Joseph was looking out the window, the back of his hand drumming on his thigh. ‘This changes everything. The old concentration camp narrative is all about the terrible suffering of the Boers. And it is true – they did suffer horribly, but I don’t think people understand how much worse it was in the black camps. They weren’t fed or given shelter. They had to work or starve. They died like flies up there, Hannah. We’re looking at a crazy-high mortality rate if our estimate is correct.’
‘And it wasn’t even their war,’ said Alistair.
‘I didn’t even know there were black camps,’ said Hannah. ‘I just assumed that black people living locally would have been left to get on with their lives while the Boers and British fought it out. And instead they were herded into camps to work or die. It’s just too ghastly…’ She shook her head.
‘I’m going to get on the phone,’ said Joseph, standing. ‘This opens a completely new angle on the project which some key people will be interested in. We might find a lot more funding heading our way.’
When he had gone, Hannah turned to look at Alistair, and found him watching her. ‘Would you be able to drive me to Bethlehem tomorrow?’
‘Do you have a physio appointment?’
‘No, but there’s something I really want to do.’
‘Of course,’ he said, getting to his feet and heading for the door, ‘I’ll come by around nine.’
‘Thanks… Alistair?’ He turned and she changed her mind, shaking her head. ‘Never mind, we can talk tomorrow.’
The following day, Alistair helped her into the front of his Toyota Hilux and put her crutches in the back. He drove as carefully as he could until she smiled at him. ‘I’m fine, Alistair. You don’t have to drive at forty the whole way there.’
She had printed a map of Bohlokong, which she pulled from her bag as they approached Bethlehem. She had marked where the cemetery should be and she directed Alistair away from the town centre towards the sprawling township. Beyond the rows of small houses, grassland stretched away to the horizon with great electricity pylons standing like giants against the blue sky. A short distance from the road, she could see gravestones peering out of the grass. A dirt track wound off the road, and Alistair followed it, driving as carefully as he could over the bumpy tussocks of grass. He pulled to a stop close to the cemetery and helped Hannah out the car, holding her steady while she slid her arms into the crutches.
They made their way slowly through the cemetery, stopping to read what they could on the markers, though many had been weathered smooth. At the far end, they found it. A slab of stone which had been hewn into a smooth square and engraved with her name.
Rachel Badenhorst,
Died 10 August 1952.
At peace with Him who loves her.
Hannah reached into her bag and drew out a copy of the photo she had found in the Ou Huis. She bent and placed it at the foot of the stone, tucking it under a pebble to secure it. Rachel and Wolf. He had come to her at last. A breeze picked up a sigh in the grass.
‘He wasn’t strong enough,’ Hannah said to Alistair, who was standing a few feet away, watching her. ‘Wolf couldn’t bring himself to fetch her, to choose her, even though she waited for him. Rachel was his one big chance at happiness and he missed it.’ She turned towards Alistair and he reached out a hand to steady her. ‘Alistair, I don’t want to be Wolf in the story. I want to be strong and courageous and sure of what I want. I want to be like her, not him. She had every possible hardship thrown at her, and still she hung on to life, pursued love with a tenacity that shames me.’
Hannah stepped close to him and looked up into his face, which was intent on her, his eyes fearful. ‘That’s not all.’ Her eyes filled and tears burnt the back of her throat. ‘I didn’t realise until I came to Leliehoek that I have always felt alone. I didn’t miss what I didn’t know.’ She wrestled for words. ‘People here… they… you… really see me. You tell me that I’m beautiful. That I can do anything. That you love me. Nobody has ever said that to me before, not even my parents.’ She drew a breath, wiping her eyes. ‘It sounds ridiculous but it’s the truth. Rachel was the same. Nobody told her, even though she was this amazing, strong, resilient, beautiful woman. Alistair, I don’t want to turn my back on the only place, the only person who tells me he loves me.’ She took his hands in hers, heard a sob catch in his throat, and she could feel the shake in his hands.
‘But, Hannah… do you love me?’
She reached up a hand to stroke his cheek.
He took a breath and continued, ‘You see, I did that before… I always felt like I was loving the back of Marilie. That she never had her face turned to me. I was forever trying to catch her attention from her horses, her love from them… but I couldn’t. Do you understand? I can’t do that again.’
‘Shh.’ She put a finger to his scarred lips. ‘You… the bravest, most beautiful man I have ever met. You… I love that you care about an old lady on a farm. I love that you love your dogs. I love that you are so proud of your parents. I love that you want to shield your sisters. I love that you want to restore your land. I love that your hair sticks up in the front and you don’t notice. I love that your truck is a mess. I love that you are so careful with me, but still turn my knees to jelly when you kiss me… Alistair, should I go on? I love you. I love you. I love you—’
Alistair pulled her tightly to him. ‘Hannah.’ His voice choked into her neck. Her crutches collapsed into the grass, and he buried his face in her hair, his body shaking as he wept. Hannah held him tightly, her hands rubbing circles of comfort on his back as she lifted her face into the sun and closed her eyes. Behind them, the breeze pulled at the sepia photograph, tugging. It twitched under its pebble but remained lodged there.
On Goshen, Kobie straightened up from the water trough. The float repair was holding. He pushed his hands into the small of his back and arched, feeling the stiffness in his spine loosen slightly. The sudden sound of a hollow step on the ground jumped his heart up a pace. His skin shivered with the awareness that he was being watched. He spun around. On the edge of the plateau, for the first time, the large male blesbok had moved over the ridge. It watched him and then snorted a warning. Kobie held his hand to his chest, willing his heart to slow. He began to back away slowly towards the gate.
The afternoon light stretched the shadow of the wind pump long across the plateau. The site was quiet. The herd picked their way through Joseph’s equipment and mounds of earth until they reached the reservoir. The big male bent his head to drink there. The rest of the herd gathered around the reservoir, nibbling at the clumps of grass and taking their turns to drink. The air was sweet with the scent of summer and, when the gum trees picked up their rattle in the evening breeze, it was soft and peaceful.
Author’s Note
This novel is based partly in the time of the South African War, fought between October 1899 and May 1902. Apart from a few historical figures mentioned in the text, all characters are fictional and bear no resemblance to any person living or dead. My intention while writing was to create people and places that are not real, but could have been. There was no camp called Goshen, nor is there a town called Leliehoek, though people might find some similarities to Clarens in the Free State. In fact, Leliehoek is the name of one of the original farms where the town of Clarens came to be founded. Wanting some freedom to build up a town to my liking, I confess to borrowing the name. The Goshen camp is based on archaeological evidence found at other sites across South Africa, some only recently excavated. The extent of camps like Goshen, the horrific treatment of black inmates, and the resultant loss of life haven’t even begun to be realised. They are stories blatantly missing from our understanding of the South African War.