FOUR

PÉRSOMI ARRIVED AT THE FARM WITH THE FOURIES LATE Saturday evening. When the car stopped in front of the house, the dogs barked themselves into a frenzy, beside themselves with joy at seeing Irene again. The front door opened, and light streamed out over the porch. Irene’s mother and grandma came out, laughing and opening their arms to Irene. “You must be dying of hunger,” said Aunt Lulu. “Come in, your ouma made a milk tart.”

“Have Klara and the others come?” Irene asked, picking up the smallest dog. “Hello, Courage, did you miss me? Gosh, it’s good to be home!”

Pérsomi picked up her suitcase and quietly made her way to the orange grove.

The dark swallowed her. Behind her the windows of the Big House were brightly lit. The path through the trees was barely visible in the starlight.

At the Pontenilo she bent down for a moment, scooping up handfuls of water to drink. I’m back, she thought as she prepared to cross to her family’s side. The river was also a part of her.

The little house on the ridge loomed in the dark.

She pushed open the back door. It creaked loudly in the quiet night.

“Who’s there?” Hannapat mumbled.

“Me, Pérsomi.”

“Oh,” said Hannapat as she sat up on her mattress. “Why did you take so long? We were waiting for you yesterday.”

“I had to go to a track meet,” said Pérsomi. She looked around the dark room. “Where’s the candle? Is there any food?” she asked.

“Look in the pot,” said Hannapat, “but I think it’s empty.”

She struggled to light the short wick of the candle. The porridge pot was empty. She turned away from the cold stove. “Where’s my mattress?” she asked.

“Sissie is sleeping on your mattress. She sleeps on two mattresses. Did you bring anything from town?”

“Yes, but I’ll give it to you tomorrow when Ma and Sissie are awake. Move over, I’m exhausted.”

She lay behind Hannapat’s back under the rough gray blanket, Sissie’s soft snores in her ears and the sour smell of her home pricking her nostrils. She had forgotten what it was like.

A scurrying woke her. Ma stood in the doorway. She had opened the curtain between the bedroom and the kitchen. “Fetch some water, Hannapat,” she said.

Pérsomi slowly opened her eyes. “Look, Ma, Pérsomi’s here,” said Hannapat.

“Heavens, child, where did you spring from?” her ma asked. “We thought you’d be here Friday.”

“I took part in a track meet,” said Pérsomi. “Ran races, you know?”

“How would I know?” asked her ma.

“Ma, my tooth hurts,” Sissie complained from under her blanket.

Pérsomi sat up, throwing off the threadbare cover. “It was a big meeting,” she said. “All the schools were there. We went to Potgietersrus by train.”

“Potgietersrus?” said her ma.

“Ma-a, my tooth,” said Sissie.

“Yes, Ma,” said Pérsomi and got up. “The whole team went by train. We left yesterday morning at four.”

“Oh,” said her ma, “that’s early. Hannapat, fetch water.”

“I took part in a number of events,” Pérsomi continued. She was keen to tell her ma everything. She felt sure her ma would be so proud.

“Oh,” said her ma.

“In the 100 yards, the 200 yards, the high jump, the long jump, and the relay.”

“Oh,” said her ma. “Hannapat, fetch the water now.”

Hannapat did not budge.

“I did very well. I was the best junior girl of all the schools present.”

“Oh,” said her ma, “that’s good. Hannapat, will you fetch the water now? Or must I fetch the strap?”

Reluctantly Hannapat picked up the bucket and sauntered to the door.

“Ma-a, my tooth!” Sissie groaned.

“Oh, Sissie, shut up,” said her ma.

“I thought you’d be proud,” said Pérsomi.

“Yes,” said her ma. “Here’s a letter from Gerbrand. Hannapat read it but she can’t read very well. You read it to me.” She produced a crumpled envelope from the front of her dress.

“He only writes to you and Ma anyway,” Hannapat said sulkily from the door. “Let me fetch the water.”

Pérsomi had wanted to bring the trophy home, to show her family. But Mr. Nienaber had said it would be better if it stayed at school. Then he locked it in the glass case in the foyer.

