At intervals, the spyhole in the door would flick open. She would raise her face to it: let them see that I have nothing to hide, she thought, not even a covert expression. She wondered if they came to stare at her on the hour; she began to count. She thought, by the heat in the cell and what she could see of the sunlight, that it might be midday when the door opened again.
A different wardress. “Kom.”
“Where?”
“Fingerprints.”
They took her along the corridor to a room furnished only with a table and two chairs. A second wardress took her flinching hand, straightened her fingers and pressed them into the pad of black grease. On the waiting paper, she saw loops, whirls, smudges like ape prints. It was hard to believe they belonged to her.
They let her wash her hands then, but she could not get the slime from under her fingernails.
When she came out into the corridor, an African woman in a prison dress was kneeling, scrubbing brush in hand, a scum of soapy water widening around her in a pool. She was singing a hymn, her voice strong, unwavering. When she saw Anna she stopped singing. She sat back on her haunches to watch her pass. Anna looked down into her face; then over her shoulder, to see the woman bend her back again. The soles of her bare feet were a grayish-white, hard as hooves. The hymn followed her as they swung open the cell door:
“How dearly God must love us, And this poor world of ours, To spread blue skies above us, And deck the earth with flowers.”
When the light began to fail, they tossed two blankets into the cell, and brought in her bag. She had packed her hairbrush and a comb but she had no mirror. She could not think why it seemed so important to see her own face. She said to the wardress, “You haven’t got a mirror in your pocket, have you? That I could borrow just for a minute?”
“What do you think, that I’m a beauty queen?” the woman said. She laughed at her own joke. “It’s against the rules,” she said. “You might hurt yourself, you see? Try and sleep now.”
Early in the afternoon there had been another tin tray, with a bowl of broth this time. She had stirred the ingredients without much hope, disturbing cabbage and root vegetables and what might be scraps of meat. Globules of fat lay on the surface, and when she brought the spoon to her mouth the morning’s reaction repeated itself, and she thought she would vomit. The last meal of the day had been another beaker of weak coffee and a hunk of bread. She regretted now that she had let them take away the bread untasted. She was so hungry that her stomach seemed to be folding in on itself, curling into a hollowness above her navel. “Can you help me?” she said to the wardress. “I couldn’t eat earlier, I was feeling sick. Can I have some bread?”
The woman hesitated. “I’ll see,” she said.
She went out, banging the door, rattling her keys. An electric light flicked on overhead, taking Anna by surprise. Anna waited, unmoving, under its glare.
She’ll not come back, she thought. But after some time the woman did return, with bread on a plate and a smear of margarine.
“I can’t let you have a knife,” she said. “You’ll have to do the best you can.”
Anna took the plate. “I’m grateful.”
Then the woman took an apple out of her pocket. “Don’t tell anybody.” She put it down on the metal locker.
Anna said, “Do you know what is going to happen to me? Can you tell me where my husband is?”
“Don’t take advantage,” the wardress said.
“I want to write a letter. I have things to do. I work at a mission you see, in Elim, Flower Street, and there are things I have to take care of. I have to give instructions, or nothing will be done.”
“I dare say they got on all right before you came,” the woman said.
“I ought to be given access to a lawyer.”
“You must take that up with the colonel.”
“When can I see him?”
“In time.”
It was the least hopeful sentence she had heard that day. When the wardress had gone she broke open the cob of bread and tore out the middle, wiping it into the margarine and forcing it into her mouth. She held the apple for a long time before she ate it, running her fingers over its shape, admiring its innocence, its cleanness. She ate it in mouselike nibbles, and wrapped the core carefully in her handkerchief, so that tomorrow morning she would at least be able to taste the juice on her tongue. She held off using the bucket for as long as she could, but in the end she had to squat over it, the metal rim cold against her thighs. She felt debased by the dribble of urine that would be her companion all night, and would be there for her when she woke in the morning.
They did not take her to see the colonel the next day, but the wardress who had given her the apple brought in a pillow, a pillow case, and a pair of sheets. At least one more night then, Anna thought.
“Did you eat your breakfast this morning?” the woman asked.
“No, I couldn’t.”
“You ought to try.”
“Will you get me another apple? I’d be so grateful.”
“Yes, I dare say you would.”
“Do you think they would let me have something to read?”
“That’s for the colonel to decide. I couldn’t decide that.”
“Would it be possible for someone to go to my house and get me a change of clothes?”
She knew the answer: the colonel will decide. But this is what prison life must be, she thought: a series of endless requests, some great, some small, repeated and repeated, until one day—in the face of all expectation—one of them, great or small, is granted. Can you arrange for me to send a message to my husband? Can I have a bowl of hot water, I cannot get the fingerprint ink from under my nails? Can I have a newspaper, can I have a mirror? Can you assure me that God loves me and that I am his child?
The next day, after the mealie-porridge but before the broth, another wardress came in. “You want to comb your hair, Mrs. Eldred? The colonel is waiting to see you in his office.”
She jumped up from her bed. “Never mind my hair.”
