Bloodlines (34 page)

We made our way along the path on the long walk back to the homestead. The thunderstorm had passed, but clouds swirled thickly above us, and there was a strong wind and the continued threat of rain. We had made our way there playfully, enjoyed each other’s company like children tripping through the sunshine; we walked away swiftly and with purpose, burdened by the gifts of her prophecy, and by what they revealed about our future. I was still dazed that she knew about Steven, and whether or not she was accurate, her prediction that he would return to me when I was an old woman put me in touch, yet again, with the magnitude of my loss.

I glanced occasionally at Khabazela, but he was walking fast, engrossed in his own thoughts, and I had to struggle to keep up with him. Eventually I stopped to rest, and when he realized that I was no longer at his side, he stopped and retraced his steps. We sat together on a flat outcrop of rock, overlooking a steep valley at the bottom of which a tributary of the Tugela River wound its way through the hills.

“I don’t know whether we will have a life together,” he said, his voice muted in the wind, “but she says we will raise children together. And that we will have a grandchild.”

“With another mother?” I asked. “What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “We’ll find out what it means,” he said, “in time.”

“It probably means nothing,” I said. “We’ve never even talked of children, and now we’re discussing what to name a grandchild.”

“She said that he would have the ability to remove obstacles so that other could see. So if there is a grandchild, we will name him Penya.” He spoke placidly, without concern, as if we could actually plan our lives. “But before there is a grandchild,” he said, smiling, “there must be a child.” As rapidly as it had formed, the smile vanished. He frowned deeply, his mouth tightened in concern.

“What did she say to you at the end?” I asked. “The part you didn’t translate for me?”

“Her words were difficult,” he said. “Difficult to hear, and very difficult to repeat to you.”

“Well, you can’t keep them from me,” I said. “What did she say?”

“I wasn’t keeping them from you, Michaela. It was just that I couldn’t speak for a moment, and I couldn’t find the words.”

“Can you find the words now?”

“She said this time is filled with evil. She said it would get worse, that there would be great hardship, and much killing, both black and white; that brothers would shed each other’s blood, and Zulu the blood of other Zulu. She said that although this evil seems long, it is only for a breath of time—and that just as strong winds die down, as thunderclouds pass, as locusts feast and then leave, it will come to an end. But when it is gone, it will leave behind other, deeper problems for our children to face.”

He paused, reached over and stroked the side of my neck just below my ear, and I leaned into his fingers. He smiled in acknowledgement, but it was a sad smile.

“She said when I have doubts about what I’m doing, the ancestors want me to remember that the work I do is for my people—it honors those who came before, and prepares the ground for future generations. But for us, Michaela, who are still here for a small space of time, there is not likely to be much change. What we do here—if it benefits anyone—is unlikely to make a difference in our lives.”

“How very comforting,” I said. “A long prison sentence seems more and more appealing. Now that we’ve escaped, perhaps we ought to go live on a Caribbean beach—forget about making the world a better place for others. Maybe it’s time to think about ourselves.”

Khabazela rose and squinted into the wind, his hands in his pockets, looking down into the valley. He stood sideways to me, his shirt blown tight against his stomach and chest, bellied out in back.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I said.

“I’m not offended, Michaela,” he answered, still staring down into the valley, “but I am frightened.”

“Frightened?”

“That you will go,” he said, turning now to face me, “when I tell you that unless you can remain here with me freely and with an open heart, I would prefer that you take the opportunity to leave.” He raised a hand to forestall my objection. “If you choose to stay with me, the ANC will provide you with a new name and identity so that you can live in the open. But I want you to be able to make the decision freely, and I have worked hard to convince them that whether you choose to stay or go, you should have the right to start again, with a new identity, and with new papers.” He paused. “You could stay in South Africa, go and live in Durban or Cape Town under a new name, and make a new life for yourself. You could go to Australia, and get Steven to join you. Or to the United States. I don’t know if you would even need a new identity elsewhere—here we are escaped terrorists, but perhaps in other parts of the world you would be seen as a freedom fighter.” He moved towards the path, avoiding my eyes. “My way is clear,” he said. “I must stay, but you have a choice. I would not hold you, and I will honor whatever you choose to do.”

