform. He raised his
hands as in the act of benediction. An odd fellow, I thought.
I turned my eyes to the old preacher at my side. He had
read my thought and nodded.

Roderiques spoke in a "special" voice, as though preach-
ing a sermon. When he had finished, he held out his hand
tome.

"Mr. Abrahams will tell you his plan to help."

I looked at the preacher. He nodded.

I said: "I haven't much of a plan. I want to find out what

342

you need, and tomorrow I'll go into Cape Town to get it. I
can't get money, but I think I can get books and slates and
the other things a school needs. And I should like to stay
here for a while and help with the school. That is all."

The preacher said: "I speak for all my people when I say
we are honoured to have you here, Mr. Abrahams. We will
never be able to repay you, but God, in His mercy, will. I
read the paper from Cape Town and I have preached to my
people about you and those like you. Now God has sent you
here. Let us be thankful. . . ."

He prayed. Then the gathering ended. We stood at the
door of the little church. People filed out, said hushed good-
nights, and walked away into the darkness. When all but
the three of us had gone, the preacher took my arm.

"I will take Mr. Abrahams with me, Mr. Roderiques.
Sister Adams has food for you, but not enough for two."

"I will come with you," Roderiques said.

"There is no need for it. And do not worry. You are head
of the school and Mr. Abrahams knows it. I will return him
to you."

The old man guided me past the houses and over a num-
ber of hills of fine sand. Suddenly the moon burst through
the clouds. It lightened the dark earth a little. We walked in
silence till we neared another cluster of houses.

"There is only a little soup and dry bread, my son. But
you have known hunger, so there is no need for me to
apologize."

He led me into his home. It was a little larger than most
of the others I had seen. A deal of effort had gone into mak-
ing it a home. A young woman, the preacher's daughter,

343

stood over the soup in the kitchen, which was also the din-
ing-room and a bedroom.

"We have a guest, my child."

The girl could not have been my age, but already her face
was lined, and there were hollows under her eyes. She put
potato soup and bread in front of us. The preacher said
grace; then we ate.

Afterwards he sat back, took out his pipe, and began the
long preparation for a pleasant smoke. I looked about the
room. It was as dried and parched and barren as all this
place, as the people of this place. Everything had faded to a
dirty grey. And there were grains of sand everywhere. A
stove in one corner, a bed in another, a home-made kitchen
cupboard for crocks, a table, and two benches were all the
furniture of the room. Pictures from magazines of another
world were pasted on the wall.

Two sandy-grey children, a boy and a girl, came in
noisily. The elder girl hushed them and gave them their
soup.

"My grandchildren," the old man said. "Their mother's
somewhere in Cape Town. Some of my children are bad,
and they haven't a mother to control them. . . ." He lit his
pipe. "Now you want to know about me, Mr. Abra-
hams."

"No, I don't. Please."

His face creased in a gentle smile.

"Then I will tell you about Mr. Roderiques. He's a Roman
or perhaps I should say he was. But he still has the habits
of a Roman. No, that is not fair to the Romans. But let us
come to the matter. He had been trained in a Roman school

344

for priests when I first met him. It was at the docks. You
know I'm just an ordinary labourer there?"

"I know."

"Well, he was on a journey in his long, black dress. I
think it was to the Portuguese land. He saw me there and he
spoke to me. I don't know why, but he spoke to me. He said
he was going to be one of those people who work among
heathens. There's a word for them."

"Missionaries."

"I thought he did not look strong. Not just in body: I
mean the will. I know the Romans, especially the leaders,
are not foolish. So I wondered how they had made such a
mistake as to think this young man could win souls. But I
said to him, half in play: *I am the preacher of my people.
But although we are not heathens, and although we are not
Romans, we would welcome some of you to teach us and our
children to read and write.' He tried to make me a Roman
on the spot! Said that was the only true Church. He said I
would not have to work as a labourer if I was a Roman
preacher. I told him we were all children of the same God if
we were Christians. It did not matter whether we were Ro-
mans or not. 'You tell them to send us teachers,' I said. 'And
if they make our children Romans, I will not object, as long
as they teach them.' I believe that knowledge is the key to a
better life, my son. Anyhow, his boat came. I told him where
we lived. He put it on a piece of paper and then he went. I
did not expect to see the young man again.