She took the much-handled letter from her ma’s hands, unfolded it carefully, and began to read the familiar round writing:

10 MARCH 1941

Dear Ma and Pérsomi,

I’m sorry I can’t write more often we are very busy. We’re in Italian-Somaliland now. The roads are terrible. We just about had to rebuild the road. We drove through thick sand and sometimes we had to take detours through dense bushes because we have to look out for land mines.

We have made contact with the Eyeties. I got my hands on an Italian water bottle it’s a lot better than ours because our water bottles hold a pint and the Italian bottles hold three pints.

I want to spend the rest of my life in the army. It’s a good thing I came.

A guy in our C Company is very ill malaria, they say. He was sent back to the Union.

We have taken quite a lot of Italians prisoner.

I want to tell you about the bridge we had to build across the Juba River because the enemy blew up the bridge and it’s a wide river so we built a bridge. We tied drums together and tied them to trees. Then we rowed across in boats and tied the ropes to trees on the opposite bank and pulled the drums and the chains right up against the trees. Then they I mean we put wooden boards on top of the drums.

“Gerbrand is very smart, building a bridge like that,” said her ma.

“Yes, he is,” said Pérsomi and read on.

The Dukes that’s another of our groups also came to help. The enemy opened fire every now and then. It is called a floating bridge. We built it in three days. First our infantrymen walked across then our vehicles followed. Don’t you think that’s good?

It’s so hot I can’t sleep but I must sleep because we have to make progress tomorrow. The mosquitoes are a nuisance.

Best wishes.

Your son and brother,

Gerbrand

“The mosquitoes are everywhere,” her ma sighed.

“Yes,” said Pérsomi, folding the letter. A sudden longing for Gerbrand formed a lump in her throat.

Carefully her ma returned the letter to the envelope and tucked it back into her bodice.

Pérsomi swallowed hard against the lump. Deep inside her was an unfamiliar emptiness.

“We must get Sissie something for her toothache,” she said and looked around. For the first time she noticed the shambles. The back door swung from a single hinge; there were holes in the dung floor hollowed out by feet over the years; the oven door was missing, and through the gaping hole you could see the flames inside the stove. The two front legs were missing too. Gerbrand had propped it up with stones.

Her shiny trophy would have been completely out of place.

“I don’t have anything for toothache,” said her ma. “The hospital gave Sissie stronger medicine because the fits come more often these days. It makes her sleepy. She’ll have to take some of it for her tooth.”

Pérsomi folded her blanket. Sadness was growing inside her. She felt as if she was about to lose something, or maybe she’d already lost it.

When Hannapat came back with the water, Pérsomi said, “I brought you something from town.” She knew they would be happy about the sweets. Everyone would laugh.

But when she turned to her suitcase on the floor, she saw that the string had been removed. She hadn’t untied it herself.

She opened the suitcase. Her ma and Sissie stepped closer, curious. Only Hannapat kept her distance.

The suitcase contained only her three dresses, her bloomers, her two school shirts, her hairbrush, and her toothbrush. The sweets were gone.

“What did you bring?” asked Sissie.

“A packet of sweets, but it’s gone,” said Pérsomi. She turned to Hannapat.

“Where are the sweets?” she demanded.

“How am I supposed to know?” Hannapat replied. “You must have left them at the dormitory, or maybe you’re lying.”

“I didn’t leave it and I’m not lying,” Pérsomi said.

“Are you saying I stole it?” asked Hannapat, screwing up her eyes.

“Someone removed the string and it certainly wasn’t me.”

“Are you saying I—”

“Hand over the sweets!” Sissie launched herself at Hannapat. “Give them here!” she shouted, tugging at Hannapat’s hair.

Hannapat screamed and fought back. “Ma! Ma! Sissie is killing me!”

Sissie fell over a chair and pulled Hannapat to the floor. Hannapat kicked and scratched and bit her way out from under Sissie’s fat body. “Give the sweets!” Sissie screamed.

“Ma, she’s killing me,” yelled Hannapat.

Pérsomi walked through the back door and up her mountain.

