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Thys was quiet. Too quiet. He’d been mulling over something since Yossi had taken them to – where was it? They had been to so many places in past few days it was all a bit of a blur.
As they’d driven on towards Jerusalem she had seen he was scheming. Dreaming up some impossible plan which would change their lives. Again. It was just like before. He’d gone all quiet for days, not hearing her when she spoke, not even paying attention to the children’s shrieks and fights and noise. And then he’d just come out with it. As she put out the light on her side of the bed, threw her excess pillow onto the floor and turned to him to kiss him goodnight, he’d said: ‘I think we should start a school for the farm workers’ children.’ Then he turned over and within seconds his deep, steady breathing told her he was fast asleep.
She’d wanted to kick him, to wake him to explain, to discuss. Instead, she tossed and turned all night. He’d explained the next day and it had all made sense, except... except he wanted to use Christo’s house. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought.
‘Think about it,’ Thys had said. ‘Think about what Christo would have wanted. Do you really think he’d want the house he built with his own hands to be some kind of an empty shrine – a practical guy like Christo?’
Her inspection of her brother’s house had been a formality really. She knew it made sense. She just had to force herself to let go, to face the future. Except the past wouldn’t release her.
Her husband, relaxed in the big armchair in front of the TV, a glass of orange juice at his elbow, had looked up as she’d stormed in that afternoon. Beauty’s father – it was so obvious. Why hadn’t she seen it before? But of course she had. Perhaps that was why she’d always felt drawn to the child. Beauty and Arno... it was so clear. But she really shouldn’t have been feeling hurt, and angry, and disgust and shame – a tumult of emotions that squirmed at the pit of her stomach and insinuated itself into her brain. She had no right to feel like that. Not after so, so long. But, may the Lord forgive her, she felt betrayed and she hated herself for it.
And Thys was right. It had been two years since the murders; she couldn’t leave Christo’s house locked up forever. He was right when he said that it would give girls like Pretty and Beauty hope. He was right when he said they wouldn’t be as vulnerable to predators like Stefan Smit, because if she did what he suggested, they’d have other options.
She berated herself for not thinking of it herself, especially after Petrus had told her how dangerous it was for the children to stay in Driespruitfontein township. They were her people. She had grown up with them, not Thys. But it was Thys who realised and gently pointed out that the workers wanted to keep the children at home, on Steynspruit, away from the so-called comrades who beat – and sometimes even killed – anyone in the lokshin who didn’t support them as they jostled for support while the democracy negotiations up in Johannesburg limped towards an impossible peace. So she agreed that the Steynspruit children could come home, despite her concern that they would distract Beauty from her lessons. She should have known better. Beauty – no longer a child – had been so determined to catch up with Arno and also get to high school, that she still appeared at the kitchen door for her lesson every day, ignoring the yells of the other children that drifted up from the farm workers’ khaya.
And once the children were home, he had come up with his next grand scheme. This time it had been harder but she had summoned all her will power, conquered her jealousy and churning emotions and blurted: ‘Ja, okay, let’s do it.’
Thys had unfolded himself from the chair and danced her around the lounge to Arno and Beauty’s whoops of joy.
‘But I’m not going to run it,’ she’d said when he stopped, breathless.
He stumbled. Bewilderment, disappointment flashed across his face. The children stopped dancing around and stared at her.
‘What do you mean you’re not going to run it? That’s the whole idea. You’ve done amazing things with Beauty. Now you can do it for all the others,’ Thys said.
‘No I can’t. I’m a nursery school teacher. Teaching Beauty in the kitchen is one thing. Teaching a bunch of noisy children who probably aren’t nearly as clever as Beauty is something else. They need a real teacher, a qualified teacher, someone with experience and knowledge and... they need you.’
The unbridled joy on his dear, strong, honest face unleashed a fresh wave of guilt and anger, and remorse that she had to deceive him, yet again.
He’d protested. Of course he’d protested. He had a job – at Driespruitfontein Hoër. Yes, it was a pain having to drive forwards and backwards between the farm and the town every day, especially now that both Arno and De Wet were perfectly happy as weekly borders at the high and primary schools. Eventually, however, she’d managed to persuade him. It was best for all of them – Thys, the children, herself – and especially Beauty who deserved the very best teacher, a teacher like Thys who would do the impossible and enable her to pass matric.
***
And now Thys was brimming with another bright idea. As the plane flew on towards South Africa, Annamari knew better than to push her husband to tell her what he was thinking this time. It wasn’t that he was hiding anything from her, not consciously. He was always open and honest with her, just as he was with everyone. It was one of the things she loved about him. It was also one of the things she hated about him. Because she had to deceive him. All the time. Every single day. And she hated it.