"But he turned up here a little while ago, without his
Roman dress. He was hungry and homeless. So I fed him.
He told me something had gone wrong and he had to leave

345

the Roman school. He said he had no people. He said he
would start a school here if we would feed him and give him
shelter, I knew there had to be good reason for the Romans
to turn a person out. But I also knew he was a weak young
man, too weak to do any real evil. I did not think he could
harm my people if a few of us kept watch. And our need
for a school is great. . . . That is the story of Mr. Rode-
riques. It is right that you should know it. You have under-
standing, my son. Do you think he can harm our children?
I don't."

"I don't think so either, Father."

"Then you will still help us?"

"All I can."

"If you have trouble "

"Please don't worry. . . . Tell me, though, are the Cape
Flats like this everywhere?"

"Not everywhere. There are places that are better, much
better, farther along the coast. Some are as good as District
Six; some better."

"Any worse than this?"

An odd smile crossed his face without touching his eyes.

"I've seen two places worse than this. Can you believe it?
Man is so strong, he can live where nothing else can live. It
makes you wonder. . . ."

When I got back, Roderiques had gone to bed. He had a
bit of candle stuck to the wall above his head. By its light
he was reading Judge Rutherford.

"Yours is the other room," he said. "Here."

I took and lit the bit of candle he offered me. I went into
the next room. As in Roderiques's room, there was nothing

346

except a small iron bed in a corner. Half the room had
wood flooring. I heated the wall and stuck my candle
against it as Roderiques had done.

"Good meal?" Roderiques called.

"Bread and soup."

I examined the bed. Two blankets covered a much-
stained mattress. There was no pillow or sheets.

"What did you talk about?"

"Oh, nothing much. Politics mostly."

I took off my jacket, folded it, and propped it up as a
pillow. I sat on the bed. It creaked dangerously. A gust of
wind came in through the nearest crack in the wall. It blew
out the candle. I found matches and relit it.

"What d'you think of him?"

"I like him."

"You want to be careful. He's not a fool. These people
are cunning. Don't tell them too much about yourself."

"He didn't try to pry."

I took off my shoes.

"Talk about me?"

"Only said how glad they are to have you here."

Should I take off my pants? No, better not. Mattress not
too clean. I took off my shoes, but kept on my socks. I got
under the blankets. The bed shivered and groaned as though
it would collapse.

"I sometimes wonder if they are grateful. . . . Want
anything to read?"

"No, thanks. Good night."

"Thought you might like to talk."

"I'm rather tired."

347

"AH right Good night."

I blew out the candle. The many cracks and holes in the
ceiling and walls showed up clearly. In the corner immedi-
ately above my bed was a round hole, as large as the head
of a man. I looked through it and saw part of the sky and a
cluster of stars.

"Roderiques "

"Yes?"

"Where are the lavatories here?"

"You walk away from the houses and dig a hole. But
some of the people have built some."

"Thanks."

In the morning, Roderiques took me to the home of Sister
Adams. He explained that she would give us our meals and
look after our laundry. The Adams family had the best
house and were the most well-to-do in the community. The
husband had a job in a factory near Cape Town and owned
a bicycle.

Husband and wife received us cheerfully. Their three
young children gaped shyly at me. Mother and father could
not be much over thirty, and they, and their children,
though patched and parched, looked better clothed and fed
than their neighbours.

Sister Adams fed us bread fried in dripping, and black
coffee. She fussed about us while we ate.

After breakfast we walked to the little church, where a
growing crowd of youngsters awaited us.

"There are more than I've had before," Roderiques said.

348

"The preacher said he was sending some from near-by
houses."

"He should have told me."

"My fault. He asked me to tell you last night. I forgot. If
you lend me your season ticket I'll go into Cape Town this
morning."

He gave me the ticket. "Sure you'll get the things?"

"Yes. I think so."

"We need some money, you know."

"Can't do anything about that."

"Why not try? . . ."

I thought it best to say nothing.

"In you go!" Roderiques cried.

The skinny, dried-up, ragged mass of children fought and
scuffled their way into the little church.

