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Annamari flopped down on the couch and heaved her left foot onto the coffee table. Then her right foot.
‘He’s asleep,’ she said. ‘Finally. I think I’m getting too old for this.’
Thys smiled. ‘You’re not old. You still don’t look a day over forty.’
‘Thys! I’m only thirty-four. Like you...’ she stopped, and laughed with him. ‘But I tell you, I feel about fifty. Steyn is like the flipping Duracell bunny. Arno and De Wet, they were asleep the moment you put them down. Steyn just goes on and on and on. And ever since his birthday party, I’m sure he thinks bedtime is playtime.’
Thys got up to put another log on the fire and Annamari used the opportunity to grab the newspaper and page through it. The Rugby World Cup dominated the headlines, which was only to be expected with the opening game just five days away. No one seemed to give the Springboks much of chance against Australia in the opening game.
‘Ag, they don’t know what they’re talking about,’ Thys said. ‘I know our boys. They’re hungry, they have a lot to prove. You’ll see. I bet we’ll win the whole tournament – wouldn’t that be something, hey?’
Annamari nodded and turned the page. A small headline at the bottom of page four caught her eye.
‘Thys, look at this. It says today’s the twelfth anniversary of the Church Street bomb in Pretoria.’
‘Really? Shoo time flies. I remember it like it was yesterday. All those people killed. We’ve really come a long way since then, hey? I mean, who would have thought, after all the bombing and the killed and everything, things would be so... you know. Peaceful. But I was right, wasn’t I? When I saw that Peace Day thing up in Jo’burg, before the elections, I just knew it would be okay.’
Annamari remembered how happy Thys had been when he and Petrus returned from Johannesburg after the meeting with the lawyer who was going to draw up the Kibbutz Steynspruit papers. Thys had tried to find a lawyer in Bloemfontein soon after they’d spoken to Petrus and the others when they’d got back from Israel, but every lawyer they approached told them they were crazy. So finally Thys decided to go to Johannesburg, to a Jewish lawyer, one who would know what a kibbutz was, who would understand what they were trying to do.
‘It was amazing, Annamari,’ he’d said. ‘We were walking to Mr Feinberg’s office there in Commissioner Street, and then all these people came out of the buildings, and everyone was wearing blue ribbons and the cars all had blue ribbons on their aerials. Then everything just stopped. People got out of their cars and joined the crowd on the pavement. And then a black girl – ach sorry, a black woman – she grabbed my hand and a white woman grabbed Petrus’ hand and my other hand and then everyone was quiet and I could hear this song playing on car radios and people were crying and when it was over the black woman... she hugged me and Petrus and the white woman too. And the cars went crazy hooting, and everyone was cheering and singing that song. And everyone was smiling. In the middle of Jo’burg, everyone was smiling. I wish you could have been there, liefie.’ Thys wiped his eyes.
Annamari had read about it in Rapport that Sunday. Peace Day they were calling it, organised so that everyone who was tired of all the killing and fighting could show their support for Peace. They wrote a special Peace song for it and everything. Even the Springbok cricketers – except they weren’t called Springboks anymore, which was so sad. Anyway, the South African cricket team, far away in Sri Lanka, stopped playing for a minute to show their support for Peace Day too.
‘Never mind what the politicians are saying there at the negotiations in Kempton Park. South Africans – all of us – we want to live together in peace just like Jesus said. That’s what’s important,’ Thys said. But she wasn’t so sure. Most blacks hated whites. Everyone – except Thys – knew that. Oh, not the blacks on Steynspruit of course, but the others, the terrorists.
But a few months after Peace Day, when they were standing in the queue at Driespruitfontein Laerskool with Petrus and Pretty and everyone, even poor old Rosie who could barely walk anymore, Annamari felt – for the first time – the hope that Thys had spoken about. With Steyn snug in his carrycot, she lined up with the entire dorp and every farmer and farm labourer and every single person in the district – even probably the terrorists who had come back after FW decided to give the country away. They had come from far and wide to cast their vote in what the newspaper called South Africa’s first democratic election.
It was so different to other times she had voted. And not only because this time it was a case of “spot the whites” in the queue. Before there had been only whites voting, and hardly a queue at all. But it had never been so friendly and happy.
She actually hadn’t bothered to vote that first time after she turned eighteen. Everyone knew the National Party would win and the Herstigte Nasionale Party was a joke. It hadn’t been worth the effort of finding someone to take care of Arno while she went to the polling station, although Thys’ ouma had offered. Thys had voted in Thaba ’Nchu in the polling station set up by the army. Her vote wouldn’t have mattered anyway.
It had been different at the next election. It was all the teachers could talk about as they sipped their coffee and dunked their rusks during every break in the staffroom. Annamari hadn’t joined in the heated discussions. She didn’t really know what to think and they wouldn’t have been interested in the opinions of the new nursery school teacher anyway. She hated it when the National Party people came knocking at their door, trying to convince them that PW Botha was the best thing for the country, even if he had given the Coloureds and Indians the vote. And they came nearly every day, usually just as she was getting De Wet ready for his bath or was hearing Arno’s homework reading. The new opposition party, the Conservative Party usually just pushed pamphlets in their post box and said that PW was a traitor.
