Authors: Neville Frankel
She was in her second or third year at university, but she felt that her real work was here, with us, and she attended classes only because it was expected of her. It got her into trouble—but no one could ever tell Michaela what to do. Not then, not later, and not now. You will have the opportunity to see for yourself.
At the beginning the club we started in an abandoned garage had about twenty children—but soon there were fifty, and then a hundred and then two hundred children. We had no equipment and no money; we had too few teachers, and eventually, no place big enough to meet. Michaela collected money from those in the white community who were supportive of us, but it was a constant struggle. We bought pipe cleaners by the hundred dozen, and finger paints, and old newsprint that we tore into big sheets. We played games with the children, sang songs that helped teach them numbers and letters. We got donations of milk, fruit, and cheese so that they had something to eat for lunch. Sometimes we gathered outside, in the priory yard; other times in the recreation hall. Occasionally we used an abandoned barn that still smelled of horses, but it was at quite a distance, so we only went there when it was warm and sunny.
Michaela was wonderful with our children. She was filled with love for them, and so energetic, and she gave them everything she had. Perhaps she worked no harder than we did—but these were our children, not hers—we had a duty to them, but she took on the burden voluntarily.
I found that in the most private and hidden parts of my heart, there began to grow a deep love for her. Even today in the new South Africa such a love is a difficult thing, but back then, we would have been courting disaster. There was also no reason to assume that my love would be returned. I knew that if I did really love her, the greatest gift I could give her was to hide my feelings, and so I did.
But it was inevitable that over time we grew to be close friends. When the day ended, we would clean up together, waiting until the other teachers had left so that we had a few moments to talk. It was foolish, and dangerous. A black man and a white woman talking together in an empty hall was an invitation to trouble in those days. But on the surface at least, nothing was happening between us, so in Michaela’s mind, we were doing nothing wrong. Even so, we were aware of the danger, and we were cautious.
At first our conversations were awkward, because our lives had so little in common. We would talk about the children, and what we had done or not done that day; what had gone well and what experiment we would not try again. She asked me questions about the children’s lives, and I would try to answer with kindness—but because I felt so close to her, there were times when I could not hide the anger from my voice, or the bitterness from my words.
Most of the time she was so involved with the children that she forgot about the circumstances of their lives, and was able to be happy and encourage them. But one day a little girl came and sat on her lap, and told your mother that she wanted to grow up and be a doctor.
“I didn’t know what to tell her,” Michaela said to me. “What I thought was, she’ll be one of the lucky ones if she has five years of schooling, and it’ll be a miracle if she finishes high school. She must have seen something in my face, because the light went out of her eyes, and I felt as if I’d killed her dreams. Sometimes it feels so hopeless that I just want to run away and hide. Mandla,” she said, “how can I teach these children about hope and possibility, when in my heart I feel that they have no future?”
“That’s a good question,” I told her. “As a black teacher, I ask it every day. And every black parent in this country faces it every time his child asks a question. He feels like a coward, too—but he knows that there is no point in running away.”
I think my tone was angrier than I realized, because she drove away unhappily that day without saying goodbye, and I thought I would surely not see her again. But the next day she was back, and she thanked me for being honest, and I apologized for being angry and abrupt. But we understood each other, and it became easier to talk after that.
Sometimes we argued, because although she was enthusiastic, she was not attuned to the political consequences of what she did. At one point she showed me an editorial she had written about what we were doing at the cultural clubs—she planned to print it in the university newspaper in order to encourage support among those able to help pay the costs.
“Be careful, Michaela,” I told her. “Most of the whites think it was foolish for our Mission school to close—they say it’s better to get a terrible education than none at all. I’m not sure how much support you’ll get—but you will certainly attract more attention from the police. Police patrols are already on the lookout for cultural clubs—you know they drop by every few days. But so far all they’ve done is wander in, look around, and leave. If you attract attention to us, they’ll close us down.”