Roderiques went through his elaborate little ceremony in
front of the cross. Then he made the children kneel while he
prayed in Latin. I had the feeling of looking on at a queerly
distorted ritual, robbed of all substance. There was some-
thing ugly about this. It was a mockery of the Christian
ceremony of prayer. When he began a little sermon, my
mind revolted. I repressed an urge to stop him, and went
out.

In Cape Town, I went to the office of the Guardian. The
Guardian was South Africa's only "popular" Socialist pa-
per. All the other papers of the Left were "official" organs
of factions and parties. The Guardian was the only national
weekly of the Left that attempted an objective statement of
the South African situation. But even it rarely saw any-

349

thing good in any "line" other than the Communist Party
"line."

I had met Betty Radford, who edited the Guardian. She
and a young woman building up Coloured trade unions,
Ray Alexander, had impressed me as the most human of
the C.P. wing of the South African Left. Ray Alexander was
an avowed Communist. Betty Radford claimed only to be a
Socialist.

I went into Betty Radford's office and told her about the
school.

"How many children?" she asked.

"About fifty."

"I think I can get what you want by this afternoon."

I had expected such an answer. I had slowly worked my
way to a view of the South African Left. Whatever labels
they had, there were two types of Left-wingers: those who
were hell-bent on revolution for its own sake and were,
really, indifferent to the welfare of individuals or groups of
people; and the others, the humanists, who saw an ugly
world and wanted to make it better. And Betty Radford had
struck me as belonging to the humanist Left.

I told her how to get to the little village and then went
back to it myself.

Betty Radford drove into the little place in the late after-
noon. All the women and some of the men had watched me
teach their children the game of rounders. They gathered
about the small car and watched the finely dressed white
woman get out. They made way for me and were silent
while I welcomed my white friend.

"You've found a place for work all right," Betty said.

350

The back of her car was stacked with school material.
The children formed relay teams and carried the books,
pencils, slates, chalks, rulers, and paper into the church. We
stacked the material at the back,

Roderiques tugged at my sleeve. "Introduce us."

I introduced him.

He whispered: "Tell her we need money."

I shook my head. As the pile in the back of the car grew
less, I noticed Roderiques steeling himself to mention
money. I began a long and foolish speech of thanks that
lasted till Betty Radford drove away.

Work began in earnest next morning. Once Roderiques
felt assured that I had no desire to usurp his position as
head of the school, we got along well I managed, in time,
to make him shorten his morning services. On the few oc-
casions when we had differences, the old preacher mediated
with great skill and wisdom.

The children learned eagerly. A month after Betty Rad*
ford had brought the material, we started a night school for
the grown-ups.

Development was uneven, and we were soon faced with
the problem of classes. Also, people started sending children
from neighbouring villages. Roderiques took the whole
school for the morning prayers and Bible lesson. Then we
split them into three classes: beginners, those who knew
their alphabet and were starting to build words, and those
who had begun to put one word behind another and make
sentences with sense. I coped with the beginners, Rode-
riques with those who had begun to build words; and we

351

shared the lessons for the more advanced. We split the night
school into two classes.

I was soon so immersed in the work of teaching that I
forgot my plans to leave the country.

So the months passed. Autumn gave way to winter. Life
on the Flats became terrible. We had not enough to eat and
we were always cold. I put on all the clothes I had to go to
bed. Still I lay shivering for the best part of the night.
When the winter was at its worst, Roderiques pulled up half
the flooring of his room and burned it. For a few weeks we
had a fire every night. Then the wood ran out. We now both
had flooring only where our beds stood. The community
brought us bits of fuel whenever they could, but the ma-
jority of them were in a worse plight than we were. Children
came to school so cold that they could not grip their pencils.
They were too listless and hungry to exercise and so get
some warmth into their bodies. Like the majority of the
villagers, I began to cough.

A man arrived from Namaqualand that winter. He came
among us and made our misery seem paradise. He was a
walking skeleton. He had walked all the way from South-
West Africa to this place to seek for help. He stood in our
little church and told us calmly that his people were dying
of starvation, that they had eaten all the snakes and lizards
they could find, and that there were now none left to dig up
and eat. And my miserable community managed to collect a
few shillings for the starving people of Namaqualand. Our
old preacher took him preaching through the Flats to try
to raise help. Roderiques went with them. For some days I
managed the school alone. The memory of the man from

352

Namaqualand and his quiet statement about death and
starvation kept me awake for two nights. On the third night
I slipped paper into my battered typewriter and wrote. I
called what I had written "Cape Flats Limited." Then I
went to sleep.

