The Smoke That Thunders Read online

  Les laughed. Then he leaned forward, grasped his hands together, and said, “You are right, Peter. No doubt, apartheid is wrong, very wrong. But now, unfortunately, it is necessary. It has become a necessary evil, if you please. But you must understand this. South Africa is such a complex nation, and this is … well, it is a very complicated continent. In our country, there are twenty or more tribal peoples amongst the Bantus. Each one proudly clings to their own language. Each has its unique culture, distinct beliefs, and varied customs. They have warred with one another for centuries. Oh, there is no love lost between any of these tribes, and hatred is in their blood. The Jews and Arabs have nothing on some of these rivalries. Black rule? Which tribe would rule? Look across the continent. Tribal warfare still runs amuck. The Dutch, then the English, yes we colonized. We made this land our own. And in doing that, we established peace and began to develop this rich, rich land. We made it strong. We have made it productive. No different than what you Yanks did in America.”

  Steve interjected, “The truth is, whatever the world thinks, without the Whites, this country wouldn’t be what it is today. The Whites, English and Afrikaners … we aren’t ashamed of this. We are proud of it. This is our land as well as Bantu land.”

  As Les continued, each sentence became more emotional. “The reality the world misses is that we do live together here, enjoying the fruit of this great, God-blessed land. Black rule? No. Look at this continent, look at its sad history: Uganda, Mozambique, the Congo, even Rhodesia now. Everywhere Whites have pulled back … well, the reality is, chaos follows. Fighting, bloodshed, genocide, famine – the resources of this continent are wasted. That is not judging anybody. That is history. It would be no different here if …if change does not come in the right way, at the right time. Rush it, and there will be chaos. No, it would be a horrifying, unspeakable disaster.” Les stopped and took a prolonged breath. He continued with a quiver in his voice that he sought to control. “We … Whites, English, Afrikaner, and … and the Blacks, Indians, Colored … we all love this country. We love it too much to let that happen here.”

  Pausing, Les shook his head. He finished his coffee, and set his cup down. He continued, a slight tinge of shame marked his tone, “Yes, apartheid is wrong, Peter. But, as wrong as it is … well, it is serving a purpose.” He took his cup and lifted it up to take a drink, he noticed it was empty. He smiled, set it down and leaned back. He raised his index finger and pointed it gently first at Chad, then at Peter. “What people don’t see and understand is that the Bantus in South Africa are better off than the vast majority of Blacks in the rest of Africa. They are treated better here. They have a better standard of living than most. That is the reality. Ay, take a trip to Mozambique, Uganda, Rhodesia. History, my boys. History does not give any confidence for quick solutions.” Les leaned back further, tilting his chair. He shook his head slowly. “What you will find in our country right now is increasing fear. The people are fearful of civil war, of terrorists replicating Rhodesia’s Bush War. I believe most South Africans are scared of losing what we have here, of losing our great country. We know the world looks at South Africa and condemns us. They assume the solutions are so simple. But the world looking in and the media that feeds them snippets about us, they do not know what really happens here. The world does not love South Africa as its people do.” Les got up from his chair and walked toward the credenza. He poured a glass of brandy, sipped it, and said, “Many are even leaving, going back to England, Scotland, Australia. Because of my family, I may consider leaving, but we are not making plans just yet. What the world needs to do, my young friends, is pray. Pray for us.”

  Les finished his glass of brandy and poured another. He walked to the window and watched his youngest son swing the cricket bat. It hit its mark squarely, igniting cheers from boys enjoying life. “Well, enough of this. Steve, let’s join your brothers and teach these Yanks something about South Africa. You boys ever played cricket?”

  ***

  Spring mornings are cold in South Africa, and heating is minimal in most homes. The dreaded transition from warm bedcovers to the shock of chilly air and stone cold floors was to be avoided as long as possible. And for at least for one more day, jetlag could be claimed as dispensation for lingering under warm blankets.

  With Simon working and Themba next door serving the landlord’s family, Peter and Chad fended for themselves; toast and tea satisfied them enough. Then they faced their dreaded task of the day: planning and preparing for programs and services.

  As the day wore on, frustration increased. Like the late nights they had often enjoyed at college, inane jokes, pointless laughter, and wonderful moments of absurdity took over. The day ended with an embarrassing lack of substance. They promised themselves that better days would come and that they would conquer the challenges put before them.

