Power of the Sword - Smith Wilbur (электронная книга TXT) 📗
Afterwards Fourie and his men go down to the corner bar and drink until closing time. In the morning they go back to the mine. Once a month, Lothar whispered. They bring in a whole month's production at one time. Then he looked up at Hendrick. You said the corner bar? And when the big black man nodded, I'll need at least ten shillings. 'What for? Hendrick was immediately suspicious.
One of us has to buy the barman a drink and they don't serve blacks at the corner bar. Lothar smiled maliciously, then raised his voice. Manfred! The boy had been so mesmerized by the speaker that he had not noticed his father's return. He scrambled to his feet guiltily.
Hendrick dumped a lump of fluffy white maize porridge into the lid of the billy and poured maas, thick soured milk, over it before he handed it to Manfred where he squatted cross-legged beside his father.
Did you know that it's all a plot by the Jewish owners of the gold mines in Johannesburg, Papa? Manfred asked, his eyes shining like a religious convert's.
What is? Lothar grunted.
The Depression. Manfred used the word importantly, for he had just learned it. It's been arranged by the Jews and the English so that they will have all the men they want to work for them for nothing on their mines and in their factories. Is that so? Lothar smiled as he spooned up the maas and maize meal. And did the Jews and the English arrange the drought as well? His hatred of the English did not extend beyond the borders of reason, though it could not have been more intense had the English indeed engineered the drought that had turned so many of his people's farms into sandy wastelands, the topsoil blown away on the wind, and the livestock into desiccated mummies embalmed in their own plank-hard skins.
It's so, Papa! Manfred cried. Oom Willem explained it to us. He pulled a rolled sheet of newsprint from his back pocket and spread it across his knee. Just look at this! The newspaper was Die Vaderland, an Afrikaans-language publication, The Fatherland', and the cartoon that Manfred was pointing out with a forefinger that trembled with indignation was in its typical style: Look what the Jews are doing to us! The main character in the cartoon was Hoggenheimer', one of Die Vaderland's creations, depicted as a gross creature in frock coat and spats, a huge diamond sparkling in his cravat, diamond rings on the fingers of both his hands, a top hat over his dark Semitic curls, a thick drooping lower lip and a great hooked beak of a nose the tip of which almost touched his chin. His pockets were stuffed with five-pound notes and he brandished a long whip as he drove a loaded wagon towards distant steel headgear towers labelled gold mines'. In the traces of the wagon were human beings instead of trek-oxen. Lines of men and women, skeletal and starving, with huge tortured eyes as they toiled onwards under Hoggenheirner's whip. The women wore the traditional voortrekker bonnets, and the men slouch hats, and so that there could be no mistake, the artist had labelled them Die Afrikaner Volk, the Afrikaans people', and the caption to the cartoon was The New Great Trek'.
Lothar chuckled and handed the news-sheet back to his son. He knew very few Jews, and none who looked like Hoggenheimer. Most of them were as hardworking and ordinary as anyone else, and now were as poor and starving.
If life were as simple as that... He shook his head.
It is, Papa! All we have to do is get rid of the Jews, Oom Willem explained it. Lothar was about to reply when he realized that the smell of their food had attracted three of the camp's children, who were standing at a polite distance watching each spoonful he raised to his mouth. The cartoon was no longer important.
There was one older girl, about twelve years of age. She was blonde, her long braids bleached as silver and fine as the Kalahari grass in winter. She was so thin that her face seemed all bone and eyes, prominent cheekbones and a high straight forehead. Her eyes were the light blue of the desert sky. Her dress was of old flour sacks sewn together, and her feet were bare.
Clinging to her skirts were two smaller children. A boy with a shaven head and large ears. His skinny brown legs stuck out of his patched khaki shorts. The small girl had a runny nose, and she sucked her thumb as she clung to her elder sister's skirts with the other hand.
Lothar looked away but suddenly the food lost its flavour and he chewed with difficulty. He saw that Hendrick was not looking at the children either. Manfred had not noticed them and was still poring over the news-sheet.
If we feed them, we'll have every kid in the camp on our backs, Lothar murmured, and he made a resolution never to eat in public again.
We've got just enough left for tonight, Hendrick agreed.
We cannot share it. Lothar raised the spoon to his mouth, and then lowered it. He stared at the food on his tin plate for a moment and then beckoned the eldest girl.
She came forward shyly.
Take it, Lothar ordered gruffly.
Thank you, Uncle, she whispered. Dankie, Oom. She whipped the plate under her skirt, hiding it from other eyes, and then dragged the two little ones away. They disappeared amongst the huts.
The girl returned an hour later. The plate and spoon had been polished until they shone. Does Oom have a shirt or anything that I can wash for him, she asked.
Lothar opened his pack and handed over his and Manfred's soiled clothing. She brought the laundry back at sunset, smelling faintly of carbolic soap and neatly folded.
Sorry, Oom, I didn't have a smoothing iron. What is your name? Manfred asked her suddenly. She glanced around at him, blushed scarlet and looked at the ground.
Sarah, she whispered.
Lothar buttoned the clean shirt. Give me the ten shillings, he ordered.
We'd have our throats cut if anybody knew that I have that much money, Hendrick grumbled.
You are wasting my time. Time is the only thing we have plenty of. Including the barman, there were only three men in the corner bar when Lothar pushed through the swing doors.
Quiet tonight, Lothar remarked as he ordered a beer, and the barman grunted. He was a nondescript little man with wispy grey hair and steel-framed spectacles.
Take . a drink for yourself, Lothar offered, and the man's expression changed.
I'll take a gin, thank you. He poured from a special bottle that he produced from under the counter. They both knew that the colourless liquid was water and the silver shilling would go directly into the barman's pocket.
Your health. He leaned over the counter, prepared to be affable for a shilling and the possibility of another.
They chatted idly, agreeing that times were hard and would get harder, that they needed rain and that the Government was to blame for it all.
How long have you been in town? I haven't seen you around. One day, one day too long, Lothar smiled.
I didn't catch your name. And when Lothar told him, he showed genuine interest for the first time.
Hey, he called down the bar to his other customers. Do you know who this is? It's Lothar De La Rey! Don't you remember the reward posters during the war? He is the one that broke the hearts of the rooinekke. Red neck was the derogatory term for the newly arrived Englishman whose neck was inflamed by the sun. Man, he blew up the train at Gemsbokfontein. So great was their approbation that one of them even bought him another beer, but prudently limited his largesse to Lothar alone.
I'm looking for a job, Lothar told them when they had
all become firm friends, and they all laughed.
I heard there was work out at the H'ani Mine, Lothar persisted.
I'd know if there was, the barman assured him. The drivers from the mine come in here every week. Would you give them a good word about me? Lothar asked.
I'll do better. You come in Monday and I'll set you up with Gerhard Fourie, the chief driver. He is a good pal of mine. He'll know what's happening out there. By the time Lothar left, he was established as a good fellow and a member of the inner clique of the corner bar, and when he returned four nights later he was hailed by the barman.
