Read The Other Side of Silence Online
Authors: André Brink
For a moment he hesitates as if he would like to say more, but
then he grunts, and turns, and walks away again. She remains for a
while, reassured by his appearance from the night, the knowledge
that he is there, awake and wandering, keeping watch; but also
perturbed by what he has said.
This is not a good place
. Has
he, too, seen through the missionary’s ostentatious piety?
She goes back to the low house, its stark whiteness a pale
smudge against the night sky. As she opens the door she discovers a
dark shape right in front of her, huddled over Katja’s sleeping
form. It is the Reverend Gottlieb Maier, dressed only in a
nightshirt. As Hanna opens the door he recoils.
“Oh!” he exclaims, then drops his voice to a whisper. “It is
you.” He pauses. “I was just hoping to find out from our little
sister what had happened to you. I was worried. It is such an
ungodly world and with all these heathens about…”
Katja wakes up. “What is going on?” she mumbles, pushing herself
up on her elbows.
“Nothing, nothing,” he whispers. “I just came through to see if
everybody was safely asleep. Good-night. God bless you.” To Hanna
his explanation sounds more like a threat than a reassurance.
“Are you all right?” whispers Katja after he has left them.
Closing her eyes in the dark, Hanna nods. No need to upset the
girl; not now. And she cannot use sign language in the dark.
After a while, from behind the curtain closing off the bedroom,
the moaning sounds resume. God is truly being served assiduously
tonight.
S
he is hiding, as she
so often does, knowing she may be punished for it – not just for
slipping out of the orphanage, but especially for coming to this
ungodly, Catholic, place of worship – in a dark corner off the
cathedral nave, to listen to the organist practising. Here she can
be alone with the music which reverberates through the dark space
of the high building, shuddering in the walls, trembling in the
wood, causing the small flames of the votive candles to quiver as
if caught in an invisible draught. Sometimes it almost dies down to
a whisper, then gathers itself again and swells, increases, grows
like a wave rearing up in an ocean without end, and breaks right
over her. The whole cathedral loses shape and substance, everything
becomes pure sound, a vastness in which she completely loses
herself, dissolving into music. And it is not just her ears which
hear the sound: through every pore of her body it enters,
permeating and transforming everything. All is sound, a booming,
thundering roar too great to fathom, a terrible cleansing. And when
at last it recedes, she is left shivering against the wall, her
face wet with tears even though she never realised she was crying;
and between her thighs another wetness she has never felt before,
and which must come from the deepest secret places of herself.
This, she knows, is the sound of which she can hear only a whisper
in the silence of a shell. If this is God, she will believe in
him.
T
hey are taken on a
small tour of the mission station. Among other things, it clears up
the mystery of the wall. It is a monument to Gottlieb Maier’s
belief in the redeeming power of work. For thirteen years now, he
explains with evident pride, ever since he first arrived to take up
his post at the station, the male members of his flock have been
devoting all their physical energy – for they are a lazy, stupid,
brutal breed in need of discipline – to the construction of this
noble enterprise. Almost two metres high, it circles the small
settlement and then heads into the desert, due north, dead straight
as me narrow road to heaven. For kilometres on end it runs towards
a horizon it will never reach, growing ever smaller in the
distance, stone balanced upon stone, all of them collected by the
labourers – initially, the missionary points out, lugged from the
koppies in the immediate vicinity, but from farther and farther
away as the work has progressed through the years. Big ones,
medium-sized ones, small ones, no stone is left unturned; each
finds its place in the large scheme of the thing. Every day a few
centimetres are added in height or length; at the end of every week
the progress is measured and compared to the achievements of the
past. No man is spared, except the very old and sick; and even
those are expected to contribute their slow and humble bit to the
service of the Lord.
But why?
Hanna asks him, through Katja.
What is it
for?
The missionary gives her a puzzled look. “It keeps them busy,”
he says.
I can understand the wall around the settlement…
she
perseveres.
“Indeed,” he interrupts approvingly. “We must keep Africa
out.”
…
but this…?
She gestures into the distance.
“It is not for us to enquire into the mysterious ways of God,”
he says with a touch of admonition.
But this is not God
, she protests.