But Michaela was very stubborn. She went ahead and published the editorial. After that she came in with a big grin on her face, and a fistful of money—she wanted to let me know that there were people out there who did care. But if I was wrong about attracting support, I was right about the police. They arrived a day later, three cars from the Special Branch, filled with men in uniform, with their rifles and their dogs, their German shepherds on short leashes, and they closed us down. We quietly herded the children out of the building. The rest of us were silent—we were used to this, and we knew, there was nothing to do. But once the children were outside, Michaela showed her fury, and her lack of caution.
“What kind of people are you?” she shouted at them. “Your dogs are terrifying the children. Does it take a dozen men with rifles to control a few unarmed teachers?”
The police were busy looking around, watching over their dogs, observing as we escorted the children through the entrance and into the courtyard. They ignored her. When all the children were accounted for, Michaela and I turned to go back into the hall, and a young policeman followed us inside. He carried his hat under his arm, and his blond hair, cut short, was sticking in all directions. I had heard his commander address him as de Jaeger. He was tall and muscular, he walked with a predatory swagger, and I didn’t like the fact that he had followed us alone. As a matter of self-preservation, I had learned early to identify men who were most likely to be brutal and abusive, and all my instincts told me to run, but I couldn’t leave Michaela alone. I urged her to keep walking, hoping that he would turn back, but he stayed with us all the way through the empty hall, almost to the exit door at the back wall.
Before we reached the door he called out to her, and we stopped and turned to him. He walked toward us, grinning at Michaela, ignoring me as if I were invisible. But I was used to that.
He looked at your mother the way you might examine a sheep, or a cheap woman you’re thinking of buying for the night. You know, in my mind, the Afrikaans policemen were all badly informed, badly led men doing evil work, but they were not all inherently evil. Many were churchgoing men who really believed they were doing the work of God. But there were those who got a charge from their authority, and they were unable to resist taking advantage of their position. This man was one of those—he was dangerous in his potential abuse of power, and I was powerless.
“So,” he said to your mother, “you’re the pretty kike
kaffirboetie
I’ve been hearing so much about. What you need, Miss, is to have the fear of God put into you.” Then he reached down and grabbed at his crotch, and he grinned at her. “You know what I call this? This is the Fear of God.”
Your mother frowned, not understanding at first, and then her eyes and her mouth both opened very wide as she realized what he had said. She looked stunned—I don’t think any man had ever spoken to her like that before. I would like to claim that I defended her honor, but I was paralyzed with terror, because if he felt comfortable saying these words in front of me, I was as good as dead.
As I watched him, the ugly smile faded and for a second he looked puzzled, and then anger blazed and his face swelled with rage. When I glanced at Michaela, I realized why and wanted to step over to her and cover her mouth, because she was smiling, and then, as she realized just how crude and infantile his words were, she burst into laughter.
It was the worst thing she could have done. De Jaeger turned very red, his face and his forehead and his scalp too, even in the dim light of the hall, and his mouth became thin and evil, and he drew his fist back to hit your mother.
I couldn’t stand by like an invisible man and watch him strike her. I stepped between them as his fist came down very fast and hard, and the blow hit me in the side of my neck, where the collarbone joins. As I fell and lay on the ground, choking, I knew that his fist would have shattered her slender jaw. He was breathing hard as he stepped around me and drew back his leg to kick me. I tensed myself, waiting for the pain in my groin, because that’s where his boot would have landed. I was about to close my eyes when there was movement behind him, from the corner of the room.
What appeared to be a tall, thin woman in a long black dress moved rapidly toward us with her arm outstretched, and when she reached us she leaned into the officer and pushed him away from me.
De Jaeger was still on one leg as he prepared to kick me, and he lost his balance and fell so that he was lying beside me. I looked up to see who the woman was, and saw that it was not a woman, but Father Huddleston in his black robe. That moment, as the Father looked down on de Jaeger and me lying on the ground together, I will remember always. And I will never forget what he said.