She’d gone with Thys to vote at the High School hall. It was a little scary. All the political parties with their tents and posters were outside the gate, and people rushed at them and tried to persuade them to vote for their party as she and Thys made their way inside. She’d stared at the ballot paper, still not sure who to vote for. Thys had told her that he was going to vote for the Progressive Federal Party, but she was sure he was only joking. That Helen Suzman woman and the other PFP people might be white, but they were communists, like the terrorists. They wanted to give the country away to the blacks. She was sure Thys didn’t really vote for them. He’d just been teasing her. Finally, she put her shaky cross in the squares next to the NP and the KP/CP logos and walked out the hall. She knew she’d spoiled her vote but she really didn’t think her single, solitary vote would have made a difference. Then she and Thys went to the CP/KP tent for tea, because Thys said Tannie Sannie’s koeksusters were the best.
The next time she’d had to vote was the referendum in ’92. Now that had been totally different. No political party tents. All the party workers around the polling station grim and tense. No one knew who was going to win. This time, Thys told her, every vote was important. Really important.
‘You mustn’t spoil your paper, Annamari,’ Thys said. ‘If FW doesn’t win, we could have a full scale civil war. People think the violence is bad now, but I don’t want to think what will happen if the No vote wins. There will be blood in the white areas too, not just in the townships. For sure. But anyway, voting Yes is the right thing to do. It’s the Christian thing to do. It really is.’
She’d started to put her cross in to the Yes square, but she couldn’t. How could she vote for change that everyone knew would put the terrorists who had murdered her family in charge of the country? What would Thys say if she voted No? She clutched the blunt pencil tightly and made her cross in the No square, careful not to go outside the lines. Then she’d walked quickly out of the school hall and smiled brightly at her husband. There was no way he’d ever find out what she’d done.
When the Yes vote won, she’d stretched her lips into a falsely radiant smile and celebrated with Thys while trying to suppress the fear that gripped her heart.
So now she was standing in a queue full of kaffirs – no, not kaffirs, Thys always corrected her now. They were blacks, or black people. The queue snaked down Potgieter Street, almost all the way to Kerk Street. Black people with badges and clipboards came and told her that because she had a baby with her, she could go to the front of the queue. But she didn’t want to. She was surprised at how much fun she was having. Fat black mothers came up and peered into Steyn’s carrycot, chuckling and clucking and saying what a beautiful baby he was, and so big for three weeks. Impromptu entrepreneurs – spurred on by the searing heat – drew up in bakkies filled with warm but welcome Cokes and Fantas; others – including old Tannie Bessie from the Co-op – patrolled the queue, laden with fresh, syrupy koeksusters and sweets and fruit.
Arno and De Wet were having the time of their lives, playing soccer with a ragtag assortment of black kids up and down the street, oblivious to the historical importance of the day. Beauty watched them with the haughty disdain of a seventeen-year-old young lady, and stayed close to Rosie, who stubbornly refused to take advantage of her age to jump the queue.
Thys, ever the teacher, had insisted that as many Steynspruit children as possible also make the trip to Driespruitfontein that day, even if they were too young to vote.
‘This is history in the making, Annamari. They need to experience it,’ he’d said.
And when they’d all voted, they climbed into the two new Kibbutz Steynspruit minibuses and headed back to the farm – hot, tired but strangely exhilarated. As they turned onto the Steynspruit road, Petrus turned to Annamari and said: ‘I never thought I’d see the day, Missie. I voted. I voted for the government of my country, our country.’ She blinked back her tears.
***
‘Thys,’ Annamari said, pushing the newspaper over to him to look at the story about the Church Street bomb commemoration in Pretoria, ‘weren’t Stefan Smit’s wife and daughter killed in that bombing?’
‘Ja. They were. So sad for him, such a tragedy. I always wondered if that’s what had made him a bit crazy.’
‘Didn’t he say he was in Pretoria when Ma and Pa and Christo were killed – because it was the anniversary of his wife and daughter’s deaths? Didn’t he say Pa always gave him time off to visit their graves then?’
‘Ja. Remember, he only got back early that morning and found them when he went to check where they were. I felt so terrible for him. To lose his wife and daughter like that and then to come back and find... that’s why he never went again. He said it was too painful.’
‘I knew it! The fokking liar.’
Thys put down the newspaper and glared at her. ‘Don’t swear! What are you talking about?’
‘The Pretoria bomb was on the twentieth of May, right?’
Thys nodded.
‘But Ma and Pa and Christo were murdered on the sixteenth of June. Soweto Day. The cops said terrorists always planned big attacks for Soweto Day. It was a Friday, remember? So Stefan Smit couldn’t have been in Pretoria that day. Well, he might have been but it wasn’t because it was the anniversary of their deaths.’
‘Well maybe he went for something else.’
‘Maybe,’ she said.