It is
you.
“I am here to do his work,” he says, finality in his tone. “Even
more so in dangerous and difficult times like these.”
What news is there about the war?
Hanna makes Katja
ask.
“We are so far away from it all,” he says. “Who can ever be
sure? There are so many rumours.
Mischief shall come upon
mischief, and rumour shall be upon rumour
, in the words of the
prophet Ezekiel. Should you ask me about the end, I will tell you
that it is nigh. These are for sure the last days, of which Saint
Mark says,
For in those days shall be affliction, such as was
not from the beginning of the creation which God created unto this
time, neither shall be
.”
“But there must be news, from time to time,” says Katja.
“There are small military patrols who pass this way and that,”
he agrees, “and sometimes they bring us up to date. It seems that
since General von Trotha took over the command two years ago from
that well-meaning but weak man Leutwein, he destroyed the power of
the Hereros in the north.”
“That much we know,” Katja interrupts.
But he launches forth as if he hasn’t heard her. “To my
everlasting shame I must admit that many of my own brethren,
misguided pastors of me Rhenish mission, took up the cause of the
Hereros. But God soon showed which side he was really on. And then,
as you may also know, the great man, von Trotha, like a scourge of
heaven, moved south and broke the back of the Namas. You may have
heard of the battles of Naris, and Gochas, and Vaalgras. Ever since
that incarnation of Evil, Hendrik Witbooi, was killed last October,
we have been making massive progress. Glory be to God. What a pity
the uninformed authorities in Berlin decided to recall von Trotha
before he could clean it all up. His successor, Dame, is not cut
from the same stern cloth. As a result, there are still pockets of
resistance and violence keeps flaring up here, there and
everywhere; there are still agents of Satan abroad among the Namas,
men like Cornelius and Fielding and Morenga. But with the help of
God we are on the road to victory. Large parts of the country have
already been pacified and more and more of the godless are rounded
up in concentration camps.” He sighs. “A sad, sad time, and we must
remain vigilant. Did not Saint Luke tell us to watch therefore, and
pray always, that we may be accounted worthy to escape all these
things that shall come to pass, and to stand before the Son of
man?”
“The country seemed a wasteland all the way we came,” says
Katja. “All the villages have been burnt down.”
“The army is doing the work of the Lord,” he assures her. “That
is not something a girl like you should be concerned about. Here in
the desert we are safe.” His eyes rest probingly on her face; but
men, as if he has caught himself in an indiscretion, he becomes
businesslike, excusing himself in a hurry. “I have to go. Some of
the workers over there are malingering. They have to be seen to.
The Lord does not brook shoddiness.”
In the meantime, in the church, as she does every day, Gisela
Maier teaches the children. It goes on, they learn, all morning, a
diankless, near-impossible task, as she tries to inculcate the
elements of reading and writing into a hundred swarming, sweating
children ranging in age from toddlers to youngsters of eighteen or
twenty. The noise is enough to produce a permanent headache in
whoever tries to control it. (From time to time the Reverend Maier
does, unexpectedly, darken the doorway, randomly hauls out a few
pupils, large, medium-sized and small, and thrashes the hell out of
them by way of warning. But the ensuing silence seldom lasts
long.)
In the afternoons, this time mercifully assisted by a few
helpers who have already assimilated some skills, Gisela gathers
the women together under the wide umbrella of a camelthorn tree to
teach them some useful industry: crocheting doilies, embroidering
cloths, knitting tea-cosies. It is worse than Frauenstein, thinks
Hanna. It makes her stomach turn. Katja can barely restrain a fit
of giggles, but she composes herself very hurriedly when the
missionary appears with the long stiff-legged strides of a
gompou
.
“Interesting?” he asks benignly. “My wife has been working very
diligently with these uncouth people, teaching them to perform
their humble female skills in the service of the Almighty. It may
not amount to much, it is of course not directly concerned with the
saving of souls, but at least they keep the saved souls occupied.
In its own small way, we believe, a woman’s work is honourable in
the eyes of the Lord.” Briefly, he puts a long bony hand on the
girl’s shoulder in what purports to be a fatherly gesture. Only for
a moment is it perched there, a large pale spider; then, as if
scared by what he sees, he hurriedly drops it, vigorously shaking
the fingers as if to rid them of some invisible pollution.