“Time to rename your organ, my son,” the Father said calmly, in a very English accent. He had a deep voice, and it echoed through the hall. “And perhaps you should teach it some different music.” He bent down and stretched out his arm and grabbed de Jaeger’s hand and pulled him up and stood there with him, hand in hand. The Father was the taller of the two, and he looked down into the young man’s face, red with anger and embarrassment and, I thought, perhaps fear.
“The fear of God is not yours to dispense, although you could do with some of it yourself. Your behavior is unbecoming, and your superior will not take kindly to a report of it. Now get out.”
De Jaeger pulled his hand away and turned to leave, but not before he glanced down at me with such fury that my bladder opened. I felt the urine coursing down around my hips and pooling on the ground beneath me, and I remember thinking that my own humiliation was complete. We watched in silence as de Jaeger stamped out, and then the Father and Michaela bent down to me.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. “Can you rise?”
“I can rise—give me a moment,” I said, and my voice was hoarse and quaking. “Thank you, Father. I think you saved my life. I didn’t know that you could move so swiftly.”
“We’re just lucky that these people feel no need to hide their presence,” he said. “I came running as soon as I heard them.”
“Mandla,” said Michaela, kneeling at my side. She was pale and shaking. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you and not run that editorial. Now the whole school is closed. We’ve lost it. And look what he did to you.”
I was very weary, and in pain, but I sat up. She was crying, and without thinking, I stretched out my hand and wiped the tears from her cheeks. It was the first time I touched her face. Father Huddleston took a sudden breath, and I quickly withdrew my hand and turned to look at him. In the half-light his eyes were wide, and his face was as pale as his white collar.
“Dear God,” he said, closing his eyes, “how very ugly the world seems at times.”
He was silent—I thought he was praying, but perhaps he was just searching for the right words to say to us. When he opened his eyes he looked back and forth from Michaela to me.
“Your care for each other is touching,” he said in a hushed voice. “But you must know that in every time and place, there is at least one kind of love that cannot speak its name. I don’t have to tell you that here, today, what you feel for each other is that kind of love. My children, whatever you do, be very careful.”
He helped me up, and we went outside. The sun was still high in the sky, and the light was blinding. We could hear the police cars going down the street. As we saw your mother to her car, we both leaned into the window to say goodbye. I cleared my throat before I spoke.
“I think you should not come back for a few days, Michaela,” I said. “I don’t know what we will do with the children, but I fear for your safety—and mine—if they come back again and you are here.”
“Mandla is right. Stay away for a few days. Attend some classes.” He smiled. “Be a good student for a change.” As he patted her shoulder through the open window, his smile disappeared. “Now go, Michaela,” he said. “Go with God, and remember my words.”
She nodded, and we watched her drive off. Father Huddleston walked with me to my mother’s house, only a few blocks distant. I was in great pain—my collarbone was broken—and I was scared for the future. I knew that Michaela would stay away, and that while she was in Johannesburg, she would spend time with Lenny. I had no illusions about anything between us, but she had taken my hand; I had touched her face, and Father Huddleston had said that what we felt—for each other—was love. At that moment, it was enough.
After Michaela left, the police returned every day. Father Huddleston never mentioned the incident again, but he must have spoken to the district commander, because de Jaeger disappeared. We found out later that he had been reprimanded and transferred to another district.
Michaela planned to let a few weeks pass, and then to come back, but many things intervened to prevent her return. Her mother, your grandmother Selma, became ill, and before she died your parents were married. I saw their marriage notice in the newspaper, and your mother wrote me a letter. Then, in February of 1955, the relocation of Sophiatown actually started, and for those of us who lived there, everything else took a second place. I remember like yesterday watching as the lorries began to move 60,000 people across the
veld
, to Meadowlands. Today Meadowlands is one of the townships in Soweto, but back then, it was nothing but a barren stretch of ground.