The Power of One (50 page)

Miss Bornstein called me over at the end of class and asked me to copy out the clothing list. I did so and handed it over to her. She read it for a moment. “What about these swatches, can you get the gray and the green swatch, Peekay? Even if you cut off a little, it's absolutely necessary for me to have them.” I promised to get hold of the swatches somehow, feeling pleased that the matter of my school clothes wasn't singularly in the Lord's hands any longer.

“We don't have very much money,” I said, for the first time in my life realizing that money was important. I knew we were poor, but it hadn't seemed to matter much. I'd had the occasional penny to spend on nigger balls, large, black, extraordinarily hard balls that sucked down into layer after layer of different colors and that lasted a good two hours in the mouth. My friends were generous with their sweets, so I'd never really felt poor or needed money. I always somehow managed to save up four shillings for Christmas, and old Mr. McClymont at the gentlemen's outfitters would give me four ladies' hankies and a man's one, as well as a bandanna for Doc. The ladies' hankies would go to my mother, Mrs. Boxall, and Dee and Dum, while the man's was for my granpa. They always looked surprised when they got them, but I don't suppose they were. The only alternative to a handkerchief was a cake of Knights castile soap, and I couldn't see the value in something that wore out after a few baths. When they went to clean Doc's cottage on a Sunday, Dee and Dum would spread their hankies carefully over the top of their heads in the African fashion. They could never understand why white people would blow the stuff from their noses into such a pretty piece of cloth. Sunday at Doc's cottage was their big outing, and they liked to look pretty. When they got there they removed the hankies, of course, but they never once used them for blowing into. I think they liked their hankies better than anyone, although I know Doc liked his bandanna, which was always a red one.

“There are lots of ways to skin a cat,” Miss Bornstein said. “This town isn't going to let its
enfant terrible
go to boarding school looking like a ragamuffin.”

Between Miss Bornstein and Mrs. Boxall, the cloth for my trousers and blazer and blue serge suit just appeared, although I expect old Mr. McClymont had a hand in it somewhere. Then

Miss Bornstein sprang her surprise. Old Mr. Bornstein, who had become Doc's formidable opponent at chess, had been a tailor in Germany. He would cut the cloth and do the handwork if my mother would do the machine work. The suit was easy because “a suit is a suit, already” but we needed a blazer to make sure that mine was cut and tailored in the same way as those purchased from John Orrs, 129 Eloff St., Johannesburg. Miss Bornstein said children tend to pick on you if you're different and it was important to get everything just right. Mrs. Andrews had sent two of her sons to the Prince of Wales School and she still had a school blazer, which she gave to Mrs. Boxall. Old Mr. Bornstein took it apart to see how it was made and did a whole lot of tut-tutting about the poor workmanship. He then cut a blazer to my size and as the badge, which was three ostrich feathers sticking out of a crown, was almost new he cut it carefully around the edges and sewed it onto my new blazer so well that you would have needed a magnifying glass to see where he'd done it. Mrs. Boxall sent to Johannesburg for two red, white, and green striped school ties, which were her special present. All my shirts were cut from a pair of cotton poplin sheets Miss Bornstein said her mother had never used. Old Mr. Bornstein knew just how to make the collars so that the starch collars donated by old Mr. McClymont fit perfectly. Marie and her mother knitted me three pairs of socks for Christmas. Only the brown and black shoes remained, and at the prison Christmas party for all the warders Captain Smit handed me a large parcel from the boxing squad. Inside were a pair of new brown shoes and a pair of black ones and a brand-new pair of boxing boots.
“Magtig,
Peekay, we are all proud of you going to that posh
rooinek
school in Johannesburg, just don't get all high and mighty on us all of a sudden when you get back, heh?” Everyone laughed and cheered and I felt the sorrow of leaving people I loved. Even old Snotnose had become a good friend over the years, and I would miss them all a lot. The kommandant stood up and recounted the first day he'd met me and said that I had proved that English and Afrikaner were one people, South Africans. That perhaps with my generation the bitterness would pass. He said I was a leader of men and that even the prisoners respected me for my letter writing. There was some more clapping and, shaking at the knees, I thanked them all. I can't remember what I said, but I promised I would never forget them and I never have.