On the day the preacher and Roderiques returned I went
into Cape Town with the piece I had written. I took it to
Betty Radford.

She looked at my face and exclaimed: "Good heavens!
You're sick!"

"Will you please read this?"

She wrote on a piece of paper and said: "Here go and
see my husband. Now."

"Will you please read that thing?"

"If you'll go and see my husband now."

"All right."

"I'll phone him. Go straight there. Have you the bus
fare?"

"No."

"Here." She gave me a ten-shilling note. "Now you go."

I read the address on the piece of paper, then went to the
door.

"You will read it?"

"Yes. Go on."

Her husband's surgery was in the white section. I could
not just walk into the waiting-room and sit down among his
white patients, if there were any. Best knock on the door
and see. I knocked. A young woman opened the door.

"Mr. Abrahams?"

"Yes."

353

"The doctor's waiting for you."

A big, cheerful man welcomed me. The young woman
left us. He gave me a cigarette and made me feel at ease.

"Betty's worried about your health, and I can see why. I
think it would be a good idea to give you a thorough
examination."

I stripped to the waist and stretched out on the table. He
examined me carefully.

"Tell me about the school. Do you eat enough?"

While he worked, he plied me with questions. At last the
examination was over.

"Now I'll check your blood."

"I've not messed about with women."

"Copulation isn't the only way you get these things. , . .
When did you last have a woman? Don't be shy. I'm a
doctor."

"In Johannesburg, nearly a year ago."

"Remember that's not the only way you get these things."

"How else?"

"You get some of these things by contact: beds, food,
filth, and not having enough of things. We don't know all
the causes yet. One more thing: I want you to go over to a
friend of mine. He'll X-ray your lungs. When can you go?"

"Now."

He phoned. Then he said: "Yes. He's free. Go over now.
Here's the address. Come back here in three days' time."

From the X-ray place I went back to the Cape Flats.

I returned to the doctor's surgery three days later. The
news was good. My lungs were all right. My blood was nega-
tive.

354

The doctor said: "Medically you're all right. But you
need proper food. That place isn't doing you any good.
Can't you teach in some more healthy place?"

"I'm leaving it, 5 ' I said. "I only helped them to start."

"Perhaps that would be best. . . . Oh, Betty's printing
your article* Best thing you've done. Better than your
poetry. It might start something."

Back on the Flats, I went to the home of the old preacher
that night. Now that I had decided to leave, I might as well
go the next morning. I would try to work my way to Durban.

"I've come to tell you that I'm leaving in the morning."

"Leaving? For good?"

"Yes."

We sat in silence for a long time. The young woman
gave us coffee. At last the old man sighed and looked at me.

"I knew you would go some day, but not so suddenly. I
thought we would have a little time. I thought it might be
good to send you away with something to show our grati-
tude. Why do you go so suddenly?"

"My doctor advised it. My health isn't too good."

"Yes. I've noticed your coughing. Perhaps it is better
that you go. You might do more elsewhere."

"I'm sorry, Father."

"So am I, my son. You've become like a real son to me.
And how can I tell you of the thanks in my heart?"

"There is no need."

"There is always need to say thank-you. It is good for the
sayer. . . . Where will you go, my son?"

"I don't know. I'll try and work my way to Durban and
get on a ship there."

355

"And then?"

"I want to get to England."

"And what will you do there?"

"I want to write books and tell them about life in this
country."

"Will you tell them about us? About this little place?"

"Yes, Father. I will try to tell everything; the bad as well
as the good."

The old man got up and went into the other room. He
came back with a black gabardine overcoat. It had a rubber
lining and over that a silk lining.

"I have noticed how thin your overcoat is. It keeps out
the rain, but there's no warmth in it. They say winter is cold
in England, Take this and I'll take yours."

"But I can't, Father!"

"You'll do as I say, young man! I want you to wear it
and to remember me by it. Remember that an old man is
always praying for you. And tell them about us. They must
be good people over there. Tell them about us."

"I will, Father."

"Remember the story you made up for the children at
Christmas? Well, the children and many of us grown-ups
still remember it. If you make stories like that for the white
people of England, they will listen and you can tell them
about us."

