Bloodlines (22 page)

All I could hear was my breathing, and then there were shouts from the direction of the house, and footsteps. I rose, unsteady, and when I put my hand down to the burning pain at my thigh it came away warm and wet. Now we had no choice—I would have to leave with Michaela, putting her in great danger.

As I limped towards the car, a black policeman emerged, truncheon in hand, from between the trees. Not allowed to carry firearms, black policemen had become expert with the truncheon. He stopped short, taking in the scene before him. In a fraction of a second he realized that the figure lying on the ground was the officer.

I waited for him to tackle me, but he didn’t. He looked up at me, then back to the trees, then back again, going through the choices open to him, and I knew we had a chance. He was aware of the work we had been doing, and who I was. I could see the conflict working in his face. He was putting himself at great risk, and I had to move before he changed his mind. I opened the back door, maneuvered myself into the seat, and signaled Michaela to start the car.

The black policeman looked back, listening for the sound of running feet. It was silent, and as he walked backwards into the shadow of the trees, he raised a hand and waved me away. I touched my forehead in thanks and he nodded. We drove away, and just as we lost sight of him, I saw him raise his arms and start walking slowly towards us, as if calling us to stop for an unseen audience.

The neighborhood was relatively new, with many empty lots and unpaved roads, and badly lit. We drove slowly, making as little sound as possible, and left the lights off until we were out of the area. But if we had managed to avoid a chase, we were still in danger—a white woman and a wounded black man driving alone in a nice car this late at night, we were a magnet for the police.

I had no idea how badly I had been shot. I was still bleeding, and although I could think clearly, I was aware of feeling light-headed and shaky. The pain seemed to have disappeared, which I knew was not a good sign.

“Where are you going, Michaela? We need to get you off the street.”

“I’m taking you to my father,” she said.

“No, I don’t want to involve him.”

“We don’t have any choice,” she said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood and you’re still bleeding. I’ve got to get you to a doctor, and the only other choice is Soweto. I’ll be even more obvious there. I can’t take you to Baragwaneth Hospital—we’d both be arrested. And I’m not going to let you bleed to death.”

I had been to meetings at your grandfather’s house before Michaela and Lenny married, so I knew where they lived. But I knew she was right about his being willing to help me because when Michaela was teaching in Sophiatown, she arranged for him to come and do some dental work on those who needed care. He treated the children one morning a week for several months, and very often I was the one who would bring them to him. I came to know him well, and to respect him.

There were no highways back then, so we had to make our way around Johannesburg along deserted residential streets until we reached Dr. Davidson’s neighborhood. It took about thirty-five minutes, and by the time we arrived I had passed out.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a plastic sheet spread out across the heavy oak table in the middle of Dr. Samuel Davidson’s kitchen. Dr. Davidson was bent over my thigh, a lock of long grey hair hanging like a curtain over his forehead. Michaela stood at her father’s side, looking down. She smiled anxiously at me.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

I raised my eyebrows and shook my head from side to side.

“Michaela, give him a glass of whiskey. It’ll dull the pain.” Dr. Davidson looked at me. “You’re a lucky man, Mandla. Another inch to the right and you would’ve bled to death.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t think when we came to secret meetings in this house last year that you’d ever have to stitch me up.”

Following her father’s instructions, Michaela put a hand beneath my neck and raised my head so that I could reach the whisky. I took a sip and gagged on it.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” I said.

“Then hold your nose and swallow,” said Dr. Davidson. “The bullet’s lodged in your quadriceps, and we need to get it out.” He held up a pair of forceps. “I don’t have enough anesthetic on hand, so drink up. You’re going to need it.” He turned his head to the kitchen door. “Dennis,” he called. “I need you in here.”

Dennis had been Dr. Davidson’s gardener for thirty years, and this was not the first time he had assisted in surgery. He came in from the garage, where he had been cleaning the car, a muscular man in overalls, his hair mostly white, and washed at the sink.

“I got all the blood off the seat,” he said, drying his hands. “The car’s good as new.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Dr. Davidson beckoned, and Dennis moved to stand behind me.

“Give me your hands, my friend,” he says, looking down with a smile. “I’m the only anesthetic you get today.”

He stood close to the end of the table, took my hands, and gently pulled at my arms until they were stretched out behind me.

“Put your arms around my waist and grasp your hands behind my back,” he said. “When you feel pain, you squeeze. You can’t squeeze too tight.”

He leaned over, took the skin at my waist between his thumb and forefinger, and pinched hard.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“He’s giving you another source of pain to distract you,” said Dr. Davidson. “You’ll thank him later. Here goes.”

Dennis pinched harder and I felt the forceps enter my thigh. I gasped, squeezing my arms so tightly about his hips that Dennis was forced up against the edge of the table. I couldn’t help but writhe against the pain, and out of the corner of my eye I was aware that Michaela had turned away.

“Keep still, man,” said Dr. Davidson, “you’re just making it harder.” He withdrew the forceps. “You almost made me lose it. Here it is.” He looked carefully at the bullet to make sure he had the whole thing, and dropped it into a stainless steel dish as his side. “We’re done. Dennis, where’s the kit?”

Seamlessly he and Dennis worked together to stitch and dress the wound.

“My pants will be too short for you,” said Dennis, “but here’s a pair of the Doctor’s trousers.” He helped me pull the pants leg up over my bandaged thigh, and smiled at his employer. “He won’t even know they’re gone,” he said, leading me to a chair.

