The Power of One (47 page)

Doc lost no time getting started, and the kommandant was still on his way to his seat when the first notes of the Chopin nocturne filled the hall. At first the music was wonderfully relaxed, deceptively simple and straightforward, and then, as the recital continued, the melody line became more and more ornamental. Doc's finger technique was remarkable as the delicate filigree writing for the right hand came into play. In the middle section the music became more and more complex, fast and urgent, leading to a long crescendo and frenzied climax where Doc could shake his head a lot and bang furiously at the keys, which he knew the audience would like. The nocturne ended with an elegant descent in steps toward a rustling, almost muted, final chord.

Doc had chosen well. Chopin's Nocturne Number Five is not difficult music to understand, and it is very beautiful. The audience stood up, clapped, and seemed very pleased. Doc rose and took a bow and nodded for me to return to my seat next to Mrs. Boxall. Then he removed several sheets of music from inside his piano stool and fixed them carefully to the music rack. He turned to the audience and cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Tonight I would like to dedicate this next piece of music, which I have played once only before, to a friend, a very good friend. I have named this music by his name, and it is for him, I give you ‘Requiem for Geel Piet'!”

Without further ado Doc sat down at the Steinway and commenced to play the “Concerto of the Great Southland,” which he had now renamed. The melodies of the tribal songs seemed to take over the hall as the Ndebele song followed the Sotho with its more strident rhythm, Doc's right hand taking the part of the solo high-pitched voice and the left chasing it as the singers themselves had done. The Swazi melody followed and then the Shangaan, each separated by the haunting refrain that carried a hint of each, yet acted to lead away from the one and into the other. Finally came the victory song of the great Shaka, and the Steinway seemed to build the drama of the magnificent Zulu
impi
the chords crashing as they marched into battle. The requiem closed with a muted and very beautiful compilation of the songs of the tribes. The music seemed to swell as all around us from the cells beyond the hall the voices came as the tribes completed the requiem. Geel Piet, who had had no tribe, whose blood was the mixture of all the people of Southern Africa—the white tribe, the Bushman, the Hottentot, the Cape Malay, and the black tribal blood of Africa itself—was celebrated in death by all the tribes. He was the new man of Southern Africa, the result of three hundred years of torture, treachery, racism, and slaughter in the name of one color or another.

There was a special kind of silence as the performance ended. To our own was joined the silence of the listeners beyond the hall. We had all been a part of the lament for Africa. “Requiem for Geel Piet” was a lament for all of us, the tears shed for South Africa itself.

During the applause Brigadier Joubert, the Inspector of Prisons, rose from his seat and moved to the front of the hall. He raised his hands for silence and the hall grew quiet again. Taking a khaki handkerchief from his trouser pocket, he slowly wiped his eyes and began to speak very emotionally.

“Tonight,
dames en here
, we have heard a work of true genius. Whoever this Geel Piet was, we know from his name that he was an Afrikaner who is honored by this music. He was also the spirit of South Africa, the fatherland, and as Afrikaners we should all honor him and his death.” He folded the handkerchief neatly and put it back into the pocket of his tunic. “All I can say is that he must have been a great man for the professor to write a piece of music just for him. I now ask you all to stand and to bring your hands together once again for the professor.” I saw that Captain Smit had a big smile on his face and was clapping madly. Even the kommandant seemed to have decided to ignore the irony, and he was clapping for all he was worth. I think he must have seen colonel's tabs on the lapels of his uniform in the very near future.

Doc stood with his head bowed throughout the brigadier's speech, and I could see that he had his bandanna out and was doing one of his sniffs into it. I knew he was crying for Geel Piet. But I also knew Geel Piet would have found this moment very funny.

“Ag,
man,” he would have said, “why must a man always wait until he is dead for such a clever joke to happen?”

Then the warders, wives, and guests moved into the gym to watch the boxing exhibition. The chairs were being cleared from the hall to get ready for the Boer music and
tiekiedraai
which, with the
braaivleis,
was the highlight of the evening.