  If Chad had been honest, he would have admitted he was thoroughly distracted that day thinking about the young girl whose glance seemed to stir something inside his psyche. His focus was on the coming dinner with the Van den Bergs. It would be an opportunity for him to begin his pursuit of the enchanting Sarah.

  ***

  Susan’s childlike smile greeted Chad and Peter as they walked through the door. Her hazy blue irises glistened. She gave each a quick kiss on the cheek as she said, “This is such a pleasure to have you join us. Johan has been looking forward to having you over.” Susan’s accent leaned toward her English roots. Her father was a proud Afrikaner; her mother’s descendants went back to the early English colonists. She always said that when she turned eighteen, she realized she did not know if she was supposed to be an English South African or an Afrikaner. Marrying Johan made the decision for her; she was definitely English.

  Susan’s petite frame gave the appearance of frailty. She often appeared weary, but she always maintained an air of relentless determination. It was this determination that kept her dream from dying.

  All who knew Susan assumed her to be the perfect housewife. She was so proud of her home, her girls, and her husband. She relished answering the call to sacrifice the potential she knew she possessed in order to ensure that her family would find and fulfill their potential. Some looked at Susan and saw weakness; others looked at her and saw strength. She didn’t really care what they saw. She found her worth in building and maintaining her house, her home, and her family. Susan’s dream of the perfect family demanded that her determination remain steadfast.

  The two dinner guests were ushered into the living room. Copper images of wildlife adorned the tan walls. A large white, oval rug covered a good portion of the tiled floor. Susan invited them to sit and relax on a long sofa draped with a blanket resembling a zebra hide.

  Before they could sit, Johan emerged with three beers in hand. “Well, well! You two look a bit more rested. Enjoying our South African Spring? It will be getting warmer soon. Have a dop,” he said, tossing a bottle to Chad, then Peter.

  “Not for me, thanks.” Peter placed his beer on the coffee table.

  With no hesitation, Chad said, “Oh, thanks. Dankie. Shoot, I’ll have Pete’s,” and pulled Peter’s bottle toward himself.

  “Peter, what is wrong with you? I shouldn’t think any good college lad would turn down a beer. Or do you need something stronger? Susan, bring some vodka for the boys!” Johan barked the order out to Susan who had just walked into the kitchen.

  Peter winced and said, “Oh no, please, I’m fine.”

  Susan poked her head around the living room door and declared sternly, “Johan, we do not have vodka in this house.”

  “Silly woman. I know that. We don’t keep the hard stuff.” Johan stated this quietly to the boys. “She thinks it is too tempting for me, so I go elsewhere for the hard stuff. Shhh, I have some hidden around the house, but don’t say anything. Perhaps you can join me sometime. We actually have to get the hard liquor from the townships. Our dear government does not want to encourage too much debauchery.”

  �
�Geez,” Chad said.

  Johan leaned toward Chad, winked, and declared, “Chad, I must tell you something about your American football boys. They are a bunch of sissies.”

  “Oh, is that right? It is the roughest sport in the world.”

  Johan laughed. “Nonsense! They dress up in all those pads and those ridiculous helmets. My God! All that protection? They look like bloody spacemen. They are so afraid to get bruised up they wear pads like frail old women. Rugby! Now that is a true man’s sport. Our rugby players have no use for pads or helmets. They’re no sissies: No pads, no helmets, no sissies. We’re not afraid of broken noses, broken bones, ears ripped off in the scrum. That is a real man’s sport. I don’t know what’s wrong with you Yanks. Old softies. That’s what those footballers are in the USA.”

  Chad laughed and pointed his finger at Johan. “Well, the reason they use those pads is because so many of those so-called ‘sissies’ were dying because they were getting hit so hard. Maybe your rugby players just don’t know what real hitting is all about.”

  “Ag man! My Springboks would not leave a padded-up sissy of yours standing.”

  “As for your rugby sissies, they are simply fattened-up old men who have little brawn and no brains. Our football players are purebreds, true athletes that would run endless circles around your blubbery Springboks.”

  Johan shook his head. “Ag nee man. You know nothing.”

  Peter sat in silence, looking about the room. The call to adjourn to the dining room ended Chad and Johan’s banter. Peter got up with a look of relief on his face.