The sun was high in the sky the morning Pérsomi helped her ma carry a load of washing to the river. It was always better to talk to her ma when she was busy. It was as if her ma could listen better.

They sat down beside the pool. Pérsomi scraped together some clean sand and began to rub it into the collars of her white school shirts. Her ma threw one of Sissie’s dresses into the pool and slowly began to wash it, without sand.

“Ma, do you know how to make soap, from fat?” asked Pérsomi.

“Heavens, Pérsomi, what kind of question is that?”

“I’m just asking if you know how to make soap,” Pérsomi repeated as reasonably as possible.

“Yes, yes, I suppose I do,” said her ma, still rubbing the same spot on the dress. “But I’d have to buy caustic soda, and it costs money.”

“What else do you need?” asked Pérsomi.

“Well, child, what shall I say?” Her ma frowned. “A fire, of course, and a soap pot, and fat. Heavens above, I don’t remember anymore.”

“Have you ever made soap?” asked Pérsomi.

“Stop asking questions, child. You’re confusing me,” said her ma.

Pérsomi rinsed her white shirt until it looked reasonably clean. “At the dormitory we hand in our clothes on Wednesday and we get them back on Friday, washed and ironed,” she said.

“Yes,” said her ma.

“I like school. The work isn’t too hard. And I do well, at sport and at my schoolwork.”

“Yes,” said her ma.

Pérsomi licked her dry lips. She had to send the conversation in the right direction, so that she had a reason to ask about her pa.

“I have a roommate, Beth Murray,” she said. “She’s an orphan. Her ma died when she was born. So she stayed behind at the mission station with the reverend and his wife.”

“Oh,” said her ma.

“She knows who her ma was, because the reverend could tell her,” Pérsomi continued. “But no one knows who her pa was.”

“Yes,” said her ma. “Mind that the river doesn’t take your bloomer.”

Pérsomi fished the bloomer out of the pool and began to rinse it. “I don’t know who my real pa is either, but you do,” she said.

Her ma’s hands stopped moving. She looked straight ahead at the water but said nothing.

“Ma.” Pérsomi spoke softly. “I really want to know who my pa was. Or is.”

Her ma slowly shook her head.

“It’s important to me. It’s . . . as if a part of me is missing. As if . . .” She was almost pleading now. “As if there’s a hole inside me, do you understand?”

But her ma was still shaking her head. “I’ll never tell you. I’ll never tell anyone,” she said in a flat voice.

“Ma, please! I promise, on my word of honor, not to tell anyone, I promise.”

“I can’t tell you.” Her ma kept shaking her head. “I promised I’d never talk. I might not be educated and I’m miserable and poor and a bad mother whose children were taken away. But I promised I’d keep my mouth shut. And that’s how it will stay.”

Pérsomi felt disappointment choke up her chest, push up in her throat, bitter as gall. She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard. She would wait, but not forever. Sooner or later she would find out.

She looked across the pool at the orange trees covered in blossoms. She drew the sweet smell deep into her lungs. “I don’t think you’re a bad mother,” she said. “Gertjie and Baby didn’t get the right food, that’s all. Once they get strong again, the welfare will bring them back.”

“Yes,” her ma said. She picked up Sissie’s dress again and began to rub.

Tuesday morning, Pérsomi said, “I’m going across to the Big House to fetch the papers.”

“Ask Aunt Lulu if we can borrow a bowl of sugar while you’re there,” said her ma. “And if she can spare a spoonful or two of coffee, that would also help. And maybe something for Sissie’s tummy, tell her she’s got a blockage. Say I haven’t been able to get to town, but I’ll give everything back as soon as we’ve got plenty again.”

“I really don’t like to beg,” said Pérsomi.

“Heavens, child, it’s not begging!” her ma said indignantly. “I just want to borrow a few things!”

“Yes, Ma,” said Pérsomi. But she knew very well that nothing Ma borrowed was ever returned.

She washed her face and feet at the river and dried them in the sun. Klara and Irene would be at the Big House, and De Wet. Maybe even Boelie, though he might be at the kraal. Boelie loved the farm, just like his pa and oupa.