"I will try."

"Come now, my son. We will go to the church. All our
people will want to pray for you and wish you well on your
journey. Put on your new coat."

We walked across the sand to the little church. The tinny

356

bell rang out. The people came from their shacks to wish me
well on my journey. Strange Roderiques wept his farewell
to me.

Early next morning I walked across the sandy earth to the
station for the last time. And the children watched me go. I
would have to make up for leaving them.

357

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER

I got off the train at the farthest point to which my ticket
allowed me to travel. It was about a hundred miles north of
Cape Town. I gave up my ticket and went out of the sta-
tion. I walked through the little dorp till I struck the main
highway to the north. This was part of Rhodes's dream of
linking the Cape with Cairo. I rested for a while, then
picked up my suitcase and set off for the north.

I did not bother to wave at the shining cars that shot by.
Their occupants were white.

I grew hot and took off my three-ply overcoat. About me
the land stretched vast and unending. I looked back. Far
behind, in a mist of distance, Table Mountain towered over
the city I could not now see. I was nowhere, and a long,
long way from everywhere. Better keep moving, brother;
the road is long; better keep moving, brother. A weak, red-
rimmed sun kept pace with me, or so it seemed.

I had walked for what seemed hours when a lorry slowed
down near me. A Coloured man was driving.

"Hello, there! "he called.

"Hello!"

"Which way?"

"Making for Natal"

"Jesus! ... I turn off about ten miles up. Get in."

I flung my case on the back and got in beside him. The
lorry sped along.

"Hell of a trip to make," the man said.

"Yes. Must get there, though. And they say this is the
best way."

358

"Yes. Long way round, but the best. No lifts on the coast
roads."

He dropped me off ten miles farther along the road and
veered off to a winegrowing farm far off the road. I stuffed
the two bunches of carrots he had given me into my
case.

Towards sunset I reached a little siding. I sought out the
Coloured section and knocked on the first door I came to.
Yes, they would be glad to put me up for the night. Was
half a crown too much? No, not while I had the money.
Well, really, things hadn't been too bad of late and I might
need the half a crown later if my journey was very long. A
member of their family might be on the road one day. . . .
Was I going far? Durban. An awful long way off, wasn't it?
It might be an idea to try and get to a big railway station
where Coloured stewards might help. We poor had to stick
together in these times.

I left with a little parcel of sandwiches the next morning.

Thus I made my long journey through the land: up to the
northern borders of the Cape Province, into the Free State,
and then down into Natal. Sometimes I got lifts. Sometimes
only cars with whites in them were on the roads. Occasion-
ally I had to spend a night in the open. But mostly the dark
people fed me and housed me. Often they provided me with
a little food to carry me on to the next stage of the journey.
They rarely asked for money. On one farm a kindly old
Boer grandma spread a feast before me in her kitchen while
her farmer son argued politics and race with me. He was a
Stellenbosch University man.

In another place I came across a tense situation. The

359

ugly problem of "miscegenation" had reared its head. A
Coloured boy and a white girl were or had been in love. It
had been discovered. The Coloured community said the
whites were now trying to make the girl say the boy had
raped her. They wondered how long she would hold out.
The boy? He had gone into hiding. I sensed that they knew
where the boy was. But I was a stranger, and they would
not tell me.

I left the valley of tension and moved down into the beau-
tiful Natal grassland. Here my scanty knowledge of Zulu
stood me in good stead as I exchanged Coloured hospitality
for African hospitality.

I paused at villages where life seemed not to have
changed since before the coming of the whites. I stopped
at others where the men had gone off to the cities and only
the women and children and old men were at home. Some-
times I arrived during a feast of drinking and talking and
much laughter. And always they welcomed the stranger and
shared what they had with him. It was only the better-off
among both Coloureds and Africans who occasionally
turned me away.

And so I reached Durban on a scorching day in June
1939.

I found a small room with an Indian family. I paid them
ten shillings for the first week. That left me with only cop-
pers in my pocket. But I had arrived. The journey had
taken me nearly three months, but I had arrived.