Captain Smit had worked out a routine for the boxing exhibition which was pretty clever. All the boxers were seated in a row facing the ring and he was in the ring with a whistle around his neck, acting as referee. When the audience had filled the gym, he blew his whistle and I climbed into the ring with Snotnose. We shook hands and Captain Smit blew his whistle again and Snotnose and I started to box. The idea was that after every round, one of the boxers would step down and another would replace him. As the youngest, I stepped out first and Fonnie Kruger came in and boxed the next round with Snotnose. Then Maatie Snyman replaced Snotnose and fought Fonnie and then Fonnie stepped down and Nels Stekhoven came in and so on right up to the the heavyweights, where Klipkop fought Gert and then as a joke I stepped in and fought the final round with Klipkop. It was a good way to entertain the crowd, as every boxer ended up fighting someone lighter and heavier than himself and we fought as hard as we could to give them a good show. It all went like clockwork and not a word was spoken by Captain Smit, who just blew his whistle to start and stop a round. When I stepped into the ring with Klipkop, the crowd cheered like mad and someone said, “Murder da bum, Peekay!” and everybody laughed. I danced around Klipkop and gave him a terrible time, punching him in the solar plexus. He attempted to take my head off with huge uppercuts, always missing by a mile. The crowd enjoyed it a lot, and finally Captain Smit blew his whistle and held my hand up and there was a lot of cheering.

Afterward, as the crowd was leaving, I went over to Doc and Mrs. Boxall to tell them that I had to change and would see them at the
braaivleis.
Mrs. Boxall said that she wanted to have a word with the inspector chappie and that she'd be obliged if Doc would go with her for moral support, so they'd see me later. As I turned to go, she called me back.

“Peekay, I must say I've never been too keen on your boxing. But you do seem to be rather good at it, and I do believe you will be welterweight champion of the world some day. Jolly well done is all I can say!”

“A champion already. Absoloodle!” Doc added.

We were all in the showers changing when Klipkop came in. “Captain Smit wants you all to come back into the gym when you finished. Make quick, you must all be there in the next ten minutes. When you get into the gym the lights will be off. Only the lights above the ring will be on.” He had changed hurriedly as he spoke, and now he fumbled with his shirt buttons and then sat down and pulled on his socks and shoes. “Sit in the dark and be very quiet. Not near the door but on the far side of the ring, you hear?” We all nodded and he hurried from the room.

We hadn't been seated long in the darkened gym when one of the double doors opened, spilling a shaft of light from the passage into the gymnasium. Caught in the light were Captain Smit, Klipkop, and, standing between them, Lieutenant Borman. The door swung back into place, and we could only dimly see the three men walking toward the ring, while they would not have been able to see us. Then they appeared suddenly in the circle of light illuminating the ring.

“Climb in, Kronkie, up into the ring,” Captain Smit said.

“What you doing, man, what's happening?” we heard Lieutenant Borman say.

“Just climb in, we'll tell you in a minute. Everything will be made clear in a minute,” Captain Smit said. Borman climbed up into the ring, and Captain Smit and Klipkop followed. A pair of boxing gloves hung from the posts of each of the two boxer's corners, and in one of the neutral corners lay what appeared to be a piece of rolled-up canvas. Like Captain Smit, Lieutenant Borman was wearing civilian clothes, an open-neck shirt, and long pants. Captain Smit leaned into the ropes and removed his shoes, leaving his socks on.

“Take off your shoes, please, Lieutenant,” Klipkop said politely.

“Hey, man, what's going on here?” Borman said with just a hint of apprehension in his voice. “I'm not going to fight, man. I don't want to fight nobody. What's going on?”

“Take off your shoes, please, Lieutenant,” Klipkop repeated. Captain Smit picked up his shoes and placed them neatly beside a corner post.

“I got no quarrel with you, Smit. I never done anything personally to you. Why do you want to fight me?”

“Take off your shoes or am I going to have to take them off for you, Lieutenant?” Klipkop asked calmly.

“Keep your hands
off
me, you hear?” Borman snarled. “I am your superior, Oudendaal! You show me respect or you on report, you hear?” He seemed to gain courage from the sound of his voice, shaking his finger as he shouted at Klipkop. Klipkop sighed, shook his head slowly, and started to move toward Lieutenant Borman. Borman hurriedly pulled one shoe off and dropped it on the canvas, then removed the other and placed them both in the neutral corner right next to the rolled-up piece of canvas.

