The Power of One (36 page)

Even among the old lags this method of passing on information was used. When a warder spoke an African language in this part of the world, it was seldom Zulu, more likely to be Shona, Shagaan, or Swazi, and even these would only be spoken by warders who came from farms. Townsfolk do not learn an African language other than Afrikaans and sometimes a language developed for use in the mines known as Fanagalo, which is a mixture of several African languages as well as Afrikaans and English.

I asked Geel Piet why the word “Angel” was prefaced with the word “Tadpole.” At first he seemed not to know, or at least pretended not to, but I understood enough of Zulu naming to know that nothing is accidental and a name is chosen carefully so that it is a good description of status or of some characteristic that unmistakably belongs to the recipient.

For instance, Klipkop did not know that his nickname was “Donkey Prick.” This came about from his habit of using a long rubber truncheon, which he used with the least excuse. Most warders used their fists on prisoners. Their logic for doing so was quite simple: punishment administered with the fist was unofficial or, as the warders called it, friendly persuasion, while the truncheon was used when reports needed to be made. Klipkop was the exception. As heavyweight champion of the lowveld, he had to take good care of his hands, so he took to using the donkey prick for casual punishment. As he was also complaints officer, it didn't much matter. “A man like me can't afford to break a pinkie or something on some stinking black bastard's
kop,
” he would explain defensively, for even outside the prison a man was expected to use his fists on a kaffir, reserving the
sjambok
for serious misdemeanors.

I recall walking down a long, winding passage in the interior of the prison administration building where half a dozen old lags could always be found on their knees, their kneecaps swathed in polish rags as they shined an already immaculate corridor floor. Long before we even sighted them, I could hear one of them sing out, “Work hard and keep your heads down, Donkey Prick is coming,” and back would come the chorus, “Donkey Prick, Donkey Prick.” As we passed, each prisoner would stop polishing briefly and, bringing his hands together in a gesture of humility, would smile and say, “Good morning,
baas,
good morning, small
baas.”

Knowing there was some reason for “Tadpole” before “Angel,” I persisted in questioning Geel Piet about it. “It is like this, small
baas.
The professor is known as ‘Amasele' (“the Frog”), because he plays his peeano at night when the prison is quiet. To the Zulus the frog makes always the loudest music at night, much louder than the cricket or the owl. So it is simple, you see. You are the small boy of the frog, which makes you a tadpole.” It was a perfect piece of Zulu naming logic.

WHILE
Geel Piet was growing rich and even seemed to be getting a little potbelly, he had also become indispensable to the boxing squad. He maintained the gym, organized the laundry, and even had the blue and yellow boxing singlets and white trunks made in the prison workshop. But most important, his knowledge of boxing was encyclopedic, and he was a demanding and resourceful coach. The squad kids had been turned into clever boxers, our natural aggression combined with real skill. From the under-fifteen division down to the under-twelves, the Barberton Blues hadn't lost a fight in two years.

How I got my first real fight was a matter of sheer luck. The championships in Nelspruit were in early August, only days before my tenth birthday, and I had tried to persuade anyone who would listen that ten was almost eleven and that one year wasn't much to have to forfeit. But Lieutenant Smit wasn't the sort of man who changed his mind, and nobody, least of all me, was willing to petition him on my behalf. In fact the two under-twelves, Snotnose Bronkhorst and Fonnie Kruger, were almost twelve and therefore two years my senior, and being Boer kids were much bigger.

Geel Piet claimed he saw intelligence and speed in me that more than made up for my lack of size. He was a fanatic about footwork. “You must learn to box with your feet, small
baas.
A good boxer is like a dancer, he is still pretty to watch even if you look only at his feet.” He taught me how to position myself so the full weight of my body was thrown behind a punch, and despite my size and my speed my punches were capable of gaining respect from a bigger opponent. “If they do not respect your punch, they simply keep going until they knock you down, man. A boxer must have respect.”

I longed to have a real fight against an unknown opponent. In two years I had never missed a day of boxing and I had worked with all my heart and soul for the moment when I could climb into a boxing ring with real people watching and an opponent whose every blow, unlike those of my sparring partners, could not be anticipated.

On the Monday of the week of the championships Snotnose didn't turn up at the gym. After the session Lieutenant Smit called Geel Piet over and they talked earnestly for quite a time, every so often looking in my direction. Finally Geel Piet came over to me. He was trying hard to keep the smile off his face.
“Ag,
man, I'm a heppy man today, small
baas.
You want to know why?”

“They going to let you out of jail?” I said.

He laughed. “No, never no more. I'm heppy here, man. I got my own stable of boxers, I got a good scam going. I will die heppy in this place.”