I still had some bread in my suitcase. It had gone hard,

360

but that could be remedied with milk. I went across the
street and got a pint of milk. The Indian woman lent me a
bowl. I soaked the bread, then ate. Then I went to bed. I
slept all through that day, all through that night, and all
through the next day. I got up on the second night. I had
some more bread with milk gone sour; then I went out to
see Durban.

Just as Cape Town was essentially a Coloured town, so
Durban was essentially an Indian town. In place of Coloured
quarters like District Six and the Cape Flats, there were
Indian quarters, equally shimmy and equally mean. For
Natal was the home of just over a quarter of a million In-
dians, the descendants of those who had been brought from
India as indentured labour in the early history of the coun-
try. They had been brought to work on the sugar plantations
in the days before the Africans had been reduced to their
present acceptance of white rule. And in time the Indians
had become as much a part of the country as the Africans
or Coloureds or whites. Like all the others, their sweat and
strength had gone into the making of this beautiful dark
land.

I knew no one in Durban, but the Indians also had their
nationalist movement and I was familiar with the efforts of
the younger men, so I made my way to their headquarters,
the Liberal Study Group. They had been in contact with
the United Front in the Cape.

They welcomed me as one of their own. Soon I was as
involved in their efforts as I had been in those of the United
Front in the Cape. The Liberal Study Group published a
stencilled monthly bulletin. I was soon up to my neck in

361

editorial work on this. For this work the study group helped
me with my rent.

But I had not forgotten my main purpose in coming to
Durban. I visited the docks often and built up an extensive
system of contacts.

Thus June and July passed. The meetings of the Liberal
Study Group aroused the interest of the police. One day in
August I was called down to the police station. The white
sergeant who had attended many of our meetings ques-
tioned me.

"Now, Abrahams, you're no fool. I don't know why you
mess around with these coolies. None of your other Col-
oureds do."

"They're South Africans just like you and me, sergeant."

"Don't be silly, Abrahams. Do you see any Coloured rid-
ing about in big cars like they do?"

"I've also seen the poor among them. And you have the
same number of Coloureds with cars in the Cape. Anyway,
what do you want?"

"You're a bright fellow, Abrahams. We can make things
right for you."

"What 'do you want to know?"

"Who's behind this?"

"Behind what?"

"These meetings and this bulletin of yours. You're a lot
of youngsters, you can't think this up by yourselves. Who's
behind it?"

"We're doing this by ourselves."

"You're not! There are some clever white Communists
who write your articles. Who's 'Jim Fish'?"

362

Even if it meant going to jail, I could not help laughing.

"Well?"

"I am, sergeant. I wrote that article about passes."

"Who told you about it? You never carried one."
, "I was born here, sergeant. I know what goes on in this
land."

"I don't understand you, Abrahams. Here you are, the
country's given you a good education. You could make
something good out of it for yourself. Instead you mess
around with these foreign Communists. What's wrong with
you?"

"I don't think there's anything wrong."

"You're against your own country. Are you a Commu-
nist?"

"It so happens that I'm not, but I don't see that it's any
of your business whether I am or not. Your business is to
see that I don't break the law, not to examine my thoughts."

"This is your last chance, Abrahams. Why did you write
that thing about the passes? Who told you to do it?"

"I wrote it because it is the truth. No one can tell me
what to write not you or the Communists."

"Where do you think all this will get you?"

"Do you know the meaning of the word 'freedom,' ser-
geant?"

"I tried to be friendly. I've warned you. YouVe had your
chance. You may go."

In September of that year, war broke on the world. The
government and the country were thrown into a crisis.
Pirow, the Union Minister of Defence, had just returned
from Germany, where he had been an honoured guest of

363

Hitler's. Smuts and Hertzog split. The Prime Minister was
for neutrality and showed his pro-Hitler sympathies. Smuts,
the Deputy Prime Minister, was for war on the side of
Britain and France. The split between the two leaders di-
vided the whites of the country into two camps.

One day, in the period of uneasy crisis, I heard there was
a ship needing a whole crew. I rushed down to the docks.
There was a queue at the shipping office. I joined it behind
a hulking Coloured man.

The clerk glanced at the man, then made him sign the
articles. It was my turn. The clerk looked me over and
snorted.

"And what do you think you can do?"

He passed on to the next person.

The Coloured giant bent over me and whispered: "Any
money?"

"Two pounds," I whispered.

"Not enough."

"How much do you want?"

