And how to do this? Well, no doubt about that either! Obviously, in order to fill black heads and hearts with confidence, all one had to do was to tell them the history of Europe and America over the last hundred years. No black nation could ever be (Mrs Van hoped) as stupid, blood-thirsty, murderous, treacherous and short-sighted as any white nation in the world, and therefore did Mrs Van draft out a course of twenty or so lectures covering ‘from the Industrial Revolution to the Second World War’. She then summoned Mr Matushi, as spokesman of the group, to ask if he approved.
Mr Matushi, smiling gently as—it seemed—he always would, pointed out that while he in no way wished to upset their good friend Mrs Van, what the Africans really needed was instruction on how to get rid of the present white Government, by (a) fair means or (b) foul means. Could she not see her way to providing courses in revolutionary methods?
Mrs Van said: ‘But if my information is correct, some of you are already receiving such instruction. Is it not the case that Solly Cohen is running a study group on these lines? And how about your Mr Zlentli?’
‘He is not my Mr Zlentli!’
She smiled at him, he smiled at her. Then he politely asked why Mrs Van was so anxious to teach them history.
Mrs Van invited him to bring a group of his friends to discuss this.
These men sat listening patiently while she explained: ‘My dear Sirs, you are all suffering from a really fatal political handicap. You believe in your hearts, you believe the propaganda of your enemies. Now, if you knew anything about recent European history (and of course it isn’t your fault that you don’t, your schools being what they are) then every time a white man told you you weren’t fit to govern, you’d simply howl with laughter.’
These remarks, having gained the sympathetic smiles she had designed them to earn, she continued, in a different voice: ‘And besides, my dear friends, you will find it useful to know what your own futures, under independence, will be unless you are very careful indeed. Do we believe that white races, black races, are more or less intelligent than each other? We do not. But I’ve a suspicion that you think when you get self-government you’ll be more intelligent than Europeans? Well, you won’t be. I, personally, am fighting for your independence because I believe you have the inalienable right to be as cruel and as stupid as we are.’
So Mrs Van, with a calm nod and a smile. They laughed, of course. But these remarks were repeated. And repeated. Some people didn’t laugh. Such views were in advance of their time—as the saying goes. Much more tactful neither to say such things nor—better still—to think them. Mrs Van, whose career had been ruined—she did not regret it—by the scandal over the African group, perhaps thought she had nothing to lose and could say what she pleased. But it is possible that she was tired, and perhaps sickened by a lifetime’s battle with stupidity, and so there was self-indulgence in saying such things. At any rate, words which at the time made her friends smile, later had repercussions.
Meanwhile, the twenty or so lectures on white history were not given. The Africans conferred, said they agreed it would be a help to know more history, but what about their own? Mrs Van searched around, made enquiries, wrote to universities, but had to confess that the Africans (officially) had no history yet. It was all there, but scattered over the world in old records and archives and bills of sale. There was no single book, or even a pamphlet, in existence in 1946 which Mrs Van might order and make the basis of a study group on the ‘History of Africa before the coming of the white man’.
The Africans conferred again and suggested it might be a help to know the history of South Africa. Was it possible, for instance, that the Nationalists could take power? Of course everyone said it was impossible, they knew that. The world would not tolerate such extremist views—1946 this was, and the sort of people who wrote leaders for newspapers were saying that the world would never again stand for extremist governments. Yes, they understood, the Africans said, that they had nothing to fear, for one thing that liberal country Britain would not allow it, but suppose the Nationalists did take power, what might happen to this country, which was so close to South Africa in spirit, not to mention in history?