Hanna is quick to notice. She doesn’t understand what is
happening inside her, this welter of suspicions ever since they
arrived at the station, a possessiveness about Katja she has not
felt before. She tries to persuade herself that the missionary can
have no hidden motives, acts purely from altruism, concern and
love; that the deviousness and perversity reside in her own mind.
Whatever it is, she brusquely takes Katja by the arm and leads her
elsewhere.
“What’s the matter?” asks the girl.
I want you to be careful of that man
.
“He reminds me of my father,” says Katja simply. “This is so
much like the place where I grew up, Hanna. It feels like
home.”
Hanna tries to control the indignation she feels.
You don’t
understand
, she tells her.
I’m sure your father was
different. You must keep your eyes open. You are so very young,
Katja. For heaven’s sake, be careful
.
“I don’t think you’re being fair,” protests the girl.
Are you with me, or with him?
“Why must I choose?” asks Katja. There is more rebelliousness in
her than Hanna has encountered before; and it scares her. “Of
course I’m with you. You were the only one who cared about me when
I came to Frauenstein.” She is pleading now. “I ran away into the
desert with you, remember. I don’t even know where you’re taking
me, but it doesn’t matter, I trust you. But what I feel about this
place…Perhaps you cannot understand it, Hanna. Please try. For me
first time since my parents and my brothers died, and Gertrud and
I…” She stops, trembling. “It really is like coming home again.
Almost every single night since the killers came I’ve had
nightmares. Blood everywhere. And men shouting and hacking people
to pieces. Here I feel I can sleep again.”
All I’m trying to say…
Hanna tries again, aware of a
headache beginning to throb in her temples.
But they are interrupted. It is Gisela Maier. She approaches and
sits down, unbidden, on a low pile of chopped wood.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?” she asks. Her face is wan.
Loose strands of hair cling wetly to her cheeks; whether it is from
sweat or tears is hard to make out.
You’ve had a busy day
, says Hanna through Katja.
Gisela doesn’t react.
“You’re working even harder than we used to,” says Katja of her
own accord. “My father’s trading post was also a place where people
came for all kinds of help. They kept us busy all the time.”
Gisela casts a weary look at her. “No wonder you ran away.”
“I did not run away! He was murdered. They killed all the
men.”
For a moment Gisela does not respond. Then she asks, with flat,
tired resentment in her voice, “What possesses people to come to a
place like this?”
“Answering the call of God?” suggests Katja.
“There is no God,” says Gisela flatly. It sounds, thinks Hanna,
like someone saying to a begging child, There is no bread.
Then what are you doing here?
Hanna prompts Katja to
ask.
“Do I have a choice?” She makes an effort to control her voice.
Quite unexpectedly a flood of words break out, as if they have been
damming inside her for a long time. “Gottlieb was a different kind
of man when we first met in Dresden, fifteen years ago. It was only
after his family was wiped out…” She pauses. “They were on a boat
on the Elbe. He and his parents and his two sisters. There was a
storm, a sudden squall. I would have been there too, but my mother
was ill and I stayed to look after her. And then the boat capsized
and they were all gone. Gottlieb thought he was also going to
drown. He started praying. He’d never been a particularly religious
person. It was that experience that changed him. You see, he
promised God that if he got out of it alive he’d devote the rest of
his life to the work of the Lord. I was a teacher before we got
married, I taught history, and when he said he would be going to
Africa I was excited at first, I thought it could be interesting, I
could find out things about the past…” She shakes her head slowly.
“But when we came here he didn’t allow me to do anything except
keep the house and look after the children. And anyway, the way we
live here we’re cut off from history, from
everything
. All
that matters to him is to keep his vow.” A deep sigh. “I suppose I
cannot blame him.” She rests her chin on her two hands clenched
together, stares into the monochrome distance. “But I hate that God
of his. Sometimes I hate him so much I almost think he must be
real. But I’m not granted even that small satisfaction.” She takes
a deep breath. “For Gottlieb it is no problem. At least he had a
choice. I was never given any.”