When her feet were dry, she walked slowly through the orange trees. She breathed in the sweet smell that filled the air.

At the back door of the Big House she paused for a moment. Inside she heard girls’ voices, laughing. Somewhere deep inside the house she heard real people talking and laughing.

She knocked timidly. Only the housekeeper Lena was in the kitchen, stoking the fire in the stove. “I just came to fetch the newspapers,” said Pérsomi.

“Wait here, missy, I’ll fetch them in the pantry,” said Lena.

“I must also ask for some sugar and flour. No, wait, coffee,” Pérsomi hastened to add.

“You’ll have to ask one of the family,” said Lena. “I can’t give it to you. Wait, I’ll call Miss Klara.”

Pérsomi looked down at her bare feet. Klara would be better than Irene or Aunt Lulu.

But Klara wasn’t alone when she entered the kitchen. Two girls followed her in, all three of them laughing.

Klara wore a pale-yellow summer dress. Her brown hair had glints of gold in the shaft of sunlight that fell in through the back door.

Behind her was Christine le Roux, Oom Freddie’s daughter. She was small, with curly blonde hair and big blue eyes, like a doll.

The third girl was striking: tall and slender, with long legs and a sun-kissed complexion. Her dark hair fell down her back, shiny and silken. Her dark eyebrows were neat arches, her full lips a deep red color.

“Hello, Pérsomi,” Klara said cheerfully. “Are you also home for the vacation?”

“Yes.”

Klara said to her friends, “This is Gerbrand’s little sister, she’s Irene and Reinier’s age.”

“Yes,” said Christine, “I know her, but she’s growing up so fast!” She turned to Pérsomi. “What do you hear from Gerbrand?”

“He’s well. They built a bridge across a river,” Pérsomi answered awkwardly. Her green dress felt extra short.

Klara laughed. “They should have sent him here to build a bridge across our Pontenilo,” she said merrily. “I doubt it will ever happen! Did you want some sugar?”

The tall girl’s dark eyes seemed to be assessing Pérsomi. She was the girl who swam in the pool with Gerbrand and the others, the girl with the big sunglasses. Pérsomi wondered whether she was Reinier’s sister, Annabel.

“Just sugar, Pérsomi?” Klara asked.

“And . . . flour. Please.”

On her way back, Pérsomi’s thoughts kept returning to the three pretty girls. They had lovely clothes and elegant sandals. The kitchen had been filled with sunshine, and the smell of coffee had hung over everything.

At home Hannapat asked, “Did you bring the sugar and the coffee?”

“Coffee? I brought sugar and flour.”

“Oh, you are stupid,” Hannapat said, annoyed. “Are we supposed to drink flour? I was so looking forward to a sip of coffee!”

Wednesday evening Pérsomi’s ma said, “Mr. Fourie said they need help with the meat. They slaughtered a cow.”

“As long as they give us meat as well,” Hannapat said, “and not just the innards.”

“Poor people can’t pick and choose,” said her ma.

“I’ll eat anything that looks like meat,” said Sissie. “I’ll help too.”

Pérsomi thought about eating meat nearly every day at the dormitory.

But the next day as they were leaving, Sissie felt sick. She didn’t get up from her mattress. “My tummy aches,” she said, drawing up her knees, “and my head.”

“Oh, Sissie, just shut up,” said her ma.

“Auntie Sis said we must pick some burstwort,” said Sissie. “She said we must boil it with wild dagga and white turmeric for my tough tummy.”

“Oh heavens above,” said her ma.

“You forgot about your tooth, you lazy lump,” Hannapat scolded as they went out.

Things were hectic at the barn. Boelie and De Wet were hoisting up the heavy cow with a block and tackle, Mr. Fourie was sharpening a knife on the whetstone, Klara came walking toward them with an armful of bowls, and Lena was scrubbing the tables, making sure they were spotless.

“Hello, Pérsomi,” De Wet said. “Any news from Gerbrand?”

“He says he’s fine,” said Pérsomi.

“Oh, here you are,” said Aunt Lulu, coming from the kitchen with a bowl of water. “Go wash your hands. Klara, call Irene to come and help.”