This demand was met much more easily than at first seemed likely. Here was Johnny Lindsay, who had first been in South Africa at the age of eighteen. He had fought in the Boer War (which in fact now filled him with shame and remorse) and had taken part in every industrial battle in South Africa until the Great Strike of 1922. He undertook to give lectures. The trouble was, he did not have enough breath to talk. For the first lecture—on the stupid brutality of the Boer War—he had sat up in bed, an old coat flung around his shoulders, the oxygen tank standing close to him, and he had wheezed out sentence after sentence while his eyes filled with humiliated tears and his audience of half a hundred black people—sitting on the floor, the bed, anywhere they could find a place—listened in sympathetic silence. It occurred, first to Mrs Van, but then to Johnny, who pointed it out himself, that when he died, he would take with him day-to-day memories of a history still unwritten. What could be more extraordinary, more paradoxical, more violent, than the history of the Rand? They called in a shorthand writer, but Johnny could not talk: it was too late, he did not have enough breath for more than half a sentence at a time.
He had to write it—a pity, since his way of writing had none of the lively quality of his speech. When he had finished an episode, he gave it to Martha. She typed it, and was paid for doing so by some Foundation alerted by Mrs Van.
So it was Martha who, every week, sat by the old man’s side and read out what he had written during the week. He would amend, alter, add, as she read—as far as his breath would allow.
On a certain Wednesday evening in winter, the tiny room in the Coloured Quarter was filled with men, mostly Africans. There was a lot of coughing, for people were not warmly enough dressed, nor did they eat enough. Behind them, children of the Quarter hung about on the veranda, listening. As a backdrop stood the winter’s sky, in a solid cold glitter.
Johnny was propped up on pillows. He was very ill that night. Martha brought out one sentence after another, more and more slowly, because she had to raise her voice against the harsh irregular breathing. But no one liked to suggest that he should clip the oxygen tube to his face before them all.
Flora was not in the room. Mrs Van had said: ‘I think Flora’s glad of an evening off nursing sometimes.’ But it had become known that Flora had said: ‘I don’t see why everyone should work a sick man to his grave.’
Mrs Van had explained that Johnny was probably only still alive in order to give up, week by week, the precious accumulation of his memories, before it was too late. At least, that is certainly how she, Mrs Van, would feel. ‘It takes all sorts to make a world,’ said Flora, and took herself off.
For the first time people were looking at Flora, and seeing a pretty, middle-aged woman of conventional South African upbringing who had been living with the old agitator from the Rand—presumably for love, since they were not married—for years; and who had accepted, among other things, that she should cook for, act hostess to, sit down at table with, black men, black women. What had she thought of it all? She did not say, but went to the pictures on Wednesdays.
She was a widow and had met Johnny when he was a vigorous man with lungs that ‘played him up sometimes’.
Behind the bed sat Mrs Van, knitting a garment for a grandchild. Across the bed from Martha sat Athen, attentive to every movement, every breath, of Johnny Lindsay, whom he revered, although as he said: ‘In my country he would be a class enemy, he’s a social democrat—but Matty, he’s a good man and he has given his life for the workers, according to his lights.’
Athen wore his elegant pale suit, and was suffering with the suffering of the old man, who sat half-suffocated, his chest heaving.
Martha read: ‘The Strike Committee shifted its headquarters from Benoni to Johannesburg. At the same time the Government was arming the terrified bo
urgeoisie into bands of special constables. Troops were still arriving armed to the teeth, with their horses ready saddled in open trucks. Guns were unlimbered in the open spaces. A few of the strikers began coming into the central part of Johannesburg, and along with them crowds of sightseers. All business came to a stop, and armed patrols rode through the streets dispersing groups of people. The general mood of the public was one of anger and bitterness. The mere presence of the troops was sullenly resented, and understood as a move to overawe the town.’
The old man lifted his thin hand. Martha stopped. ‘There was no need for the troops, no need at all, it was a provocation,’ he said.
She waited, but he gulped in air and sat, eyes closed. Then he lowered his hand. She went on:
‘Outside the Rand Club, which symbolized the luxury and callousness of the capitalists, small crowds gathered. A number of the more stupid club members stood on the balcony and jeered at the people, snapping their fingers at them. The situation became ugly. A few stones were thrown, and an attack was made on the club entrance. The street was cleared by Dragoons. The crowd raided a bread-cart and pelted the troopers with loaves…’
The deep, hoarse breathing changed—Johnny’s mouth stretched—Mrs Van began laughing in sympathy, and the roomful of people laughed with her. One or two people sat with demonstratively serious faces, however.