“Dennis, get rid of this stuff,” said your grandfather, ignoring the comment as he rolled up the plastic sheet. “You know where to dispose of it. Mandla, you can be sure the first place the police will search after they hit Michaela’s house, is here. You need to get out of the city.”

Michaela looks at me. “Where is it safe for you?” she asked.

“I should make a call,” he said, looking around for the phone.

Michaela walked over to a telephone table in one corner of the kitchen and carried the phone to where I sat, bandaged leg stretched out before me.

“Wait until we’re gone from the room,” said Dennis. “The Doctor and I don’t want to know where you’re going.”

I waited until they had left, removing all evidence that any surgery had taken place. Then I dialed the number I had been given for just such an eventuality, and the phone was answered by a man speaking Zulu. In a subdued voice that was short but alert, he asked who I was. I gave him the coded words that identified me, which I have long since forgotten.

“What do you need?” he asked.

I told him where I was, that I was wounded, and needed safety.

“We have no transport available now,” he said. “If you can hide safely for a few days we can get to you. If not you’ll have to find your own way to the Rhodesian border.”

I beckoned to Michaela and told her what he had said.

“The Rhodesian border?” she whispered.

I nodded. “That’s where they’ll meet me. Can you get me there?” I asked. “If not, Dennis can hide me in the servants’ quarters in any one of a dozen houses, and the police will never find me.”

“The police will search the whole neighborhood,” she said. “We need to get you out of here.”

“Are you up to it? It’ll take the rest of the night to get there.”

“There’s not much choice,” she said. “If you can lie still in the compartment for that long, I can drive it. I’ve done it before. Let’s go.”

“Dennis,” said your grandfather, “take them out and help them into the car. I don’t want to know where they’re going, and you shouldn’t either. Mandla, I know you’re doing good work. Good luck to you.” He took Michaela in his arms, hugged her to his chest, and looked into her eyes. “Please, my love, be careful.” Then he waved us out, and I saw him watching your mother, his eyes filled with tears.

Dennis led us out to the garage. We opened up the hidden compartment and Dennis removed the boxes of pamphlets so I could curl up and squeeze into the cramped space. They lowered the compartment doors above me, and in the darkness, I heard them spread the mat down so that the back of the car looked like any Volvo Duett station wagon. Michaela started the car, and I huddled in the dark as we headed for the Rhodesian border.

Many things might have been different had Michaela and I not gone to your grandfather’s house that night. It took years before I understood the details of what happened, and I had to put together pieces of the story myself. I spoke to Dennis, and many years later, after things changed, I had a conversation with Officer Viljoen, who had been in charge of the investigation at your grandfather’s house that night after we left. Our discussion revealed much that would have otherwise have remained hidden. It was one of the benefits of the Truth and Reconciliation Hearings that came about once Mandela was elected.

Three police cars arrived at the house an hour or two after midnight, and when they arrived, your grandfather came quickly to the front door to answer the loud knocking.

“Dr. Davidson,” said Officer Viljoen. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but you can put the blame for this search on your daughter’s thoughtlessness. If she would confine her activities to her home, and take care of her family instead of trying to solve everyone else’s bloody problems, we wouldn’t be here bothering you tonight.”

Your grandfather stood up straight, an elderly man in striped pajamas, with his white hair uncombed, calm as a cucumber, and he looked up at the Lieutenant in his pressed khaki uniform and his official Special Branch hat.

“The only one being thoughtless, Lieutenant,” he said, “is you. I don’t sleep well since my wife died, and I’ll not likely get back to sleep tonight. So you and your men can do your searching, and then I’ll thank you to please leave me in peace.”

So they began to look around the house, six or eight policemen searching for anything your mother might have left there and for anything that might incriminate your grandfather. They didn’t think he was guilty, but it was a way of getting to her. They took whatever they found that contained names and addresses. In a closet they found old copies of newspapers, and several journals that had since been banned. They paged through liberal magazines for mention of communism or socialism, or any writings critical of the government or of apartheid; they searched for anything written in support of social justice, equality, or protest. They looked through diaries, paged through every book on every bookshelf, opened up photograph frames and searched behind the photographs for hidden documents. And through it all, your grandfather watched quietly. But when the officers asked for the key to his dental studio, your grandfather refused.

“That’s where I draw the line,” he said. “I earn my living in there, and no one goes in except me and my assistant. It’s a sterile environment. My instruments are expensive and delicate, and I’ll not have your men turning the place upside down.”

He was angry, his face was red, and he was holding and rubbing his shoulder. The police insisted on searching his studio, and he was ordered to sit down in the kitchen and stop interfering with their investigation.

As he sat at the kitchen table there were sounds of a scuffle outside, the back door opened and two policemen dragged Dennis into the house. They had knocked him around, and his lip was bleeding. He stood at the back door with one man while the other went off to fetch the Lieutenant.

“I’m sorry, Dennis,” your grandfather said. “‘This is my fault.”

“Don’t worry,” he answered. “Everything is OK.
Baas
,” he said to the policeman, “I am feeling weak—can I sit?”

Without waiting for a response, your grandfather rose and carried a kitchen chair to Dennis.

“Sit down, Dennis,” he said, and he did.

They questioned Dennis, wanting to know where he had been and why he was tip-toeing back into his room after midnight, and he smiled slyly and said he had been visiting his girlfriend. They found nothing in the dental studio, and very little in the rest of the house. But then Viljoen came in and jerked the chair out from under Dennis, who fell to the ground. Viljoen was livid.

“You interrogate a
kaffir
sitting down while you stand?” he shouted at his men. “Are you fucking mad? And you—” he pointed down at Dennis “—you think you can sit while your betters stand? Get up!”