Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (9 page)

Armed with our weapons, some of us even wearing balaclavas, we stealthily made our way out of the grounds, via the hill, passing on the side of the Goldsmith residence. The hospital construction site provided a maze of adventure. Our relentless quest for excitement was insatiable, and the fact that we were fearless made us unpredictable. In addition, our defiance of authority was growing. It was a trait inherent in most Arcs.

Chained to one of the streetlights inside the hospital premises was a three-wheeled bicycle cart, the type with a large bin on the front, often used by milkmen to do their deliveries. Some of the boys tried to pull the chain apart, but without success.

‘Let me have a go,’ said Colin.

He grabbed the chain with both hands and pulled with all his strength, and to our amazement the lock popped open. Triumphantly, he mounted the saddle and gestured to us to jump into the bin. We all piled in and raced off down the hill, screaming our heads off. Because of the excessive weight and the speed we were travelling at, Colin lost control and crashed into the sidewalk, while we all went flying in different directions – what a gas! We laughed our heads off and bolted from the scene.

We then made our way to Roedean School, where, on previous outings, some of us had actually met a few of the girls, who seemed to quite fancy us. Already familiar with the terrain around the property, getting in and out was only a matter of manoeuvring from one side to the other. The only obstacle that presented any actual difficulty was the 2m-high steel fence topped with barbed wire, but this we climbed with relative ease. We entered the grounds, which were dimly lit, and made our way to the front of the building. I was feeling uncomfortable; there was something eerie about the place. The silence was unnatural. Unbeknown to us, lurking behind us in the shadows someone was watching our movements. We congregated in front of the main building and then, at the top of our voices and in concert, we began reciting the song ‘Three German Officers Crossed the Line, Parlez-Vous’, and so on. Lights started coming on in different sections of the building, and then we heard a dog barking. It wasn’t a very convincing bark, so we paid it no attention. It sounded like a poodle maybe.

But then, rising above the barking, came a coarse masculine voice that sounded awfully close.

‘What the hell are you doing here?!’ I could have sworn it was a German accent. As one, we turned and streaked off across the grass. The next thing we heard was a gunshot. Colin was a little to my right, but we were pretty close to each other and I heard him swear under his breath.

‘Ouch, my leg – I’ve been hit!’ He doubled over, obviously in pain.

Then there was another shot.

‘Nonsense,’ I said, trying to reassure him. ‘That was a cap gun or a firecracker. Come on!’

We had all run in different directions, but we had agreed beforehand that, if anything happened and we were separated, we would meet in The Wilds by the fishponds. I had taken the lead, and so far Colin was keeping up with me but again he pleaded that he had been hit. Fanny was further back and just off Colin’s right side.

As I ran, I couldn’t help wondering to myself what kind of lunatic would shoot at a bunch of kids. Minutes later we were all at our appointed rendezvous; everyone was accounted for, something of a victory all things considered, although one of us was not entirely unscathed, it had to be said. I explained to the others that Colin had been shot and we proceeded to inspect his leg. True to his word, we could see with our own eyes that some damage had been done. A mixture of shock and surprise came over us as we crowded round to examine the wound. There was a hole in the rear of his jeans covered in blood, just below his right buttock. We guessed that the bullet had exited on the other side, travelling straight through his thigh. Colin pulled his jeans to his knees, and we all stared silently. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. Red and white flesh was hanging out of the wound.

By now Colin was definitely in pain and we knew we needed to get back to the Arc before we could make an intelligent decision about what to do next. We also assumed that whoever had shot at us would have called the police by now. We quickly made our way through the back of The Wilds, which was quite a climb, and ran along the outskirts of Killarney and around the Oppenheimers’ property.

It wasn’t very late, around 10pm, when we got back to the Arc. We sent the junior boys back to their dormitories while we smuggled Colin into the toilets under the stairway that led to the senior girls’ section. I rushed up the stairs to call Joan, who just happened to be coming out of her room. I’m sure I was quite a sight, covered in blackjacks, panic-stricken and sweating like a pig. She asked what the hell we had done this time. I blurted out the story. Her expression was a mixture of anger and confusion. Then, without saying anything further, I grabbed her arm and pulled her back down the stairs with me.

Down in the toilets, Sammy explained in a controlled tone what had transpired. I’d always known Joan to be squeamish, but, to my surprise, she took charge of the situation. She started assigning duties: Sammy and I were instructed to keep a lookout for Vicky; Eric and Sandra Newstead were told to fetch towels, a bowl of hot water and some bandages; and Colin was ordered to remove his pants so that Joan could perform some basic first aid on him.

Despite our vigilance, we didn’t hear Vicky coming. He appeared to have been making his way to the area that adjoined the toilet. As soon as we were aware of this I thought we were surely busted. Not only would he have a clear view of Colin’s naked bum, but Joan’s profile was in full view, too, through the slightly ajar toilet door. And then suddenly Vicky was right there, stamping his feet and demanding to know what was going on. He tried to push his way into the toilet, and instinctively I grabbed the handle and pulled it closed. Sammy and I told Vicky that Colin didn’t have his pants on so he shouldn’t come in. Vicky was startled. He had obviously seen Joan in there. He looked at us suspiciously, quite sure that something was wrong but not able to figure out what it was.

‘Well, then finish whatever it is that you’re doing and get back to the dormitory,’ he said, and turned and left, while we sighed with relief.

By this stage Colin was in great pain, and Joan strongly suggested that we get him to a hospital. So we phoned a close friend of Colin’s, Steven Penn, whose father was a pharmacist and lived in Greenside. Within 15 minutes they’d arrived and whisked Colin off to hospital. Fortunately he recovered without any complications, and even though we may literally have crossed the line that night, at least no one had got arrested. The incident didn’t deter us from future escapades, however, and Colin remained a staunch friend.