He walked rapidly down the hill without looking back. I rose and gazed down into the valley, where he had stood staring at the river. For a moment, as I thought about the gift he was offering me, I felt the flutter of freedom in my chest, and the thrill of a new beginning. Anything was possible. He had offered me the gift of a new life, away from turmoil and hardship; given me the chance to put the past behind me, to rejoin my son, whom I longed for. His timing was perfect—what woman in her right mind would refuse the offer of a different life, away from the
sangoma
’s dour forecast?

But the offer of ease and opportunity did not include him, and the thrill of freedom was fleeting. Because he was giving me another choice—to start anew with him, or to repudiate him, all he stood for, and the life he was offering me.

But Lenny had made it clear that he never wanted to see me again, and you had convinced yourself that I was dead. Reunion was no longer possible. I followed Khabazela down the hill, across the wild, rolling landscape, back to Lungile’s homestead, and to our Zululand life.

.

eighteen

MICHAELA

South Africa, 1964

I
’ve wondered often since then why I chose the path I did. Looking back, I think a combination of factors, real or imagined, worked their magic in my head until there was only one real option.

In my mind I had lost you; I loved Khabazela, and he had offered me a life; that life included meaningful work for the ANC, and the possibility of children, which until then seemed out of the question. I saw how placidly this strong and rational man accepted the s
angoma’s
predictions, going so far as to choose a name for the grandchild she foretold. That I was a confused young woman is not in doubt; I was adrift, aching to hook my life to something that would give it meaning. Khabazela offered all that, and more.

If I was going to accept his offer to spend our lives together, I had to find a way to make it work—but the whole idea was impossibly unrealistic. We needed money to create the framework around which we would build our pretend life, and I wanted to do it on my own terms. I needed a home and a place where he and I could be together without attracting attention. We would be doing whatever the movement required of us, which included hiding freedom fighters and political figures, transporting those under surveillance out of the country, and much more that I could not then have imagined.

As a paramilitary commander in Spear of the Nation, Khabazela was required to travel within and beyond the borders of South Africa. He needed a role in which he could be invisible when he was present; the kind of role in which no one would miss him if he was absent. That meant we needed space, isolation, and a cover story that was sustainable. We agreed that we would have the best chance of success in a rural area, and I decided to buy a farm.

True to their promise, the ANC provided me with a false identity. And because the way to successfully live a lie is to make it as true as possible, my story was that I had owned a farm near the Rhodesian border with my husband, who had been killed in a farming accident. Now alone, I had sold the farm and was trying to decide what to do with my life. The ANC provided me with a new name—I was to become Grace Michaels—and with the forged papers to prove it. I came to know the story well, to depend on it for legitimacy, and to tell it so well that even I began to believe it was true.

The inheritance from my father was in a safety deposit box in Switzerland, and the key was in the hands of his attorney, Tony Griswold—Uncle Tony—whom I had not seen for almost six years. If I was going to buy a farm, I needed to find out exactly what my inheritance was, and what it could buy me. That meant a trip to Switzerland. But first I had to make contact with Uncle Tony, who by now was himself under surveillance. He found it increasingly difficult to get around without being followed, but he wanted to see me, and was determined to hand me the key in person. Via notes in the pockets of clothes purchased and delivered to his office, telephone calls made from restaurant phones and train tickets delivered to a post office box in Pietermaritzburg, we arranged to meet.

At that time, flights to Europe departed from Johannesburg, and the safest way to make the journey to Johannesburg was by overnight train from Durban, which was a six-hour drive from Lungile’s homestead in Zululand. Uncle Tony arranged to travel to Durban for a business meeting a few days earlier, and once he had been seen to conclude his business, he would take the train back to Johannesburg. We agreed that I would be on the same train, and that we would meet once in transit.

I made the six-hour journey from Lungile’s homestead to Durban in a rickety farm truck. My driver was an American hippie who had dropped out of college and come to South Africa to support the ANC. He had no clue what he was involved in, and I didn’t have either the patience or the energy to explain it to him. He was a sweet boy—but that didn’t stop him from being arrested, and then disappearing.

I mention him because his arrest and eventual discovery may give you a sense of the time we lived in. It wasn’t just black South Africans who were in jeopardy—it was anyone who supported the cause of freedom. The regime was violent, angry and frightened, and we lived with fear from morning until night. That fact influenced all aspects of our lives and defined the choices we made.