"Five."

"And can you get me on for that?"

"Yes."

"I'll give you the rest tomorrow morning."

"All right. Give me the two. But I'll break your neck if
you don't give me the rest."

"Don't worry. You'll get it."

"I'm not worrying. It's your neck."

I didn't like the sound of this. This brute could break my
neck with no effort. I gave him the two pounds. The clerk
moved back up the line.

364

The giant said: "Aren't you going to sign my buddy, sir?
He's the best trimmer I ever shipped with. Had a lay-off for
a while, but he's damn good. Don't be fooled by his size, sir.
You know how these Bushman types are."

I expanded my chest as far as it would go. I held my
breath till I heard drumming in my ears.

"All right," the clerk said doubtfully. "Sign here and get
your police clearance."

I signed and sighed. The moment had arrived. This was
the turning-point. Dear God, the moment had arrived!

We left the shipping office. The giant brute called:
"Three pounds tomorrow, or God help you!"

I hurried to the police. I thought: "God help me in any
case with that unholy-looking crew."

At the police station I explained my business.

"Name?" the policeman said without looking up.

"Peter Abrahams."

The man stopped writing. He raised his head and stared
at me. My heart began to pound, my body to tremble. He
picked up the phone and called the political sergeant. Then
he turned to me.

"Know where the sergeant's office is?"

"Yes."

"He wants to see you."

I leaned against a wall for a long time outside. When I
felt a little more under control, I went to the sergeant's
office.

"What's this about your getting on a ship, Abrahams?"

"I want a change, sergeant."

"But why on a ship?"

365

"I don't know. I just thought a change would be good
and I'll be earning my keep."

"You're an odd one. Wish I knew what went on in that
brown head of yours."

I thought it best to remain silent.

The sergeant said: "Well, I can't decide this by myself.
Wait here while I go and see my chief."

I sat in the office for a long while. At last he came back.

"We are going to let you go, Abrahams. The chief thinks
it will be better to have one less of you on our hands. Here,
take this back to the officer and he'll give you your clear-
ance. Good fishing, Abrahams."

"Thank you, sergeant!"

I got my clearance and went out. I felt drained of all
strength, so I sat for a long time on a bench in the yard of
the charge office. It was true! I was free at last, free to go.
And down there at the docks a ship was waiting for me. I
was free!

I raised the last few shillings that made up the three
pounds late that night. My neck was now safe. I was too
worked up and too tired to feel hungry or be able to eat.
I went to the office of the Study Group. It was locked up.
That meant I had nowhere to sleep. I had given up my room
a long time ago. I met an African friend and told him I
needed a bed.

"What's the matter with you, man? There are com-
pounds. You can hire a bed for fourpence. Come with me."

He took me to a compound. It was like going to prison.

366

High walls shut the place in. Black policemen guarded the
entrance. My friend paid eightpence at the little office. In
exchange he received two blue slips. These entitled us to
beds for the night. An old black man led us through a maze
. of connected rooms. Each room was a dormitory filled with
beds, in three tiers. There were enough beds to sleep well
over a thousand men. Many of the men had already come
in. Some lay on their beds. Others sat talking to their neigh-
bours. Yet others sat doing little jobs on their clothes. Here
and there men chewed pencils and frowned with painful
concentration as they tried to let those at home know about
this place. The warm, sickly smell of many bodies in a con-
fined space hung over the rooms.

This was home away from home for the peasant who had
been driven to the city in search of money to pay his taxes:
here the young boys ended who had come to the city in
search of the wondrous things of the white man; here, on
these beds, many black dreams were played out. This was
the home of the rickshaw-boy and the casual labourer. A
man had been uprooted, and this took the place of his tribal
home and the customs of his village. Here he spent long
weeks or months or years of his life.

At last we reached the room where we had to sleep. The
old man showed us two beds, then went off.

My friend was an educated man, a teacher, and I sensed
his embarrassment at having taken me to this place. So I
said: "This will be heaven compared to some of the nights
I spent on the road."

But I was wrong. The bed came alive as soon as I got into
it. Creatures attacked my body with a brazen boldness that

367

left me helpless. I turned back the blankets to see. They
marched like armies: armies of lice, armies of bedbugs.