In 1977, my matric year, I was the so-called head boy of Arcadia. Being a keen sportsman, I never smoked cigarettes, nor did I have the slightest inclination to experiment with marijuana. By now I was a strong and confident youngster. I didn’t care what any of my peers thought of me. The kids at King David, the high school I attended, who were often seen as spoilt Jewish brats, were, in my eyes, my equals. I never begrudged them what they had, but nor did I allow the deprivations in my own life to affect my self-esteem. It didn’t bother me that my dad didn’t drive a Mercedes or a Jaguar. I didn’t even
have
a dad. I was who I was, and nothing was going to change that. My life in Arcadia had, for the most part, turned out to be great.

The only forms of transport we Arcs had at our disposal were the Arcadia van and bus, and then only as passengers. A custom handed down to us by our predecessors, however, was to take the Arc van for a joyride in the late evening. David Lasker was an accomplished driver from an early age, and a mentor to those who followed in the years to come.

It was forbidden to leave the premises on Friday evening, as it was the Sabbath, but this never stopped us bunking out. Late one Friday evening, with a chill autumn wind gusting around the buildings, I lay restlessly on my bed. I decided that a night out and about in the Arc van was just what I needed to spice up what had been a mundane week. I encouraged a younger boy, Mark Wasserman, to join me.

Around midnight, after everyone had gone to sleep, Mark and I hijacked the Arc van and off we went, gallivanting aimlessly through the deserted suburbs. In retrospect, I can only wonder what possessed me to be so irresponsible: there I was, an unlicensed driver, putting both our lives in danger. While the thrill might elude us, the fact remains that my defiance of authority was a driving force in all my pleasure-seeking endeavours. Around 1am, somewhere in Bramley, we got stuck in a dead end, and what made matters worse was that we were at the bottom of a steep hill. And so began the arduous task of getting the van back up the hill. There was nothing for it but to push. Eventually, after what felt like hours, we managed to get it out. Finally we got back on a straight and level road, exhausted and sweating like animals.

Suddenly, a blue Valiant with dimmed lights appeared in the distance. We both spotted it at the same time.

‘Shit, it’s the police,’ Mark said, while pushing from behind. ‘Now what?’

My heart stopped for what seemed like an eternity. As the Valiant got closer, I leapt into the driver’s seat of the van while Mark, who had remained at the rear, kept pushing, on my instruction. The Valiant pulled alongside us. It was the police all right.

‘
Wat is die probleem with you ous?
’ The policeman asked us, half in English and half in Afrikaans.

My chest was pounding. I tried to speak but no words came. Then, as if from a distance, I heard myself saying, ‘She won’t start, officer. Do you think you could help push?’ (Talk about having chutzpah!)

I couldn’t have been very convincing.

‘Pull over and get out the car,’ the cop ordered, his voice stern. He told me to park on the side of the road, although he had pulled the Valiant up in front of us, forcing me to a standstill anyway.

Before I fully realised what was going on, my door was flung open and I was blinded by the beam of his flashlight.

‘Where are the keys, man?’ he asked me in a much harsher tone, while shining his torch on the empty ignition. Then he asked to see my licence.

My whole body began to shake, and I began to stutter, too.

‘I, uh, uh, uh … well, there are no, uh, k-k-k-k-k-keys,’ I told him.

A scuffle followed, during which he tried to pull me from my seat and I tried to push him away. Then all hell seemed to break loose. I heard shouting from the rear of the van.

‘Put your hands in the air!’ The second policeman had got to Mark.

At this stage I must have gone into shock. I began fighting both cops off and telling them that I could explain everything, but they kept coming at me. They still couldn’t get me out of the van, though. Then one of them produced what looked like a 9mm automatic and stuck it between my eyes. I froze instantly. Then I was literally wrenched out of the driver’s seat. Mark was already sitting in the back of the Valiant, his wrists cuffed. I’ve never forgotten the desperate look in his eyes.

We were taken to the Bramley police station. During the interrogation I was slapped and punched in the stomach. Mark, who was two or three years my junior, wasn’t touched. After telling them that we were from Arcadia, it turned out that the sergeant on duty was familiar with the Arc and that he also knew Vicky. This was something of a mixed relief, as neither of us relished the prospect of spending the weekend in the cells but nor did we like the idea of seeing the expression on Vicky’s face. At around 2am we were escorted back to Arcadia.

Vicky didn’t say a single word, but his disappointment was obvious and I could see immediately that I had let him down. Before retiring to his room, he came to my dormitory. Without even looking at me, he said one simple sentence: ‘I cannot understand your mentality.’ Before he left the room, he repeated it. Just the look in his eyes made me realise the severity of my situation.

The following Monday, an emergency session was held by the senior members of the Arc committee, which, if I’m not mistaken, was chaired by Sidney Nochumson. Mr Nochumson and I enjoyed a mutual dislike of each other. On several occasions I had been brought in front of the chairman for various misdemeanours. One incident that was clearly still fresh in his mind was the mass uprising, instigated by yours truly, against the hypocritical rule of the Duzzys. A point had been reached where the Duzzys were losing control of the kids. At one stage we got so bold that we let down the rear tyres on Mrs Duzzy’s car, and on another occasion I got one of the juniors to throw a stink bomb at the couple after lunch. Eventually they were afraid to come out of their flat, which was at the top of the stairway to the girls’ department. It was even rumoured that the Duzzys felt their lives were in danger, and one day somebody went through my cupboards, possibly thinking that I might have had some sort of weapon in my possession. In doing so, they had come across my journal, in which I used to write down my private thoughts. I had also sketched some pretty weird sexual stuff in there. My journal was then examined by several members of the Arcadia committee. I could only imagine their faces when they saw some of my diagrams.