  Chad looked out the large dining room window, it overlooked a gently sloping back yard leading to a row of trees with large panicles, just beginning to bud. “What are those trees at the bottom of your yard?” he asked.

  Johan retorted, “Yard? What yard? That is a garden. And those are Jacaranda trees. Planted them myself when we moved. Those buds will soon burst into amazing blue flowers.”

  “Cool. Jacarandas,” Chad said, imagining the incredible blue canopy that would soon appear.

  “Come now. Come and sit,” Susan said, ushering them to the table, adorned simply but eloquently with shiny silver-plated cutlery and Willow Pattern China. In the center sat a matching vase, holding five stems of Red Stars, a cheerful flower with six delicate and bright pink petals. The simple bouquet seemed to proclaim, “Isn’t life beautiful?”

  After they sat as directed, Susan rang a small bell to summon Sarah and her sister Lisa.

  Peter leaned toward Chad and whispered, “Pavlov.” It took tremendous effort for both to quell slight chuckles, which threatened to give way to misunderstood laughter.

  As Sarah took her seat across the table, Chad glanced her way. She wore a tight red tank top and hip-hugger jeans with a thick white belt – enticing and still modest. It showed effort. Chad knew females, and this one was clearly trying to attract the attention of someone she wanted to impress. He sneaked a furtive glance; their eyes met, and two coquettish smiles ensued. Chad’s heart skipped a beat, and he knew his first impressions were right. She was interested in him.

  Peter noticed the schmaltzy smiles they had traded. He rolled his eyes when Chad glanced his way and grinned.

  During expected and necessary table conversation, Chad interjected the occasional quip, quickly reading Sarah’s reaction. She responded with slightly exaggerated laughter, indicating her interest further. This subtle ritual of flirtation came instinctively to Chad; it was an instinct he never had to learn and never had the desire to control.

  Convinced that she was interested, Chad would now bide his time and wait for the opportunity to engage her in conversation and arrange for the first date. However, he reminded himself several times, this is a foreign land and the rituals and protocols may be different. As well, this is an Afrikaner family – conservative, old fashioned, and overly religious. He would have to tread very carefully.

  With dessert settling and coffee served, the focus shifted to what seemed to be an emerging pattern.

  “What does America think about South Africa? What are people saying? I am curious.” Johan asked and followed it with a command. “Susan, love, it must be time for another beer ... and one for Chad and Peter.”

  “That would be your fifth. You do not need another.” Susan’s worried brow betrayed the playful tone in which she had spoken.

  “Ag nooit. Don’t treat me like a child, woman!” Johan took a slow breath. “Please bring me another beer, love.”

  “Sorry. We’re out,” Susan’s voice remained playful.

  Johan clenched his jaw and filled his lungs.

  Lisa blurted out, “I’ll get it, Daddy. I’ll get it,” she said as she darted to the kitchen.

  “Thank you, my cupcake. And bring one for Chad and Pete.”

  “Oh, no thanks. Another cup of coffee will do me just fine,” Peter said.

  “Ag man. Where were we? Oh, yes. What does America think about South Africa? What do your people say?”

  Chad and Peter had discussed how they would respond to these inevitable questions: keep answers short and shallow, avoid debates, ask no questions, and say nothing to offend.

  Chad answered, “People don’t say too much. They hear there was some trouble, and that’s about it.”

  Johan scoffed. “There is no real trouble. Kaffirs getting angry, that’s all. They will soon calm down and get back to being Kaffirs. The government will see to that. Most are happy enough. No, most are very happy. A few troublemakers will stir things up now and then, but nothing that cannot be handled. The Kaffirs will stay in their place.”

  Susan came in with a fresh pot of coffee. “Johan, don’t use that word please. It is not a word to use in front of guests or your children.”

  “It is a fine word. There’s nothing wrong with it, nothing at all.”

  Susan groaned. “Even your National Party has enough sense to ban the word. Please refrain yourself.”

  “Very well, very well. Bantu, Bantu. Happy? Whatever you call them, they are what they are. I tell you this boys, never get married. Good God almighty! This is what you get – vocabulary lessons. God bless ’em. I’ll call them goddamn Kaffirs if I want.”

  “Dad!” Sarah protested.