The woman stood back to let her pass out of the cell. To her surprise, two more wardresses were stationed outside the door, and they trod a pace behind her along the corridor. They treat me as if I’m dangerous, she thought. Perhaps I am.
The colonel was a man of fifty, with pepper-and-salt hair shorn above his ears. The regulation belly strained at his uniform belt, but the rest of him was hard and fit looking. He motioned her to a chair. A ceiling fan creaked over her head; she lifted her face to it. Round and round it churned, the same stagnant air.
“I must apologize for not seeing you sooner, Mrs. Eldred. There were some incidents in the men’s prison that have been taking up my time.”
“What incidents?”
“Nothing that should bother you.”
“Is my husband in there, in the men’s prison?”
“You’ll have news of Mr. Eldred very soon—in fact, you’ll be seeing him soon, all we want is that you talk to us a little bit.” The colonel sat down opposite her. “You’ve been to political meetings, Mrs. Eldred?”
“No. Never.”
“You’ve been to protest meetings? About the bus boycott, for example?”
“Yes.”
“So, isn’t that the same thing?”
“I didn’t think so, at the time.”
“We have photographs of you at these meetings. We know you have held political meetings at your house.”
“Never.”
“You have had people from the ANC at your house. Agitators.”
“It’s not illegal to have visitors.”
“So what were you doing, Mrs. Eldred, if you weren’t having a political meeting? Just having tea and cake, were you? Perhaps reading the Bible together?”
Anna didn’t answer.
“We have the names of everyone who has visited you.”
“Yes. I know you have your spies everywhere.”
“It’s necessary,” the colonel s
aid. “Believe me, Mrs. Eldred. We have to keep control.”
Anna pushed her hair back, smoothing it with her hand. It felt lank and greasy; the cell was an oven by midmorning, and she was not given enough water to wash properly. “Can I ask you a question, Colonel? Just one? All I want to know is if any of the mission staff are on your payroll. Has anyone been informing against us?”
“If you were innocent, Mrs. Eldred, you wouldn’t have to ask me that question.”
“Oh, I’m innocent, Colonel.” She felt color rise in her face. She was not afraid. Since they had brought her to the prison she had felt every emotion, but not fear. “I am perfectly innocent, and so is my husband, and I am quite sure that the mission society who sent us out here have been informed of what has happened, and that they will be making representations to your government on our behalf.”
“I’m sure that is so,” the colonel said, “and I am sure their representations will be listened to with the greatest of respect.” He ran a hand over his bristly head. “But you must understand, Mrs. Eldred, that my government takes exception to people such as yourself coming out here to tell us how to run our country, coming out here in the guise of mission workers and then turning political and interfering in affairs that you don’t understand.”
“I do understand,” Anna said. “You can’t expect that line to succeed with me. I’ve seen everything, with my own eyes.”
“With respect, Mrs. Eldred, you have seen nothing and you know nothing. When you’ve been here twenty, thirty years, tell me then.” The colonel looked up at the ceiling, as if self-control reposed there. When he spoke again it was in a flat voice, with his former quite meaningless courtesy. “Can I offer you a cigarette, Mrs. Eldred?”
“No, thank you.”
“You don’t mind if I smoke myself?”
“Feel free.”
“Do you have any complaints, Mrs. Eldred?”
She looked at him wonderingly. “If I began on my complaints …”
“About your treatment, I mean.”
“Could I be allowed some fresh air?”
“I’m afraid there is nowhere suitable for you to take exercise.”
“I can hear other women outside. I can hear their voices.” And laughter. Songs.
“That will be from the courtyard. The blacks go out there to do their washing.”
“I expect I shall need to do washing.”
“It will be done for you, Mrs. Eldred.”
“I should like a change of clothes from home, and some books. Is that possible?”
“I will send someone to see about your clothes.”
Relief washed over her; she had not thought about it until now, but for the first time it occurred to her that they might put her into a prison dress. “And the books?”
“You can have a Bible for now. Will that do?”
“Thank you.”
He inclined his head. “You’re a well-mannered woman, Mrs. Eldred. I’d like to see you keep it that way.”
“I hope I can, Colonel.” Whatever you say, she thought, I shall have the last word. “Could I have the light on for longer, so that I can read? I couldn’t sleep last night. I never can sleep much before midnight.”
The colonel hesitated. “For one hour, perhaps. Till nine o’clock.”
She had gained a piece of information. She had a sense of petty triumph.
“Can I have my watch back?”
“Yes, that is possible. I didn’t know it had been taken away.”
“And this bucket, this so-called sanitary bucket—it’s disgusting. When they brought me down the corridor I saw some buckets standing in a corner, a kind with lids. Can I have one of those?”
The colonel looked stricken. He flung himself from his chair, and chopped the wardress to pieces in blunt Afrikaans. The wardress shrugged, talked back; then became abject. “Mrs. Eldred,” he said, turning to her, “we owe you an apology. I do not know how this can have happened. You’ve been given a native-type bucket. All colored and white prisoners are automatically allocated buckets with lids, that is the rule. Your bucket will be changed immediately.”
Anna stared at him. The colonel had the last word after all.