Only one more incident is worth recording in that long last

summer of childhood. My mother and Marie had already testified to the congregation about the Lord's miraculous answer to their prayers. Only the requested V-neck long sleeve gray jersey was missing from my kit, but as it was summer in Johannesburg, my mother knew that the Lord would provide in time for winter. Which He did. Four knitted jerseys were pushed into her hands by separate dear, sweet Christian ladies less than a fortnight later.

On the same night, my mother and Marie also testified that the Lord had once again blessed their work in the hospital. For several weeks they had worked for the salvation of a dear man who was dying of cancer of the rectum—a man still in the prime of his life, struck down by this terrible disease. They told how they had testified to him and had seen him wrestle with the devil, how they had wept for him and pleaded with him to take the Lord Jesus into his heart, and how finally, after a massive rectal hemorrhage and with the hours running out, Lieutenant Borman had surrendered his life to the Lord Jesus and had gone to meet his Savior in paradise.

Lieutenant Borman died knowing what it felt like to have a donkey prick jammed up your arse until your entrails spill out.

IT
wasn't until I went to boarding school the second time that I learned that survival is a matter of actively making the system work for you rather than attempting to survive it.

My partner from the very first day at school was Morrie Levy. Morrie was Jewish, of course, which was a very rare occurrence at the Prince of Wales School.

I was wrestling with my heavy suitcase, trying to get it off the train. “Hey, you!” I turned to see a boy in a blazer the same as mine. Beside him stood a black porter carrying a suitcase. “If you want to build muscles, take a Charles Atlas course.” He signaled for the porter to take my suitcase before extending his hand. “Howzit? I'm the token Jew. Who are you?”

“Thanks. My name's Peekay,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Morrie. Morrie Levy. What's your first name, Peekay?”

“It's just Peekay, first and second,” I replied.

“Peekay Peekay? How unusual.”

“No ... no, that's not what I meant, just the one name, Peekay.”

We had started to walk up the platform together, and Morrie stopped in his tracks. “You're not bullshitting me, are you?”

I grinned but offered no further explanations, “
Ja
, that's right, just one.”

Morrie seemed to be thinking as we continued down the platform. “I like that. No complications, open, forthright, what you see is what you get.” He gave a wry little chuckle. “Me, I've got the whole diaspora, Morris Soloman Levy, you can't get more kosher than that; kings and priests, not bad insurance for a kid whose parents escaped being rounded up by the SS by pretending they were Roman Catholics.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but he seemed a nice sort of a guy. All the Jews I'd ever known were pretty nice. Harry Crown and old Mr. Bornstein and Miss Bornstein, of course. It seemed a pleasant coincidence that the first kid I should meet at the Prince of Wales was a Jew.

We were supposed to meet the school sergeant at the station, and I was glad of the company. We heard him before we actually saw him. “Prince of Wales new boys! Ahaat the double!”

“Christ, Peekay, look at that!” Morrie said, pointing to a large man wearing a scarlet military tunic. Despite ourselves we straightened up a bit and Morrie ran a comb through his dark, Brylcreemed hair, which swept up in the pompadour style of the time and ended in a ducktail at the back.

We instinctively quickened our pace, causing the porter with the two heavy suitcases to trot beside us. As we drew near we could see the green blazered backs of four other boys who had formed a line in front of the big man who stood at rigid attention, his pace stick clasped under his armpit. The top half of his face was completely hidden from view under the shiny peak of a guardsman's cap. The only thing that protruded from under the peak was a large waxed moustache. On the sleeve of his tunic were three gold sergeant's stripes above which rested a gold crown. His trousers were of black serge with a red stripe running down the sides of the leg leading directly to a pair of mirror-gloss black boots. A white shirt with celluloid collar and black tie completed his uniform.

The panting porter added our suitcases to a pile already stacked on the platform and took the tip from Morrie, proffering both hands in the customary manner to receive it. Without a word we joined the four other kids to stand more or less at attention before the school sergeant.

I was tired and after all the excitement of the departure hadn't slept well. I also needed a shower to get rid of the cinder grit and coal smoke feel of the train. The Barberton train had left at four o'clock the previous afternoon, its single school carriage pulled by the coffeepot to Kaapmuiden, where it was shunted onto the school train which would travel through the night to Pretoria and Johannesburg. There were several kids traveling back to school, although I was the only one going to the Prince of Wales and, I must say, I felt constrained and thoroughly out of place in long pants, starched collar, blazer, tie, and a straw hat known as a boater.