“Here she comes, Mommy,” said Klara.

Boelie looked up from where he was cutting up the carcass with a big knife. “Hello, Pérsomi, are you also on vacation?” he said, as if he hadn’t expected her there.

“Yes,” she said, but he didn’t seem to hear.

“Hannapat, bring the wheelbarrow so that you can take the entrails,” Boelie said. “Do you want any of it, Ma?”

“Only the liver and kidneys, and of course the guts for the sausage casings, the rest can go,” said Aunt Lulu. “There’s no time today for scraping offal.”

Pérsomi saw Hannapat’s eyes narrow before she turned and went over to the wheelbarrow in the corner, swinging her hips impertinently.

With one deft stroke Boelie cut the carcass open along the stomach from top to bottom. The entrails spilled out—bundles of guts, the stomach and its contents, the gall bladder and pluck and lungs—and landed in the wheelbarrow. “Oh, yuck, I’m going to be sick!” Irene screamed and ran back to the house.

Boelie looked up, disturbed. “High time someone taught that little girl a lesson,” he said as he removed the last of the entrails.

“She’ll come and lend a hand later,” said his mother. “There isn’t much for her to do at present.”

Boelie raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“Hannapat,” said Aunt Lulu, “take the entrails home. And make sure you cook them today, or they’ll attract the jackals. Boelie, keep the feet to make brawn.”

“Hold here for me, Pérsomi,” said Boelie as he pulled on the cow’s foreleg.

The sun was high and the entire forequarter had been cut up into biltong and meat for dried sausage by the time Irene’s ouma brought a pot of coffee. Behind her followed Lena with a tray laden with cups and a large plate of sandwiches. There was no sign of Irene or Hannapat.

“Cut the biltong into thin strips and salt it well,” said Irene’s ouma. “Bring the tongue, Klara, I want to pickle it.”

Aunt Lulu said, “Jemima, when you’ve finished your coffee, go home and and deal with the innards. I’m worried about the heat, maybe we should have waited a week or two with the slaughtering.”

“Then you would’ve had to do without the slave labor, Ma,” De Wet teased her.

“Slave labor, my eye,” said his mother. “When I was a child—”

“Yes, yes,” said Boelie.

When Aunt Lulu disappeared into the kitchen to start making the brawn, only De Wet, Boelie, and Pérsomi remained.

“So they drop out, one by one,” De Wet said. “Only the three of us are left and the hindquarter is still hanging from the hook.”

“Hmm,” said Boelie. “Ma will have to get Irene in line. What good is it Ma telling us how hard she had to work as a child, while that young lady sits around reading stories like Queen Victoria?”

“Pérsomi, I think you should start cutting up the sausage meat,” said De Wet. “Here, cut the cubes this size. And try to remove as much of the sinewy bits as possible, or we’ll be cleaning the mincer more often than we’ll be mincing.”

Pérsomi drew the bowl closer and began to cut. She did her best, because she didn’t want to disappoint Boelie and De Wet.

“Oupa irritates me a bit with his English ways,” Boelie said suddenly.

“Goodness, you’re in a bad mood today,” said De Wet.

“He still believes in Smuts, can you believe it?” Boelie complained. “And this knife is bloody dull.”

“You seem to have your knife in for everyone,” De Wet said calmly.

“Oh, De Wet, stop being witty. Oupa won’t hear a word against Smuts, can you deny it?”

Pérsomi felt herself grow tense. What if Boelie and De Wet began to fight?

“What has Smuts done now?” asked De Wet.

“I swear Smuts and Van Rensburg are hand in glove,” Boelie said crossly. “I don’t trust Van Rensburg anymore.”

“Why not?” De Wet asked and put another large chunk of meat on the table. “This is the last piece,” he said to Pérsomi, “then we can begin mincing it for the sausage. How’re you getting along?”

She just nodded.

“Smuts and his spies are everywhere,” said Boelie. “I’m beginning to believe Van Rensburg was planted by Smuts to keep the OB in check. Why isn’t Van Rensburg doing anything useful?”