“What then?”

He bent down so his face was only inches from my own. His breath smelled foul. “You got your first fight, man! Small
baas
Bronkhorst, he is sick with the yellow disease, you got his place.”

I couldn't believe my ears. Snotnose had jaundice, which had been going around school. I went to hug Geel Piet, but he quickly sidestepped. “No, no, small
baas,
the lieutenant will come over and beat me.” He grinned. “Today this black bastard is too heppy to have his nose busted. Better go over quick, man, and thank the lieutenant. Make quick or maybe he changes his mind, hey?”

I ran over to where Lieutenant Smit was talking to Klipkop and stood and waited. They ignored me for a long time, and then the lieutenant said in a brusque voice, “What is it, Peekay?”

“Thank you for the fight, Lieutenant Smit,” I stammered. “I will try my hardest.”

He massaged his knuckles. “That won't be enough. You're going to get your head knocked in, but it will do you good. Nobody should win their first fight.” And he turned and walked away.

Geel Piet told me to bring my tackies in the next morning so they could be properly cleaned for me to wear at the fight. Using a piece of string, he measured my chest and my waist. When I got home after school, I told Dee and Dum my tackies should be put next to my school satchel so I wouldn't forget them, as Geel Piet needed to clean them. Dum got up quietly from where she was sitting on the floor at my feet while I drank a cup of coffee. She returned a few moments later with my tackies. They had been scrubbed and were spotless. “Who does this yellow man think he is?” she asked. “Does he think we let our
baas
go around in dirty things?” She and Dee were clearly hurt. I had to go to some lengths to explain that Geel Piet did all the things for the boxers and that now I was one of the squad he would do the same for me. “He will not wash your clothes or clean your tackies,” Dee said. “It is a woman's work, and we will look after the clothes of him who belongs to our own
kraal,
” Dum added.

I wasn't at all sure how my mother would take the news of my inclusion in the squad. Boxing was never mentioned, and as far as she was concerned my early morning sojourn to the jail was in order to take piano lessons. She had been very busy of late with a commission from a Johannesburg shop to make three ball gowns, and her Singer machine could be heard whirring away late at night. I knocked and entered the sewing room. It seemed full of a plum-colored taffeta evening gown which was almost finished. My mother rose and held it against her body, and she looked just how I imagined Cinderella must have looked when she went to the ball. The neckline plunged in a deep V-line, and the sleeves were puffed. The skirt billowed from the narrow waist, and as she moved, the taffeta caught the light and rustled in a most expensive and provocative way.

“Such an extravagance, I can't imagine where they found the material for this in the middle of the war.” She kicked at the skirt and it billowed out to reveal a second layer of net in a peacock blue.

“You look beautiful,” I said, not thinking to flatter her.

My mother laughed and, reaching for a cloth-padded hanger, proceeded to hang the dress up on a rod protruding from the wall. Even away from her body, the dress had a life of its own, filling the small sewing room with glamour. “That's the trouble with the things of the devil, they are often sorely tempting and very pretty,” she said with a sigh.

I had forgotten for a moment that dances were very high on the Lord's banned list. My heart sank. If dancing was frowned upon by the Lord, what would He think of a boxing match? I immediately consoled myself with the knowledge that, as far as I knew, God was a man, and therefore He'd obviously like boxing a lot better than dancing.

“You've come about the boxing, haven't you?” my mother said, resuming her seat at the sewing machine.

“Yes, mother.” I was unable to conceal the surprise in my voice.

“Yes, well, Lieutenant Smit, a very nice man, came to see me this morning, though I'm not at all sure I liked what he had to say. I've spoken to your grandfather about it, and I made it the subject of my quiet time with the Lord after lunch. I have to tell you, He gave me no clear guidance on the matter, though your grandfather seems to think it can't do you any harm.” Her head jerked back in a sudden gesture of annoyance. “Oh, how I do wish you'd stick to the piano. It's quite clearly the Lord's wish that you do so, or he wouldn't have made it possible for you to learn under such trying circumstances. Lieutenant Smit seems to think you have a natural talent as a boxer, which is more than the professor has admitted about your music.”

“Doc has said my Chopin is coming along extra good,” I said, mimicking him ever so slightly.

My mother was sewing a press stud onto what looked like a cummerbund for the taffeta dress, and now she looked up at me. “I do wish you wouldn't call him by that silly name. Heaven knows this town has few enough nice people and, after all, he is a real professor of music and merits your respect. His being German is simply unfortunate. I suppose we'd all talk German with a funny accent if Hitler won the war. You'll have to sleep on Friday afternoon if you're going to be up that late on Saturday night.”

I jumped for joy. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I cried and gave her a hug and a kiss.