‘It was the funniest thing…’ said Johnny. Mrs Van, laughing, leaned over to wipe the water that soaked down papery cheeks, and Martha waited, smiling. Then Johnny’s face fell back into the strained lines of his fight for breath, and they were all able to stop laughing.
‘After patrolling the streets for some time, the Dragoons were ordered to dismount. They formed a square on the corner of Loveday and Commissioner Street and began to pour volleys into the crowd. Scores fell, killed or wounded. From the windows and roof of the Rand Club, a number of unscrupulous members joined in the firing and accounted for a number of casualties.’
A young man sitting on the floor raised his hand like a child in class. He was one of the men who had refused to laugh in sympathy with Johnny.
‘What year was this, Mr Lindsay?’ Martha looked at Johnny who shook his head and pointed at Martha.
‘1913,’ said Martha for him.
‘July,’ said Johnny, in a difficult whisper. ‘If there had not been a war next year, we’d have beaten them, we’d have had socialism in South Africa.’
No one commented. They all looked at the questioner, but it seemed he had nothing more to say. Martha went on:
‘The fury and dismay of the crowd knew no bounds. Only a few carried hip-pocket pistols, as was common on the Rand at the time, and they tried to fire back ineffectually. But the great majority were peacefully inclined and unarmed, and many had nothing to do with the industrial struggle. A dramatic…’
Again the young man raised his hand. ‘Excuse me, please. But I am not clear. This was a white crowd you say?’
For a moment no one answered. It was becoming clear that this youth was trying to make difficulties.
Johnny heaved in breath: ‘Chamber of Mines against the white workers. Chamber of Mines instructed by Smuts and Botha.’
Martha waited, looked at Johnny, looked at the young man, who, having made his point, sat in frowning silence.
‘A dramatic and tragic interlude which recoiled heavily on the heads of the Government was the death of the young Afrikaner miner Labuschagne. Stepping from the pavement into the middle of the street, Labuschagne shouted: “Stop shooting women and children, you bastards. Shoot a man!” At the same time he tore open his shirt to bare his chest. From point blank range, a trooper deliberately shot him through the heart.’
All over the room the men shook their heads and clicked their tongues. There were murmurs of ‘Shame’.
Johnny suddenly sat straight up, and leaned forward, sucking in air, supporting himself on two trembling arms. Mrs Van leaned over him.
No one moved, though. After a few minutes, Johnny lay back again, very white.
‘I think,’ said Mr Matushi, who sat at the foot of the bed, ‘that we should let our friend rest.’
But Johnny agitatedly lifted his hand. ‘Go on’, came his hoarse whisper.
Mr Matushi remarked: ‘It is important for us all that we should know these things, even though it was a battle between white men.’
The way he said this, delivered to some neutral point in the crowd—not to the young man who had raised his hand—which made it even worse, caused Mrs Van, Martha, and Athen, to look at each other.
Now the young man did again raise his hand. He said: ‘And where were the black miners during this struggle? I understand that every year at that time 8,000 Africans were killed in accidents?’
Tongues clicked again, but it was being understood that this was some kind of deliberately provoked showdown.
Mr Matushi said: ‘Gentlemen, we agreed we should hear a history of South Africa in recent times. But we all know that the big fights on the Rand were white miners against their Government.’
‘And when do we enter the picture, Mrs Van?’ asked a young man who had not spoken yet.
‘Well, here you are,’ said Mrs Van with a firm nod. ‘And what are you going to do about it?’
Some people laughed. But most were silent. There was a strong tension in the room. Meanwhile, Johnny lay back on his pillows, quite still.