From the moment Captain Smit had stepped into the ring he had remained silent, and I could sense this was beginning to unnerve Borman. Klipkop lifted the gloves from the post nearest to the lieutenant and walked over to him.

“Give me your hand, please, sir,” he said in a matter-of-fact sort of voice.

Lieutenant Borman immediately folded his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits. “No, man! No way! You can't make me fight. Let Smit tell me first what I done.” Captain Smit had retrieved the gloves in his corner; placing one between his legs, he slipped his hand into the other. “Jus' tell me, you hear!” Borman shouted. Captain Smit looked up from the glove straight at Borman. Keeping his eyes fixed on the Lieutenant, he slowly pulled the glove from his fist and dropped it, then opened his knees so that the second glove also fell onto the canvas. He walked over to the neutral corner and picked up the object lying there. We could now see, for sure, that it was a roll of canvas. He held the roll up to his chin so that it unrolled. My heart gave an enormous leap. The canvas sheet Captain Smit was holding was covered with dry blood. Borman pulled back in horror but then, just as quickly, recovered himself.

“What's this, man? I never saw that before in my whole life.”

Captain Smit said nothing but began to roll the canvas up again. When I had climbed into the ring earlier I had been terrified I might see signs of Geel Piet's blood, but the old canvas had been removed and the ring recovered. The sight of Captain Smit holding part of the old bloodstained canvas brought back the shock, and without realizing it I began to sob. Suddenly a large, hard hand covered my mouth and Gert's arm came around my shoulder and drew me into him.

Captain Smit put the canvas back in the corner and retrieved the boxing gloves. Klipkop pulled Borman's arms open and slipped his gloves on. This time the lieutenant made no move to stop him as he laced up the gloves.

“I don't know what you talking about, you hear? I swear I was at home the night the kaffir died. I can prove it! I had to go home because my wife had an asthma attack. Everybody saw

I wasn't at the kaffir concert. That's because I was at home, I got called on the telephone, my wife had a bad attack, ask anyone. You're mad, I'm telling you, you mad, I never done it. I never killed that yellow kaffir!”

Klipkop finished tying Captain Smit's gloves and he walked to the center of the ring. “No butting, no kicking, fight like a man,” Klipkop said, and he climbed out of the ring, leaving Smit and Borman to fight.

Captain Smit started across the ring toward Lieutenant Borman, but Borman held up his glove open-handed. “Look. I admit I phoned Pretoria about the kaffir concert, I admit that. Orright, you got me on that. I thought I was right, I done my duty, that's all. You can't blame me for that. I done what I thought was right.”

Captain Smit brushed the open glove aside with a left and drove a hard right into the soft roll of gut that spilled over Borman's belt. The lieutenant doubled up, clasping at his stomach with both hands, trying to catch his breath. Smit stood over him, waiting. Without warning, Borman suddenly smashed his gloved fist into Captain Smit's balls. The captain staggered back, grabbing at his genitals, and then he sank to his knees. Borman was on him in a flash. Catching him on the side of the jaw, he sent Captain Smit crashing to the canvas. Borman shouted, “You kaffir
boetie,
you nigger lover, don't fuck with me, you hear, man!” He kicked Captain Smit in the ribs just as Klipkop, who had climbed back into the ring, reached him and brought his arms around him. But Borman's blood was up. He was a big man, and he jerked free just as Captain Smit was attempting to rise. He caught Smit another solid blow to the side of the head, putting him back on the canvas. Klipkop tried to hold Lieutenant Borman again.

“I killed the bastard, you hear!” Borman shouted. “I killed that yellow nigger. He wouldn't tell me who gave him the letters, who brought the letters in. I caught him red-handed, two letters, man, red-handed! Two fucking letters in his pocket. He wouldn't tell me. I broke every bone in his face. I jammed the fucking donkey prick up his arse till he shit his entrails, but he wouldn't tell me! The black bastard wouldn't talk!” There were flecks of foam at the corners of Borman's mouth, and he began to sob.