were lost on the wind and on the sound of the green surf breaking on the rocky shore below the hill.
E very pew of the church was filled. The womenâs bonnets were colourful as a field of wild Namaqua daisies in the springtime, while the menâs suits were sombre and severe. All their faces were upturned towards the magnificent carved pulpit of polished black stinkwood in which stood the Most Reverend Tromp Bierman, Moderator of the Dutch Reformed Church of South Africa.
Manfred De La Rey considered once again how much Uncle Tromp had aged in the years since the war. He had never fully recovered from the pneumonia he had contracted in the concentration camp at Koffiefontein, where that English-lover Jannie Smuts had incarcerated him with hundreds of other patriotic Afrikaners for the duration of the English war with Germany.
Uncle Trompâs beard was snow-white now, even more spectacular than the curly black bush it once had been. The hair on his head, also white, had been close-cropped to conceal its sparsity and it glittered like powdered glass on the high-domed pate, but his eyes were full of fire as he
glowered at his congregation, and his voice that had earned him the sobriquet âThe Trumpet of Godâ had lost none of its power and rolled like a cannonade against the high-arched ceiling of the nave.
Uncle Tromp could still pack the pews, and Manfred nodded soberly but proudly as the thunderous outpouring burst over his head. He was not really listening to the words, merely enjoying the sense of continuity that filled him; the world was a safe good place when Uncle Tromp was in his pulpit. Then a man could trust in the God of the Volk which he evoked with so much certainty, and believe in the divine intervention which directed his life.
Manfred De La Rey sat in the front pew at the right side of the nave nearest the aisle. It was the most prestigious position in the congregation, and rightly so for Manfred was the most powerful and important man in the church. The pew was reserved for him and his family, and their names were gold-leafed on the hymn books that lay beside each seat.
Heidi, his wife, was a magnificent woman, tall and strong; her bare forearms below the puff sleeves were smooth and firm, her bosom large and shapely, her neck long and her thick golden hair plaited into ropes that were twisted up under the wide-brimmed black hat. Manfred had met her in Berlin when he had been the gold medallist light heavyweight boxer at the Olympic Games in 1936, and Adolf Hitler himself had attended their wedding. They had been separated during the war years, but afterwards Manfred had brought her out to Africa with their son, little Lothar.
Lothar was almost twelve years old now, a fine strong boy, blond as his mother, and upright as his father. He sat very straight in the family pew, his hair neatly slicked down with Brylcreem and the stiff white collar biting into his neck. Like his father, he would be an athlete, but he had chosen the game of rugby at which to excel. His three
younger sisters, blonde and pretty in a fresh-faced healthy way, sat beyond him, their faces framed by the hoods of their traditional voortrekker bonnets and full-length skirts reaching to their ankles. Manfred liked them to wear national dress on Sundays.
Uncle Tromp ended with a salvo that thrilled his flock with the threat of hell-fire, and they rose to sing the final hymn. Sharing the hymn book with Heidi, Manfred examined her handsome Germanic features. She was a wife to be proud of, a good housekeeper and mother, a fine companion whom he could trust and confide in, and a glittering ornament to his political career. A woman like this could stand beside any man, even the Prime Minister of a powerful and prosperous nation. He let himself dwell on that secret thought. Yet everything was possible, he was a young man, the youngest by far in the cabinet, and he had never made a political mistake. Even his wartime activities
E very pew of the church was filled. The womenâs bonnets were colourful as a field of wild Namaqua daisies in the springtime, while the menâs suits were sombre and severe. All their faces were upturned towards the magnificent carved pulpit of polished black stinkwood in which stood the Most Reverend Tromp Bierman, Moderator of the Dutch Reformed Church of South Africa.
Manfred De La Rey considered once again how much Uncle Tromp had aged in the years since the war. He had never fully recovered from the pneumonia he had contracted in the concentration camp at Koffiefontein, where that English-lover Jannie Smuts had incarcerated him with hundreds of other patriotic Afrikaners for the duration of the English war with Germany.
Uncle Trompâs beard was snow-white now, even more spectacular than the curly black bush it once had been. The hair on his head, also white, had been close-cropped to conceal its sparsity and it glittered like powdered glass on the high-domed pate, but his eyes were full of fire as he
glowered at his congregation, and his voice that had earned him the sobriquet âThe Trumpet of Godâ had lost none of its power and rolled like a cannonade against the high-arched ceiling of the nave.
Uncle Tromp could still pack the pews, and Manfred nodded soberly but proudly as the thunderous outpouring burst over his head. He was not really listening to the words, merely enjoying the sense of continuity that filled him; the world was a safe good place when Uncle Tromp was in his pulpit. Then a man could trust in the God of the Volk which he evoked with so much certainty, and believe in the divine intervention which directed his life.
Manfred De La Rey sat in the front pew at the right side of the nave nearest the aisle. It was the most prestigious position in the congregation, and rightly so for Manfred was the most powerful and important man in the church. The pew was reserved for him and his family, and their names were gold-leafed on the hymn books that lay beside each seat.
Heidi, his wife, was a magnificent woman, tall and strong; her bare forearms below the puff sleeves were smooth and firm, her bosom large and shapely, her neck long and her thick golden hair plaited into ropes that were twisted up under the wide-brimmed black hat. Manfred had met her in Berlin when he had been the gold medallist light heavyweight boxer at the Olympic Games in 1936, and Adolf Hitler himself had attended their wedding. They had been separated during the war years, but afterwards Manfred had brought her out to Africa with their son, little Lothar.
Lothar was almost twelve years old now, a fine strong boy, blond as his mother, and upright as his father. He sat very straight in the family pew, his hair neatly slicked down with Brylcreem and the stiff white collar biting into his neck. Like his father, he would be an athlete, but he had chosen the game of rugby at which to excel. His three
younger sisters, blonde and pretty in a fresh-faced healthy way, sat beyond him, their faces framed by the hoods of their traditional voortrekker bonnets and full-length skirts reaching to their ankles. Manfred liked them to wear national dress on Sundays.
Uncle Tromp ended with a salvo that thrilled his flock with the threat of hell-fire, and they rose to sing the final hymn. Sharing the hymn book with Heidi, Manfred examined her handsome Germanic features. She was a wife to be proud of, a good housekeeper and mother, a fine companion whom he could trust and confide in, and a glittering ornament to his political career. A woman like this could stand beside any man, even the Prime Minister of a powerful and prosperous nation. He let himself dwell on that secret thought. Yet everything was possible, he was a young man, the youngest by far in the cabinet, and he had never made a political mistake. Even his wartime activities
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