“Who’s Van Rensburg?” Pérsomi asked.

“Leader of the OB,” De Wet answered. “I’ll set up the mincer. He’s a lawyer. Used to be Tielman Roos’s private secretary, later he became Secretary of Justice, and in 1936 he was appointed Administrator of the Free State. In January this year he became Commandant-General of the Ossewabrandwag.”

“Must you always deliver a bloody lecture when someone asks you a question?” Boelie asked.

“Now she knows,” De Wet said coolly. “You’re the one who always says she’s so bright.”

Pérsomi’s hands stopped moving for a moment. A warm feeling rose up inside her—Boelie had said she was bright. He had told De Wet, who was very bright, that she, Pérsomi, was bright.

The warm feeling settled somewhere deep inside her.

“It’s nice being back at school,” Pérsomi said to Beth the first evening. She was drying her hair, her body still tingling after a hot bath.

“I suppose so,” said Beth, “but it’s much nicer at home.”

No, Pérsomi thought, no. But she didn’t say it out loud.

“I brought you a present,” said Beth, smiling timidly. She took something out of her suitcase. “It’s a bit old and unfortunately it’s in English, but it’s all we have at the mission,” she said, handing Pérsomi a Bible.

Pérsomi ran her hands over the worn leather cover. Then she opened the Bible and drew a deep breath. She was aware of the vaguely moldy smell of the closed pages in her nostrils. “Thanks, Beth,” she said.

“Mrs. Reverend also made cookies,” Beth went on. “Here, have one.”

Pérsomi had nothing to share with her. “I’ll have one later, thanks, Beth,” she said. “First I . . . want to write to my brother.”

At home there had been no paper and no pen.

“At our church Reverend prays for the soldiers at every service,” said Beth. “They’re fighting in Abyssinia now, I think.”

“Yes,” said Pérsomi, carefully tearing a page from the middle of her math book, “that’s where my big brother is.”

Beth was the only one at the school she could tell. To everyone else the Red Tabs were traitors, fighting for the enemy.

She unscrewed the inkpot, dipped her pen, and began to write.

22 APRIL 1941

Dear Gerbrand,

It’s the second school term now and I’m back at the dormitory. I find high school

She shouldn’t have written Dear Gerbrand. He wouldn’t like it. But she couldn’t very well put a line through it and write Hello. What would that look like? And she couldn’t afford to tear another page from her book.

So she carried on.

very nice. I am good at the schoolwork and also at athletics, I was the junior Victrix Ludorum and at the Potties meeting I was named best junior female athlete.

She worried she was boasting. But Gerbrand was the only one who would understand, and she was dying to tell him.

The athletics season is over now, but the teacher said I should come and play hockey, she will find me a stick and boots.

The boy who sits next to me in class is Reinier de Vos. He says you were a very good rugby player. His sister Annabel was in your class.

I have a very nice roommate, Beth Murray is her name. She brought me a Bible, because she’s from a mission station. I’m glad, now I have a Bible as well.

Everyone is fine at home, Ma and Hannapat and Sissie. You know about Lewies Pieterse, I wrote to you about him. It’s much better now that he’s gone.

I think Ma misses Gertjie and Baby. And you, especially, I know she does.

Gerbrand, I really want to know why you enlisted. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong, I just want to know why. There’s no one here who can tell me, so I’m asking you. Please don’t take it the wrong way, I just want to know. So that I can understand.

In the vacation I saw Boelie and De Wet. They slaughtered a cow. And I saw Klara and Oom Freddie’s daughter, Christine, too. They send their best wishes.

We also have a lot of mosquitoes here, but soon it will be winter and then they’ll be gone.

She couldn’t think of anything else to write. She wished she could tell him to come home, but he wouldn’t like it. So she ended the letter.

Best wishes.

Your sister,

Pérsomi

“You’ve never watched a movie?” Reinier asked her one Wednesday, astounded. “Everyone has been to the bioscope.”

“Not me,” she answered. “And I won’t get there anytime soon, because it costs money and that’s something I don’t have.”

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I’ll give you money, then you can go, on Saturday evening.”

