Bloodlines by Neville Frankel Page B

government and its policies—and that, being thrown together in stressful situations, she had mistaken those feelings for attraction, or love. All I could hope for was that she would come to her senses before it was too late.
    But she didn’t. By the time I discovered the truth about their activities, and the sordid details of their relationship, it was already too late. She had carried her activism and her contempt for the law past the point where either compassion or anger would make any difference.
    Your mother was out of the house that night—the night they blew up the electric plant. When she didn’t come home, I assumed they were together, and I went to bed. Just after dawn, two cars full of Special Branch officers pulled up at the door, barged in, and began to tear the house apart. They forced open closets, broke through walls, pulled up linoleum flooring. They smashed photographs and paintings in search of hidden messages written on the back, and they ripped open the seams of my suits to see if we’d sewn notes in the lining. They wanted to know where she was; searched for evidence and documents that showed proof of her membership in banned organizations. They probed for any indication that we were involved in the systematic campaign of sabotage being waged by Spear of the Nation, and took away with them boxes of books and journals on socialism and Marxism, the politics of protest, and liberal philosophy.
    I was a terrified young father, alone with my son, and the men going through my home were rabid to find evidence. They became more and more frantic and angry as time passed and they found nothing. Eventually the man in charge sat me down, took off his hat and threw it on the dining room table and stood above me, glaring, his arms crossed over his chest. I was so disoriented that at first I didn’t recognize him.
    “Mr. Green,” he said, “We met at Kliptown a few years ago—you were there demonstrating at the Congress of the People with your lovely wife. Your father-in-law is my dentist.”
    He must have thought me a pitiful creature, because he showed more compassion than I expected.
    “My name is Viljoen, Anders Viljoen. Remember me?”
    “Yes,” I said. I could barely look at him.
    “We have proof that your wife is involved in a plot to bring down the government,” he said. “Were you aware that she took part earlier tonight in an act of sabotage?”
    I shook my head.
    “You don’t know where she was this evening?”
    Again I shook my head.
    “And I assume you don’t know where she is right now. Is that correct?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    He pulled out a chair and sat down beside me.
    “Mr. Green,” he said softly, “you have my deepest sorrow for what you’re going through. You have no idea what’s going on here, or what your wife’s been up to. Do you know why I’m so sure of that?”
    Again, I shook my head.
    “Because your wife couldn’t tell you anything about what she’s been engaged in. No wife could. You know what I mean, Mr. Green?”
    “Are you suggesting this is more than politics—that my wife is sleeping with another man?” I said. “What evidence do you have?”
    “I think we can safely say it’s both,” he said. “Sex and politics. And as for evidence, we’re collecting it. You’re not in the kind of trouble she is—but if you withhold evidence, then you’re no better than she is, and you will be prosecuted, too. Then what will happen to your son? The boy deserves one good parent. So, what can you tell me about where she might be?”
    They interrogated me for what seemed like hours, but I told them nothing. It was dawn before the police left, and I was exhausted, and scared.
    The truth is that I had an idea where they might be—I’d been to the farm to deliver documents and to attend meetings myself. But the only way to warn them was to go there myself—and if I was followed, or caught, I’d go to prison along with her. And I had a third life to consider,