  “Okay, okay, princess. Bantus. Fine. Where were we? I’ll tell you this. The world looks out from their glass houses 10,000 miles away and wants to tell us what to do, tell us what’s right and wrong. ‘Give your Blacks the right to vote. Minority rule must end right now! Apartheid must stop right now!’ They need to worry about their own fu—”

  “Dadeeee!” Lisa whined.

  “Sorry, cupcake. They need to worry about their own business.”

  Peter, ignoring the rules Chad and he had agreed upon, spoke. “You would never let the Africans have a vote?”

  “Let me tell you, in no way could the Kaffirs … excuse me, the Bantus, rule this country. Civilization would retreat 200 years overnight. When the bloody Ka … Ag man … Bantus, overran the farmhouses in Mozambique, they used the bloody toilets to wash their dishes, thinking, Ahh, what a great White man’s invention this is. Black rule? Heaven forbid.”

  Sarah spoke in a guarded tone, “Dad, you know someday things will change. We can’t ignore that. We will do better to help everyone prepare for that.”

  “Who’s that speaking? Who is that? That’s not my daughter, is it?”

  “I’m just saying we should be working toward change, so we won’t end up like … like Rhodesia.” Sarah used a soft, gentle, but firm voice that would have disarmed the most hardened sociopath.

  Johan took a few full breaths. “That is what they want, for us to end up like Rhodesia, like Mozambique. China, Russia – bloody hell, I think America wants it as well. I know the goddamn U.N. wants it. They want the terrorists to come and destroy our lives.”

  “The Bantustans,” Lisa interjected. “Tell them about the Bantustans, Daddy.”

  “Yes. This is the National Party’s plan t
o turn homelands into independent countries. The various Bantu tribes would then have their own country and self-rule. The Transkei Homeland was given independence earlier this year. Other homelands, Bantustans, will be turned over to independent rule over the next few years. Bophuthatswana will be next to get independence. This will satisfy the Bantus and prevent the chaos and carnage of another Mozambique.”

  Chad said, “Sounds quite reasonable. It gives the Blacks their independence. Self-rule.”

  “Exactly,” Johan said, snapping his fingers and then pointing to Chad.

  Sarah started to speak, “But we all know that is just a means to pacify—”

  Her father interrupted, “Sarah, you go help your mother. I don’t need lessons from you.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes and left.

  Johan continued. “I’ll tell you what angers me the most. It is these families running off to England, Scotland, Australia, and bloody New Zealand. No Afrikaners will turn tail and run like that. I tell you that. This family will never retreat. Our government will do whatever it takes to assure we maintain our lives here – whatever it takes.”

  A quiet pause ensued.

  Chad was about to blurt something out, anything to refocus the conversation, but before any word reached his tongue, Johan continued with increased vigor. “Now, as far as apartheid goes, just remember this: it is necessary and it is working. It is improving everyone’s quality of life – White, and non-White alike.”

  Chad noticed Peter beginning to fidget and knew he was on the verge of blurting out some inflammatory comment or question. Peter then looked down and closed his eyes. Chad expelled a silent sigh of relief and was about to ask something, anything. His job! I’ll ask about his job.

  Before he opened his mouth, Peter exclaimed, “Not many agree with that.”

  Chad threw his head back, closed his eyes and braced himself for a volcanic eruption.

  Johan thrust his finger close to Peter nose, “Ag man! The world is happy to ignore the facts – facts that embarrass do-gooder politicians in Europe and America. It’s all in the facts, and I’ll give you the facts, my boy. Listen carefully. Fact: Bantus are treated better and live better in South Africa than anywhere else in this continent.” Johan’s index finger poked the dinner table as he proclaimed each of his purported facts. “Fact: the Bantus are happy here, and they are more prosperous here than anywhere else in Africa. Fact: Bantus across the continent and in South Africa are satisfied with their tribal cultures. They are very happy to be left alone. Fact: Whites settled this area of Africa before the Bantus migrated down here. God blessed us with this land first. Fact: no Black government has had a prosperous country. They all remain in the Third World. Show me one prosperous country where there has been Black rule. These are the facts the world chooses to ignore ... and you can tell your Mr. Kissinger to kiss my White ass. He tries to make the world believe this is a war-torn country, but you are here. You can see for yourselves. Is this a country at war? A few riots do not a war make. Tell your American friends that Kissinger and the bloody U.N. are all liars. We don’t give a shit what Henry Kissinger and the goddamn U.N. say.”