That night, her legs began to ache; sleep was fitful, but before dawn she plunged into a dreamless stupor. When she woke she was shivering, and her scalp was sore: a vast headache lay behind it. She felt it was difficult to breathe, let alone eat. She had wrapped herself in her blanket, but it didn’t help.
They came for her at nine.
“The colonel again?”
“Ag, Mrs. Eldred, he must be in love with you.”
He was pacing his office; stopped pacing when he saw her. “Good morning, Mrs. Eldred, please sit down.” He looked at her closely. “So it’s a hunger strike?”
“No, it’s not a hunger strike. I just prefer not to eat.”
“You don’t like the food you are given?”
“How could anyone like it? It’s not fit for pigs.”
“So if we were to supplement your diet, you would eat?”
Anna didn’t answer. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction; didn’t want to allow herself the temptation. Since that first time, there had been no apple. The skin on the back of her hands seemed grayish, as if the color of her blood had altered.
“Come, Mrs. Eldred,” the colonel said. “What would you like? Some fruit?”
She didn’t speak. The headache had gone now, but its ghost remained, and the back of her neck was stiff.
“I’d like to go home,” she said in a low voice. “I’d like to see my husband. I’d like to know why you are keeping me here.”
“In good time,” the colonel said. “You must understand that whatever you decide, we have to send in the prison rations. That’s the rule.”
She nodded, head bowing painfully on the stem of her neck. He seemed to have made up his mind that she was on a hunger strike, even though she had denied it. Well, let him think so. Let it be so. The black woman who scrubbed the corridor, who would supplement her diet? She imagined her own body: saw herself fading, growing meeker, thinner, thinner … For the first time fear touched her. I am not made for this, she thought. Emma, now … Emma could bear it. Bear it? It would be an ornament to Emma. And yet, the fear was almost a relief to her. So I am human, she thought. If I had been in prison, and not afraid, how would I have lived the rest of my life? How could I be allowed the luxury of everyday, ordinary fears, if I were not afraid now? She said, “Colonel, for pity’s sake, tell me what you have done with my husband. All I want is to know that he is safe.”
“We should be able to arrange for you to see him.”
“When? Today?”
The colonel exhaled gustily. “Have patience, Mrs. Eldred.” She saw him struggle to quell his exasperation with her. “Look, Mrs. Eldred, I’m sorry if you think you’ve been treated badly, but the fact is that we are not used to prisoners like you. This situation is unprecedented for me. And for the staff, it is unprecedented for them. That is why we had the mistake about the buckets, and maybe—maybe we have committed other mistakes. No one wants to keep you here for any longer than necessary.”
“But why are you keeping me at all? You’ve hardly asked me any questions.”
“No one wants to harass you, Mrs. Eldred. What you’ve done, you’ve done.”
“Are you asking my husband questions?”
The colonel shook his head. “Not in the way you mean, Mrs. Eldred. Why should you think such things? No one has hurt you, have they?”
“No.”
“Just so—no one has hurt your husband either.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What can I do then? Except to assure you that you are here as much for your own protection as anything else?”
“Protection from whom?”
The colonel looked weary. “From yourself.”
“You haven’t brought any charge. I don’t think there’s any charge you can bring. Why don??
?t you let me go?”
“That is not possible, I’m afraid.”
“Why isn’t it?”
Keep asking questions, questions: just once you might get an answer.
“I am waiting on a higher authority, Mrs. Eldred.”
“Are you, Colonel? Waiting for your God to speak?”
“No.” He half smiled. “A telephone call from Pretoria will do for me.”
“And when do you expect that?”
He shifted in his chair, ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I no longer expect, Mrs. Eldred. I’ve learned patience. May I commend it to you?”
She looked up into his face. “We might grow old together, Colonel, you and I.”
That evening, unprecedentedly, they brought her a bowl of hot water and a clean dry towel. Until now she had been allowed to wash only once a day. They brought some fruit and a bar of chocolate. “Not all at once or you’ll be ill,” the wardress said. Her face showed her disapproval of this special treatment.
Anna unwrapped the chocolate and inhaled its fragrance, its deep cheap sweetness: sugar and oil. She despised herself. The colonel saw through me, she thought, he knew I was weak. The emulsion slid over her tongue, into her bloodstream. Her heart raced. She sat back on her bed, drawing up her feet. I shall always hate myself, she thought, I shall never forgive myself for this, I shall suffer for it hereafter. She flicked her tongue around her teeth, like a cat cleaning its whiskers: collecting the last taste. Took her pulse, one thumb fitted into the fine skin of her wrist. Its speed alarmed her. But I am alive, she thought.
Then she thought, but perhaps this is only a trick. Perhaps tomorrow they will bring back the porridge and the encrusted spoon, and the native bucket. And I shall not be able to bear it.
Next day they told her that she had a visitor. “A kaffir,” the wardress said, turning down the corners of her mouth. “The colonel has given permission.”
Lucy Moyo was seated in the room where the fingerprints were taken. Her handbag rested on her vast knees. She wore one of her ensembles: a plum-colored dress, a pink petal hat to tone with it. Her handkerchief was folded and secured under the band of her wristwatch. She smelled of lily of the valley.