Near by, an old rickshaw-boy lay coughing his lungs out.
His drawn face, glistening with sweat, and the bloody spittle
about his lips told their story well. He could not last long.
Perhaps tonight, or tomorrow night, or the night after.

But, really, the bed was no good. I knew now that I could
not sleep. I was tired, but I would not sleep this night. This
was the! last night.

I got up. I went to my friend's bed.

"The animals?" he asked.

"No. I just can't sleep. I'm leaving in the morning."

"Back north?"

"No. On a ship. Out of this country. To England. I'm
going down to the beach now."

" 'Bye, old man. Don't forget us."

"I won't."

I left the compound. I walked through the empty streets
of the moon-kissed town, down to the sea.

The big yellow moon hung low over the sea. The sea,
though calm, seemed raised in an effort to meet the moon.
I stripped and walked into the cool water. I kept walking
till the water rose to my chest, my armpits, shoulders, my
neck, my chin. Then I flung myself forward and kicked out.
I looked back. The beach was a long way off. I swam on.
My arms began to ache. They grew sluggish. Turn back!
Turn back! I swung about desperately. I was terribly tired.
Easy does it. Easy does it. I went down once. Don't lose
your head. Don't fight. Keep your head and live. Easy
does it.

368

At last my toes touched earth. Joy shot through me. I
crawled on to dry earth and flopped down. After a long
while I rolled onto my back and looked up at the stars.
They were very bright and very far away.

With my eyes on the stars, I took stock and searched for
the meaning of life in terms of the life I had known in this
land for nearly twenty-one years.

All my life had been dominated by a sign, often invisible
but no less real for that, which said:

RESERVED FOR EUROPEANS ONLY

Because of that sign I had been bora into the filth and
squalor of the slums and had spent nearly all my childhood
and youth there; because of it a whole generation, many
generations, had been born, had grown up and died amid
the filth and squalor of the slums. I had the marks of rickets
on my body; but I was only one of many, not unique. I had
had to go to work before I went to school. Many had never
gone to school. Free compulsory education was "Reserved
for Europeans only." All that was finest and best in life was
"Reserved for Europeans only." The world, today, belonged
to the "Europeans."

And in my contacts with them the Europeans had made
it clear that they were the overlords, that the earth and all
its wealth belonged to them. They had spoken the language
of physical strength, the language of force. And I had sub-
mitted to their superior strength. But submission can be a
subtle thing. A man can submit today in order to resist to-
morrow. My submission had been such. And because I had
not been free to show my real feeling, to voice my true

369

thoughts, my submission had bred bitterness and anger.
And there were nearly ten million others who had submitted
with equal anger and bitterness. One day the whites would
have to reckon with these people. One day their sons and
daughters would have to face the wrath of these embittered
people. The two million whites cannot for ever be overlords
of the ten million non-whites. One day they may have to
submit to the same judgment of force they have invoked in
their dealings with us. ...

For me, personally, life in South Africa had come to an
end. I had been lucky in some of the whites I had met.
Meeting them had made a straight "all-blacks-are-good, all-
whites-are-bad" attitude impossible. But I had reached a
point where the gestures of even my friends among the
whites were suspect, so I had to go or be for ever lost. I
needed, not friends, not gestures, but my manhood. And
the need was desperate.

Perhaps life had a meaning that transcended race and
colour. If it had, I could not find it in South Africa. Also,
there was the need to write, to tell freedom, and for this I
needed to be personally free. . . .

When the first rays of the morning sun touched the sky in
the east, I got up and dressed. The long night was over. This
was the moment of departure, I felt in my pocket. The three
pounds were still there.

I walked briskly down to the docks. And all my dreams
walked with me.

370

This book was set on the Linotype in Bodoni Book, a printing-type so
called after Giambattista Bodoni, a celebrated printer and type designer
of Rome and Parma (1740-1813) , Bodoni Book as produced by the Lino-
type company is not a copy of any one of Bodoni's fonts, but is a com-
posite, modern version of the Bodoni manner. Bodoni's innovations in
printing-type style were a greater degree of contrast in the "thick and
thin" elements of the letters, and a sharper and more angular finish of
details.

The book was composed, printed, and bound by Kingsport Press, Inc.,
Kingsport, Tenn.
The typography and binding were designed by Herbert Bayer.

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