She knew he’d tell her when he had thought it all through. It was just so hard to wait. She replayed everything they had seen since arriving in Israel, everything they’d discussed, searching for a clue to his thoughtful withdrawal.
It couldn’t have been because of that first day, could it? Yossi had been waiting for them as they’d dragged their cases down into the hotel foyer. A slight, bookish-looking man with neat grey hair and glasses, he’d apologised for his rusty Afrikaans and loaded their luggage into his car.
They drove north, along the coastal road to Caesarea. This was an important site in Christian history, Yossi said. Pontius Pilate governed there during the time of Jesus; this was where Simon Peter converted some Roman guy, Cornelius. Cornelius was apparently the first non-Jew to believe in Jesus. She’d never heard of Cornelius. Thys, of course, quickly found the reference in the bible Yossi carried with him. ‘There,’ Thys said. ‘In Acts 10.’
Yossi smiled and added: ‘Paul was also imprisoned for two years in Caesarea.’
‘Acts... um ... there it is,’ Thys said. ‘Acts 24.’
Yossi laughed. ‘Seems you’re going to keep me on my toes, young man. The bible – both the old and the new testament – is the best guide book when exploring Israel. I always use it – but not many of my clients know the good book as thoroughly as you.’
Annamari was so proud of Thys. She also felt a little better: at least she knew who Paul was. Yossi said many of his clients had never heard of Paul. She found that hard to believe.
They explored a Roman amphitheatre and afterwards Yossi waved his bible at the beach.
‘See over there? That stretch of beach played a very, very important part in Israel’s history. What do you think, Thys? Which great event played out there?’
Annamari found herself holding her breath: had Jesus Himself walked there? Thys shook his head.
‘That’s where Jonathan Friedman – now Yossi Friedman – entered the Promised Land,’ Yossi said, and burst out laughing.
‘Really? Where? How?’ Thys said.
‘We landed on the beach. It was 1947 and Israel wasn’t Israel yet. We came over from Italy on one of the illegal immigrant ships.’
Annamari listened, fascinated, as Yossi explained how horrified – and guilty – he and his friends had felt when the full extent of the Holocaust became apparent during the Nuremberg trials. She wasn’t sure what the Nuremberg trials were; nor did she know much about the Holocaust, other than that a lot of Jews died including Anne Frank who wrote a diary that Mr Franklin had said they should read but she hadn’t. She wished she had. Their itinerary said they’d be going to the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem in a few days and she hoped she wouldn’t appear as ignorant as she felt.
‘We all knew war would be inevitable if the United Nations voted in favour of establishing a Jewish homeland, so my friends and I, we decided to come over and help,’ Yossi said. ‘I was eighteen and it meant I had to drop out of varsity but I told my parents it was the least we could do after sitting out the war so safely in Cape Town. My parents didn’t object too much. I think my dad would have joined us if my mom hadn’t threatened to divorce him if he ran off again to another war.’
They took off their shoes walked onto the beach, allowing the sea to gently lap at their toes. The Mediterranean glinted blue and calm. ‘We landed right about here, I think,’ Yossi said. ‘We were damn lucky the British didn’t see us on our way in – we spotted one of their patrol boats not too far away so we landed in the pitch dark. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. I’ve always wondered what they would have done with three South African youngsters if they’d caught us. Deported us, probably.’
‘And then?’ Thys asked.
‘And then there was the war. 1948. Afterwards, I decided to stay on and help to build our new country.’
‘And your friends? Did they stay too?’ Thys asked.
‘Mark was killed trying to defend Jerusalem. David went home and became a doctor. Okay, enough about me. Time to get moving if we’re to make it to Tiberius.’
A tractor pulling a trailer filled with young men and women dressed in shorts and an odd assortment of shirts trundled past.
‘They’re from the kibbutz over there. Sdot Yam,’ Yossi said. ‘Probably off to the banana fields. Sdot Yam means “fields of the sea” but when the British blockade was introduced, their main crop was illegal immigrants like me.’
‘What’s a kibbutz?’ Thys asked. Annamari was so shocked that for once Thys didn’t know something, she barely heard Yossi’s reply. Something about a communal farm – a settlement where everyone shared everything, where everyone was equal.
‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs. I believe it’s the purest form of communism,’ Yossi said.
‘Could we have a look around? Would they mind?’ Thys asked and Annamari wondered why Thys wanted to see a Commie place.