“I won’t take your money, Reinier, and you’d know that, if you knew me at all.”

“Must you always be so pigheaded? I suppose I’ll have to ask you on a date then. We can’t let you go through life unbioscoped.”

“Date?”

“Ask you to go with me. Whatever.”

So that Saturday she stood in front of the town hall with the rest of the dormitory girls, dressed in their school uniforms.

“It’s so stupid that we have to wear our uniforms to bioscope,” said Irene somewhere behind her. “The town children wear day clothes. I can’t believe we boarders have to wear our jumpers!”

Pérsomi spotted Reinier at the door, waving their tickets in the air. She joined him.

“Let’s get good seats at the front,” he said. “The kids who want to make out sit at the back.”

“I don’t want to make out!” said Pérsomi.

Reinier laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t even try.”

The hall was dimly lit, the curtains drawn. A white screen had been erected against the heavy dark-blue velvet stage curtains.

“The movie is The Wizard of Oz,” said Reinier. “But first there’s a Western, a serial. There’s a new episode every month. And then there’s African Mirror, the news program.”

Pérsomi sat quite still, but excitement made her entire body tingle. She wondered if Gerbrand had ever seen a movie.

The wonders of modern technology unfolded in front of her eyes. She gazed at the screen, enchanted. She watched the cowboys on their horses, heard them shoot, heard the girl in her beautiful dress scream, saw the wagon tumbling over the cliff, the wheels still turning.

“To be continued” appeared on the screen.

“Oh, no!” said Pérsomi. How was she ever going to find out whether the poor girl survived the accident?

“She’ll live,” Reinier assured her. He went to the movies nearly every Saturday, he would know.

There was the sound of trumpets from the screen. African Mirror . . . The words grew bigger and bigger.

Images of the war on a distant continent came to the bushveld, stirring the hearts of the people who saw what was happening.

The flat voice of the commentator went on and on, as if the news he was reading was nothing special. “On May the tenth the British House of Commons suffered damage during an air strike,” he said. The image of a ruined building, once part of the Houses of Parliament, flashed on the screen.

“On May the twentieth Germany invaded Crete,” said the commentator. Planes dived low over buildings, dropping bombs on their targets. Ships steamed out of a bombed harbor. “Britain is withdrawing from Crete,” said the voice.

Pérsomi sat riveted, watching, her hands pressed to her cheeks.

But Gerbrand wasn’t in Europe, he was in East Africa.

Then the scene shifted to a different part of the world. “On May the nineteenth the Duke of Aosta with five thousand men surrendered to Brigadier Dan Pienaar at Amba Alagi.”

Pérsomi leaned forward. That was where Gerbrand was. Maybe she would catch a glimpse of him. But all the soldiers looked the same in their uniforms.

“South African soldiers are being sent to North Africa.” Pérsomi watched as rows and rows of soldiers boarded a warship, cheerily waving at the cameras, their big bags slung over their shoulders.

“And since the first of May, families on the home front have been eating only standard government bread,” said the commentator. On the screen a father, mother, two little boys, and two little girls sat at a neatly laid table, eating bread. The boys’ hair was slicked down on their foreheads. The girls wore frilly dresses and ribbons in their hair.

After intermission the actual movie began. It started with black-and-white pictures, just like the cowboy serial and African Mirror, but then it changed and everything was brightly colored. Pérsomi’s jaw dropped. Hastily she closed her mouth without taking her eyes off the big screen.

The movie drew Pérsomi in. Fear gripped her when the tornado flattened poor Dorothy’s home. She laughed at the stupid scarecrow, at the stick-like tin man, at the cowardly lion. The jolly songs swept her along to a strange and wonderful world.

“Did you enjoy it?” asked Reinier when the lights came back on.

“It was absolutely . . . amazing,” said Pérsomi. “It was so . . . real. Thank you.”

They walked back to the dormitory with the others. In the cloudless sky overhead the moon hung like a big ball. Ahead of them a group of girls were giggling about something. Far behind them the prefect and her boyfriend came sauntering along. The streetlights cast long shadows that became shorter as they approached, then vanished until the next streetlight drew the long shadows from under their feet again.