It was a big send-off, much bigger than anyone had expected. Of course my mother, Granpa, Marie, and Dee and Dum were there, also Doc and Mrs. Boxall, Miss Bornstein, and old Mr. Bornstein and all the kids from the boxing squad, who clapped and howled and whistled when they saw me in my uniform. Snotnose and Bokkie pretended to fall on the ground, they were laughing so much, in particular at my straw boater. Gert had to finally tell them to behave, but I could see he also thought I looked pretty funny in my fancy
rooinek
school clothes. But the really big surprise came when a prison truck arrived and from it climbed the prison brass band. They set up their stands in the middle of the platform and commenced to play.

“It's the kommandant's idea, Peekay,” Captain Smit said. “He wanted to give you a big send-off. You know man, he is very proud of you.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment. “We all are. I got money on it, one day you going to be the welterweight champion of the world. Don't let that
rooinek
school change that, you hear?” He gave me a squeeze on the shoulder. “You're a proper Boer, little
boetie,
we all counting a lot on you.”

At last the guard blew his ail-aboard whistle and I said goodbye to everyone and climbed into the carriage. Dee and Dum and Marie were all having a bit of a sniffle and my mother would have too if she hadn't thought she ought to set an example for Marie. Doc was burying his nose in his red bandanna and pushing it all over the place. When the guard blew his final whistle the band struck up with “Now Is the Hour for Us to Say Goodbye.” Nearly everyone started to blub, and I was pretty choked up myself.

I recalled how I had last boarded a train to leave a part of my life behind me, how I had fallen over with my clown tackies stuffed with newspaper, and how Hoppie Groenewald had dusted me down and lifted me up the steps, explaining how he too was always falling down the stupid things. “No worries, little
boetie,
Hoppie Groenewald will look after you.”

Now here I was, dressed in a starched collar, hand-tailored blazer, long pants, and highly polished shoes. Gert had shown me how to polish boots prison-style until you could see your face in them. The coffeepot's chuffa-chuff-chuffing drowned the band, and then the farewell party grew so small I could hardly make out Dee and Dum still waving. I looked up to see the hills and in particular the hill behind the rose garden where I had met Doc the day I had gone to grieve for the loss of Nanny. I was once again alone in a railway compartment headed for a new adventure.

After the train left Kaapmuiden I lay awake for a long time in the top bunk of my compartment listening to the wheels saying “First-with-the-head-then-with-the-heart. First-with-the-head-then-with-the-heart.” It was as though Hoppie was coming with me on this second train ride into manhood. The night rushed past the window, black light broken only occasionally by a pinpoint as we roared past a cooking fire in an African village.

Every once in a while the train would whistle at something in the dark and I knew the sound would carry for miles across the veldt. “First-with-the-head-then-with-the-heart. First-with-the-head-then-with-the-heart.” The hectic lickity-clack finally put me to sleep.

Now we were standing in front of this huge old soldier who looked like a recruiting poster for the Great War. With his pacing stick still clasped under his arm, he removed a small spiral-bound notepad from the top left-hand pocket of his tunic and flicked it open. Pulling his head back and squinting down his nose, he looked at each of us in turn. I wondered why he didn't simply lift the peak of his cap so that he could see properly.

“Righto then, my name is Bolter, Mr. Bolter to Mrs. Bolter if there was a Mrs. Bolter, which there ain't, thank gawd! Sarge to you lot. Answer your names as I call them out!” He shouted this information at us as though he were addressing the entire length of the platform. I could see that the five guys around me were just as scared as I was. He glanced down at the pad in his hand. “De la Cour!” A pale-looking kid with curly blond hair stuck his hand up in the air. “Not your hand, lad! You only raise your hand when you want a pee! ‘Present, Sarge!' Or just ‘Sarge!'”

“Present, Sarge,” de la Cour said softly.

“Look lively now, lad. Put some Marmite into it!” He glanced briefly at his notepad. “Atherton!”

“Present, sir!” the kid next to me shouted so that we all jumped.

“Don't call me sir!”

“Present, Sarge,” the blond boy with pale blue eyes said, this time more quietly.