“I'm not at all sure the Lord approves,” she said, but I could see she was glad I had kissed her. “Run along now.”

On Friday morning after calisthenics Lieutenant Smit called us all together around the ring. “I want to tell you first a few things,” he said. He turned to the five kids standing to one side with Geel Piet. “The rules for under-fifteen says, you get knocked down, you out. No use getting up, man, you finished and
klaar.
So don't get knocked down, hey?” He indicated Klipkop, who was standing on his right. “Sergeant Oudendaal is a semipro so is not allowed to fight, so Gert will fight in the heavyweight division and Sergeant Oudendaal and me will be your seconds. You do as you told, man, and no monkey business, you hear? Don't go thinking you know better. You all know the rules, the most clean blows landed wins, that's how Geel Piet here taught you. The rest of you in the weight divisions just fight your normal fight. If you need to change tactics I'll tell you, man.” He was turning to leave the ring when his eye caught something at his feet. He stooped down and picked up a small blue singlet, on the front of which in yellow were the letters
bb
, standing for Barberton Blues. He turned the singlet around to face us. On the back, written in neat cutout letters, we saw
peekay
. “Welcome, Peekay,” he said, and everyone clapped. “Welcome to the Barberton Blues.” There was a roaring in my head and my throat ached as I choked back the tears. Lieutenant Smit bent down again and picked up a pair of blue shorts with a yellow stripe down the side, and, bundling the shorts and singlet together, he threw them at me. They parted company in midair and my left hand shot out to grab the singlet while my right fetched the shorts out of the air. “The little bugger is fast and uses both hands well. I only wish he carried another fifteen pounds,” he said as he climbed from the ring.

I showed Doc my singlet and shorts and he seemed very pleased for me. I told him about the three rounds. “Do you think you can go three rounds with Mr. Chopin, Peekay?” he asked. I nodded, determined to show Doc that his precious music was not taking a backseat, although I suspect he knew that my mind was more on staying on my feet and not getting knocked down than on the etude with which I was trying to come to grips. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Geel Piet enter. I knew that if he wanted to he would come in unnoticed, that he had worked out the exact angle to enter so he was seen without disturbing anyone. It was unusual for him to come into the hall at this time. I always put the day's mail in the piano seat and later, when he came in to polish the Steinway, he would retrieve it. We had decided the three of us should never be seen together near the post-box. I glanced over to where he stood, pretending to clean a window, a bucket at his feet. Finally Doc noticed him and raised his hand for me to stop.

“You must not come when we practice, that is the rule,” he admonished. The battered little man quickly picked up the bucket and trotted toward us. Doc looked annoyed. “What is it?”

“Please,
baas
, it is very important,
baas.
” Geel Piet put down the bucket and withdrew a parcel wrapped in a piece of cloth. “The people have put money together and in the bootmaker's we have made for the small
baas
a present.” He opened the cloth to reveal a pair of boxing boots. I gasped. They were beautiful, the black leather brought to a soft sheen and the soles the bluish white of raw new leather. “It is from all the people, a present for the Onoshobishobi Ingelosi, the Tadpole Angel. It is from all of us so you will fight a mighty fight tomorrow, small
baas.”

I leaped from the piano stool, unable to contain my delight. “It is why I asked you for the tackies, small
baas.
” He gave me a big, toothless smile. “It was to know the size.”

I quickly pulled my school boots off and put the boxing boots on. The leather was soft and pliant and the boots felt light as a feather and fitted perfectly. “Geel Piet, they are the nicest present anyone ever gave me, honest.”

“They are from all of the people, it is their way to thank you.”

Without warning he dropped to his knees, and, using the cloth in which the boxing boots had been wrapped, he started to polish the floor around my feet. Some instinct in him that never rested had sensed danger. A good five seconds elapsed before the warder actually stood at the entrance to the hall.

He was a new sergeant whom we'd only met once in the mess. His name was Borman and he had been transferred down to the lowveld from Pretoria Central because of his wife's asthma.

He stood, one hand holding the door frame. “Professor, the kommandant wants to see you. Report to administration after breakfast, you hear?” He turned to go, then caught sight of Geel Piet.
“Kom hier,
kaffir!” he rapped.

The little man jumped up and ran across the hall.
“Ja, baas,
I come,
baas,
” he cried.

“What you doing in this place?” the warder demanded.

Doc bent down and picked up one of my school boots. “The boy got some
kak
on his boots, he come to clean them.” He appeared to be scrutinizing the sole of one of my boots.
“Ja,
this is so,” Doc said, waving the boot at the warder and then pointing to where Geel Piet had been cleaning the floor. “Also some was on the floor when he walked in.”