I remember seeing the boy’s parents on the international news, seeking information about him. They found nothing—but a few years later his broken body was one of many discovered inside a barbed wire compound that turned out to be one of the Special Branch’s hidden interrogation centers. It was in a restricted rural area outside Johannesburg, and contained locked cells, instruments of torture, and gory evidence that they had been well used.

While in Zululand my hair had grown out. Now I dyed it light brown, with blond highlights. One of the few things Lenny and Khabazela had in common was that they both loved my mouth—I was self-conscious about my lips for years after Lenny told me that they were like ripe fruit. To deflect attention from them, I used the palest pink shade of lipstick I could. At the nearby Indian market I found a cheap suitcase, and then went into the city and bought a few changes of clothes—just enough to get me to Switzerland. Wearing a pair of narrow, Brigitte Bardot sunglasses, a pastel blouse and capri pants with matching pumps, I boarded the overnight train to Johannesburg. Sitting in my compartment as we pulled out of the station, I thought back to the last time I had seen Uncle Tony.

Khabazela may have told you already that as I drove back from the Rhodesian border after dropping him off to recuperate safely after he had been shot, I was arrested and held without trial. Despite the fact that they had no evidence to charge me with, Lieutenant Viljoen, who had been at my father’s house that night, refused me permission to attend my father’s funeral. I was pregnant with you, but they kept me in isolation, and I was permitted no contact with Lenny. Viljoen is long dead, but his callousness fueled my anger for years.

You were born several months after I was released, and all I wanted to do was spend time with you. Eventually I was able to leave you for short periods, and one of the first outings I made was to see Uncle Tony, who had been a fixture in my life throughout my childhood. He lived alone in a large, gracious home in Saxonwold, and he gave wonderful parties. My parents may have suspected that he was gay, but back then homosexuality was never discussed in polite company. He was short and funny, sported a small grey mustache, and dressed faultlessly in the most conservative of British suits. His one concession to a hidden flamboyance was that his bow-ties were always a little—just the tiniest bit—too colorful.

We met in his legal offices in downtown Johannesburg. He ushered me into his study—a strange mixture of dark panels and pastel-colored fabrics—closed the door, and took me into his arms. There were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks when he finally released me.

“Who would have thought it would come to this,” he said. “Little Michaela Davidson in jail. And they wouldn’t let me see you until after your father was buried. I tried everything, Michaela, but they had you in isolation.”

“I know,” I said, trying to smile. “I was there. And I haven’t been Michaela Davidson since I married Lenny.”

“Of course,” he said.

We sat down and went over my father’s estate. I had not counted on much of an inheritance, but he had run a dental practice for thirty years, and I was surprised that there was little beyond a bank account, and a small stock portfolio. The house, which was worth a fair amount, was highly mortgaged.

“Your father was a very cautious man, Michaela. You know how uneasy he was with the political situation. He was so sure the country was about to explode that he planned to take your mother overseas once they retired.”

“Where to?” I asked, feeling offended. “He never said a word to me.”

“After she died it became a non-issue—without her, he really didn’t want to go anywhere. And now all the resources he put aside for his retirement fall to you.”

“All the resources he put aside don’t amount to much, do they?” I asked. “How was he going to live?”

In answer he went to one wall of his office and unlocked a safe, from which he withdrew a small brown envelope.

“His retirement,” he said, unfolding the envelope and taking out a small key, “is in a little box in a Swiss bank. I have no idea how much is there, and he never told me. But I imagine there’s enough. Most of it is in cash, and there are a few uncut stones that probably aren’t worth much. But he’s been adding to it for twenty years. And when he didn’t have the cash, he would refinance the house and take out a bigger mortgage.” He refolded the envelope, replaced the key, closed the safe and spun the lever. “I’ll keep the key here, along with the account number you’ll need to get access to the box. It’ll be in a sealed envelope in your name, in the event anything happens to me. But whenever you need to get into the box, Michaela, just call, or get a message to me. I’ll arrange to get it to you.” He looked at me for a long moment, in silence, his eyes trying to tell me something. “Wherever you happen to be,” he said softly.