Bloodlines (5 page)

I wrote down his number, and when I asked for the spelling of his name, he had to repeat it several times.

“I understand that this is frustrating for you,” he said, “and I would conclude it today, but it is not mine to end. Please, trust me when I say that this is the beginning of the openness you desire, and that when this process your father started comes to conclusion, there will be no more secrets. Okay?”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “And Steven, there is one more thing I would ask of you.”

“What’s that?”

“When you were a child, you called me Khabazela. It’s what you called me when we last met, at a small farmhouse outside Johannesburg, when I rescued a little boy who had climbed too far up a pear tree and couldn’t get down without some help. I may have changed since then,” he laughed, “but not as much as I assume you have. I would like for you to call me Khabazela again.”

At the mention of being rescued from a pear tree a wave of images and sensations surged through me; I felt buffeted by them as if by driven water, and when they receded I was left dry, but shaken. There was the feel of a comforting hand on my ankle and a voice urging me to step down to the next branch. I didn’t remember the farmhouse he mentioned, but I saw it—a little frame house secluded in a forest of smallish trees and bushes. Many were fruit trees in full bloom, and I was aware of the colors—oranges and reds, dusky purple and yellow—and of the mixed sweetish odors of wild fruit on the trees and on the ground. There were four or five children with me, and we were playing hide and seek. I was surprised to see that they were black children, because I don’t remember having anything but white playmates.

Nestled among the trees was a small, peeling wood frame farmhouse, and standing beside the front door were two people talking intently to each other—one was a tall black man. As soon as my memory registered that the other figure was my mother, the current seemed to cut out, and the image disappeared. I had no idea where it came from, or where it went. And for the first time I realized that although I had no memory of this man, I did know him.

“Khabazela,” I said, trying out the name. It was strangely comfortable on my tongue.

“Yes?” he answered.

I didn’t want to tell him what I remembered; not yet, not until I had a better understanding of what had happened. And I was just beginning to have an inkling of how much I didn’t know.

“I was calling you by your name,” I said, “as you asked.”

“Thank you, Steven,” he replied. “That means a great deal to me. Now go and read your father’s words to you. We will talk again.”

We ended our conversation, and I sat in silence for a long time. I had the sense that I was on a journey I hadn’t planned, along an unmarked road. I had no idea where I was going, and wondered whether I would be the same person when I arrived at my destination.

There was only one way to find out. I reached for my father’s manuscript, and began reading.

.

two

L
ENNY

Boston, 2001

Steven:

When I first began writing this, I wanted to do it in partnership with you, to give you the personal and family history that I have so long avoided sharing. I wanted to be face to face with you as the reasons for my avoidance became clear. I had a fantasy of being able to relive the experiences, see the expressions on your face, and, I hoped, be the recipient of your forgiveness while I was still able to appreciate it. What I really wanted was to feel the relief of being held to account. Selfish, I suppose.

Sadly, I lacked the courage. You long ago stopped asking questions about the past, and you have indicated by your actions, and by the distance
you maintain from me, that you feel at peace with what you don’t know.
Perhaps I should have let well enough alone, but it became clear some months ago that I could not go to my grave in silence. This will make no sense to you now, I know, but you will at some point learn about our history from a perspective different from mine. I know nothing about how this other perspective will paint me, but I can be sure that it will not portray me as I would wish. And if I want a fair hearing, I need to speak out now.

I waited too long; should have begun long ago, when you had time in your life for me, when you were younger, less experienced, and less impatient than you are now with me. I’m disappointed, but that’s not your fault. What I did initially was intended to be an act of self-sacrifice, but in failing to be honest with you it turned into an expression of cowardice, and the passage of time has only compounded my duplicity.

My medical prognosis is bleak. The type of pancreatic cancer I have offers few treatment options beyond an awful, disfiguring surgery—and I’m not much interested in a procedure that might extend my life by dragging out my dying. I don’t want you to remember my end that way.
There will be enough for you to deal with after I’m gone.

I intend to spend what time I have left getting this story—my confession, I suppose—down on paper. You can read it when you’re ready, and I have little doubt that once you start, you’ll find it sufficiently engrossing to carry you through to the end. In advance, I ask that you not judge me—us—too harshly. I hope for your own sake that you can find it in your heart to understand and forgive. It’s a gift I have not been able to give myself.

With all my love

Dad

Johannesburg, 1953

I fell in love with your mother as I watched four uniformed policemen escort her out of the Witwatersrand University newspaper office in Johannesburg. She strode tall and defiant in their midst, taken into custody for writing an editorial critical of government policy.