Pérsomi said, “You only actually realize how bad the war is when you see it on the screen, larger than life. And especially when you hear it.”

“I don’t care too much about the war,” said Reinier, shrugging. “The Khakis went looking for trouble and they’re getting what they deserve. Serves them right.”

“But those are people whose homes are being blown up, Reinier.”

He shrugged again. “I’m an OB man,” he said, “I’m against the war.”

“My brother is a Red Tab,” she said, almost defiantly.

“That’s his business,” said Reinier.

“I wrote him a letter to ask why he joined but he hasn’t replied.”

“Hmm,” said Reinier and kicked at a pebble. “What matters is how you feel about it.”

“I don’t like war. I think it’s stupid and cruel,” she replied, “and a waste of money.”

He laughed. “Seems to me you’re an OB man yourself.”

“I’m a girl, and I don’t belong to the OB. I think for myself, thanks very much.”

He laughed so loudly that the girls walking ahead of them looked over their shoulders. “You’re strange for a girl, Pérsomi,” he said affably. “But I could tell you a thing or two, if you wish.”

“Things I don’t already know?” she teased.

“Things you definitely don’t know,” he said. “Many people inside the OB feel that the movement isn’t doing enough, that they should protest more openly against the war.”

She thought of Boelie.

“I know that,” she said.

“At the beginning of the war,” Reinier eagerly continued, “Smuts issued a decree that authorized the police to confiscate firearms. One guy got his hands on a number of the police’s receipt books, and he drove around the bushveld confiscating people’s firearms. And he wrote out receipts—”

“How did you hear such a thing?” Pérsomi asked skeptically.

“I listen when my dad and his friends are talking,” said Reinier. “Dad’s a lawyer, didn’t you know? You pick up a lot of things if you keep your ears open.”

“Well, I think you should be careful what you repeat,” said Pérsomi.

“I’m only telling you,” said Reinier. “You’re not like other girls. You won’t gossip, I know that.”

“Oh,” said Pérsomi. Not like other girls?

“Anyway, he wrote out receipts under a variety of false names, and he gave himself any rank he felt like that particular day. Apparently he got his hands on seven hundred rifles to be used when they take over the government, see?”

“I see,” said Pérsomi. How was she not like other girls? “But I really think you should be careful who you talk to about these things.”

He smiled. “I’m telling you because I trust you. I won’t tell anyone else,” he said.

The week before the start of the June exams, Reinier whispered to her in class, “There was news about the OB on the radio last night. It didn’t sound good.”

“Why?” Pérsomi whispered back.

“The police are raiding the houses of OB members and arresting the residents.”

“Arresting?” she said, startled. She imagined Boelie being arrested at the Big House. “But isn’t it just a . . . cultural organization?”

“It’s not illegal, that’s what my dad says. But he also says some of their members are suspected of sabotage. They blow up railway lines and stuff, you know?”

Slowly her hands went to her mouth. She clearly remembered Boelie’s words: “We must sabotage things, like the telephone exchanges, the railway lines, troop trains, harbors—everything that’s needed to take our men up North.”

“And . . . will they go”—she hesitated to say the words—“to jail?”

“Shh, not so loud. My dad says they’re being sent to internment camps.”

“Bloody English!” she said.

“Don’t swear!” he said. “And lower your voice! My dad said last night that more than 3,700 people were sent to the camps last month.”

She shook her head, dismayed.

“It doesn’t look good, Pérsomi. I’m a bit worried about . . . my dad.”

“Why?” she asked. “Are you afraid he might blow up the station? Or the post office?”

He laughed softly. “No, man, he wouldn’t do that!”

“Well, is he an OB member?”

Reinier nodded. “Definitely, and he feels strongly about the cause. I’m afraid he’ll help the guys who get into trouble, the OB guys.”

“Help in what way?” she asked.

“Defend them, in court. And if you defend the wrong people, it can be very dangerous, says my mom.”

That evening she realized that she had never heard Reinier mention his mom before. He often spoke about his dad, but never his mom. She wondered why.