“Atherton? You have a brother at school, in forty-three?”

“My cousin, sir,” Atherton replied.

“Sarge! When I want to be a gentleman, I'll bloody well tell you. It's obvious, Atherton, all the brains in your family went to your cousin.”

“Yes, Sarge,” Atherton said, his face a deep beetroot red.

“Best fly half in the school's history, got his colors in form four, let's hope you follow in his footsteps, Mr. Atherton. If you do I shall forgive you this one indiscretion. Now look sharp, lad.”

Sergeant Major Bolter consulted the tiny notepad once again. “Peekay!”

“Present, Sarge!”

“Peekay? No initial, just Peekay? What sort of a name is that, pray tell?”

“It's what I've almost always been called, Sarge.”

“Well, I'm afraid that won't do, it's not Christian, lad. A gentleman always has two names at the very least. That is, if he isn't a lord. You're not a lord or a duke, are you?”

“No, Sarge. It's just my name. Miss Bornstein wrote to the school and explained.”

Sergeant Major Bolter sighed deeply and bowed slightly toward me with a pretend smile on his face. “Oh, she did, did she now? Well, that's settled then, isn't it? I mean, if Miss Bornstein asked, we can't quibble over a small matter like a gentleman's Christian name and surname being the one and same, can we?”

“I'm not a gentleman either, Sarge,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. I knew I was in trouble, but I thought it might be best to clear up any misconceptions in one hit. The kids around me giggled, with the exception of Morrie, who gave me a light nudge with his elbow.

The waxed ends of the sergeant major's moustaches seemed visibly to twitch as he drew himself up to his full height. “I'm the only one around here who's allowed not to be a gentleman, lad,” he announced, as though the subject were closed to further discussion. “You've made a good job of shining your shoes. I suppose that's something in your favor, lad,” he sniffed.

“Ryder!” A boy with dark hair and piercing blue eyes jumped to a sort of attention.

“Present, Sarge! It's Cunningham-Ryder, Sarge. With a hyphen.”

Sarge looked at him and gave a meaningful sigh. “And, Mr.

Cunningham-Ryder with an ‘ifin, do we have a Christian name to go with our double-barreled moniker?”

“Yes, Sarge. George Andrew Sebastian, Sarge.”

“Well now, that's more like it, ain't it, lads? Cunningham-Ryder has three Christian names and two surnames and Peekay here has none. What do you say to that?” The relief I had felt at being passed over was short lived; the bastard was going to have another go.

Morrie gave me a small dig with his elbow. “Perhaps Cunningham-Ryder can give Peekay one of his names, Sarge?” he said. We all turned to look at him, stunned at his audacity.

“What's your name, lad?” Sergeant Major Bolter asked softly, which did nothing to conceal the terrible menace in his voice.

“Levy, Sarge. Morrie Levy, and I'm not a gentleman or a Christian. I'm a Jew. My dad had to pull all sorts of strings to get me in.” He wore an ingenuous expression as he looked directly at the sergeant major.

We all giggled, but to our surprise Bolter didn't explode. Turning to his notepad, he said, “Levy, here at the Prince of Wales School everyone is a Christian and a gentleman, and that includes both you and Mr. Peekay.” He glanced up. “Johnson!” We all looked over at a small freckle-faced boy with red hair who stood next to Morrie with his mouth slightly open. “Johnson!” Sarge repeated, raising his voice several decibels. The kid with the open mouth had to be Johnson, as he was the only as yet unnamed one among us, but he remained silent, his terror-stricken gaze fixed on the large man. With a sort of stop-start jerky movement he raised his hand.

“Do we want to do wee-wee, lad?” I could see Sarge was growing impatient with us all.

“No, sir.” Johnson gulped the words out.

“Do not call me ‘sir,' you piss-wit!” Sergeant Major Bolter yelled. Several people walking along the platform stopped to stare at him. And that's how “Pissy” Johnson came to get his nickname.

I was enormously impressed with Morrie. I had never met a Jewish person my age or someone who couldn't become a Christian even had he wanted to. I knew instantly I liked him. As it transpired, Morrie Levy was to become my closest friend, while Paul Atherton, Pissy Johnson, and “Cunning-Spider,” which is how Cunningham-Ryder was to become known, were the group with whom I mostly went around.