I had read the editorial the previous day and been struck by the writer’s courage, and by the naiveté of the writing—and I knew that it could only have been written by Michaela Davidson. Her topic was the forced removal of 50,000 mostly black residents from their homes in Sophiatown. The area was to be bulldozed and a white suburb built, and the inhabitants moved to a new area called the South West Townships, which in later years became notorious as Soweto.

I knew that there would be some kind of backlash—the government didn’t take kindly to criticism. But I expected that they would punish her through the university administration in the form of censorship or reprimand. Instead, infuriated by this young student’s refusal to be silenced by threats of disciplinary action, the police raided the university newspaper office. And they did it late on a Friday afternoon, when there would be few students or faculty around to object to her arrest.

Your mother and I didn’t know each other well. I was older by a few years, and I had always been uncomfortable with women. But our paths crossed frequently, and it would have been difficult not to take note of her. She was attractive and daring, she smiled easily, her laugh was open and enthusiastic. And in our socially conservative culture, she had no hesitation about flaunting convention. I thought I was invisible to her, but she told me later that she had been watching me for years, a shy, studious boy a few years ahead of her.

I had just dropped a book off at my professor’s office and was about to push open the front door and walk out of the building when she was escorted down the corridor, two officers in front of her and two behind. Her flushed face betrayed her fear, but she walked with her shoulders straight and her head held high, and as she reached me she came to a sudden stop. The officer directly behind her stepped on her heel and tripped, reaching a hand out before him and shoving her shoulder. He almost bowled her over, barely righted himself, and swore under his breath.

He was clearly ill-disposed to this pretty, privileged girl with her Jewish name, her English accent, and the trouble she was causing. She was playing with fire, breaking the law, undermining the principles he held dear.

“Keep going, girlie,” he said. His English had the particularly heavy guttural accent common to those whose first language was Afrikaans.

“I’m going to give a message to my friend,” she replied coolly, “so that someone knows where I am.” She turned to me. “Lenny, please call my parents and let them know I’ve been arrested. They’re listed under Samuel Davidson. If he’s not home, he’ll be in his dental office.”

“You know this young woman?” one of the officers asked.

“Of course I know her,” I said. “What’s going on? Where are you taking her?”

Both officers looked at me, scowled, and stepped forward to stand at her sides. They took her by the elbows and began to pull her along. “Call my parents, Lenny,” she shouted over her shoulder, struggling to release the grip on her elbows. “They’re taking me to the prison at Marshall Square. Michaela…” she shouted again, “Michaela Davidson.”

I was paralyzed at first, mortified that I had neither the bravery or physical resources to help her. The policemen hustled her into the back of their wagon and drove off. I rushed home to call her parents.

Their home was in Cyrildene, an older suburb outside Johannesburg, and her father’s office was at the same address. He was listed as a Doctor of dental medicine. I called the house and the housemaid answered the phone. Dr. Davidson was in his surgery seeing patients, she said, but she could take a message for me.

“This is an emergency,” I answered. “Please get him. Michaela’s been arrested.”

I heard the slap of her slippers echoing on the stone floor as she ran from the phone, calling to Dr. Davidson. There was a brief silence, and then the sound of his shoes approaching on the flagstones.

“Hello?” he demanded. “What’s this about my daughter being arrested?”

“I was just at the university with her—”

“This better not be a joke,” he said, angrily. “Who are you, young man? What’s your name?”

“Lenny,” I said,” flustered by his tone. “Lenny Green. I wouldn’t joke about this. Michaela asked me to call you.”

“This isn’t the kind of news one expects from strangers,” he said.

“I’m not a stranger, sir,” I said. “I’m a friend of Michaela’s. I’m in the school of engineering at the University. As I was leaving there this afternoon, four policemen were escorting her out of the building. She called to me, asked me to phone you and let you know that she’s been arrested. She’s being taken to the prison at Marshall Square.”

“How was she?” he asked. “Did she seem all right? Had she been mistreated?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I thought of the way she walked, her shoulders held straight and high, her flushed face revealing both her fear and her fury. The idea that they might have treated her badly hadn’t crossed my mind. In the 1950s the opposition was still largely peaceful, and white middle class women were treated respectfully, even if they were protesting.

“It must be that editorial she wrote about Sophiatown,” he said anxiously. “I told her she was crossing the line.” He paused, as if at a loss. “Lenny, was it? Green?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you for the phone call, Lenny. I’d better make some enquiries and get over to Marshall Square. Good bye.”