The second young man said to Mrs Van: ‘Is it true that you expect us, the Africans, should behave like the bad things we have just heard? I must say this, Mrs Van der Bylt, I do not have it in my heart that one of us should kill a man like this Labuschagne.’
Mrs Van observed him carefully, to find out if he meant to be provocative. But his face expressed only earnest sorrow. She asked: ‘What is your name?’
‘And what has my name got to do with it?’
‘You know mine,’ she observed.
Now that there was a situation, an unmistakable atmosphere, Mrs Van put down her knitting, folded her hands in her lap, and sat looking alertly around, missing nothing. Thus, she was formidable.
Mr Matushi sat very upright, his hands on his knees. He suddenly said: ‘Gentlemen, I am ashamed, I am truly ashamed.’
Athen said: ‘I think we should stop the meeting. Our friend is too ill for such things.’
Johnny seemed asleep: he certainly was not with them.
People got up from all over the room, unfolding their legs from under them, stretching, coughing, shivering. Mr Matushi went to Mrs Van, held her hand in both of his and said: ‘I must say this to you—we are truly grateful for this series of instructive lectures.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said various voices. But not many.
‘I take it,’ said Mrs Van pleasantly, ‘that some of you consider these talks not useful?’
‘No.’ And ‘That is not true,’ from voices on the veranda.
Another voice from the veranda said loudly: ‘People who call themselves our friends. But they can only talk of the white people.’
‘Shame!’ said Mr Matushi firmly, to the veranda.
Athen said: ‘Comrades, when the guns of the capitalists point at strikers, it is the same whether the strikers have black skins or white skins.’
For a moment, silence. Then the voice said from the veranda: ‘Oh, quite the same! And also when the white men earn many times as much money as the black men.’ A loud laugh, in which a great many people joined. Then the sounds of feet departing across hardened dust.
A few men came to shake Mrs Van’s hand, and Mr Matushi said: ‘I can promise you that some of us at least find these talks useful and I for one will be here next week.’
He leaned over Johnny to say goodbye. Johnny’s eyes were now open. Mr Matushi laid his hand on the sick man’s shoulder, pulled a fold of blanket up to mark his desire to help, then went, nodding and smiling.
‘It would seem,’ observed Mrs Van, ‘that our study group is in difficulties.’ Then she bent over Johnny. Athen tou
ched Martha’s arm, and they said good night, quietly, and went out into the street. It was about seven in the evening. All the buildings were lit, every window, every doorway filled with faces. Men stood in groups on the dusky verandas. A strong smell of sour water mingled with gusts of fresh grass from a corner lot.
‘We’re late,’ said Martha. They were off to a party, which had been arranged because Athen had suggested that Maisie should be invited one evening. ‘Something gay, Martha, not boring. To show her a decent life is not boring.’
Asked what he had in mind, he suggested dancing.
‘But Athen, I am sure Maisie is asked to dance a dozen times a week.’
‘But not with people like you, Martha. Ask her. I want you to do this.’
Martha saw that Athen wanted this, not for Maisie’s sake, but for his own.
Eventually it was decided that a party of Athen and Maisie, Anton and Millicent, Martha and Thomas, should go dancing, in order, ostensibly, to give Maisie a lesson in wholesome enjoyment. They were all going to a hotel several miles out of town. Athen already had on his beautiful suit. But Martha wasn’t dressed yet.
‘Well,’ said Martha, ‘if we all stayed here much longer we’d find ourselves arranging meetings so that they didn’t upset our sundowner parties.’
Athen walked beside her, silent.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Did you say that because of something in my character?’
Martha understood that he was still tormented about his suit. They had joked that Athen was a dandy, saying that they imagined him as an austere monk, solitary, but emerging from his cell to tend the vices of other people as gently as if they were wounds. Then he would return to a small, white room where he would turn the pages of an old book and very slowly sip the monastery liqueur. This joke had reached Athen, and he had suffered over it. He recognized his character in it, he said. Yes, he accepted it as real comradely criticism.