When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers Page B
Authors: Marilyn Cohen de Villiers
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kaffir s , Thys always corrected her now. They were blacks, or black people. The queue snaked down Potgieter Street, almost all the way to Kerk Street. Black people with badges and clipboards came and told her that because she had a baby with her, she could go to the front of the queue. But she didn’t want to. She was surprised at how much fun she was having. Fat black mothers came up and peered into Steyn’s carrycot, chuckling and clucking and saying what a beautiful baby he was, and so big for three weeks. Impromptu entrepreneurs – spurred on by the searing heat – drew up i n bakkie s filled with warm but welcome Cokes and Fantas; others – including old Tannie Bessie from the Co-op – patrolled the queue, laden with fresh, syrupy koeksusters and sweets and fruit.
Arno and De Wet were having the time of their lives, playing soccer with a ragtag assortment of black kids up and down the street, oblivious to the historical importance of the day. Beauty watched them with the haughty disdain of a seventeen-year-old young lady, and stayed close to Rosie, who stubbornly refused to take advantage of her age to jump the queue.
Thys, ever the teacher, had insisted that as many Steynspruit children as possible also make the trip to Driespruitfontein that day, even if they were too young to vote.
‘This is history in the making, Annamari. They need to experience it,’ he’d said.
And when they’d all voted, they climbed into the two new Kibbut z Steynspruit minibuses and headed back to the farm – hot, tired but strangely exhilarated. As they turned onto the Steynspruit road, Petrus turned to Annamari and said: ‘I never thought I’d see the day, Missie. I voted. I voted for the government of my country, our country.’ She blinked back her tears.
***
‘Thys,’ Annamari said, pushing the newspaper over to him to look at the story about the Church Street bomb commemoration in Pretoria, ‘weren’t Stefan Smit’s wife and daughter killed in that bombing?’
‘Ja. They were. So sad for him, such a tragedy. I always wondered if that’s what had made him a bit crazy.’
‘Didn’t he say he was in Pretoria when Ma and Pa and Christo were killed – because it was the anniversary of his wife and daughter’s deaths? Didn’t he say Pa always gave him time off to visit their graves then?’
‘Ja. Remember, he only got back early that morning and found them when he went to check where they were. I felt so terrible for him. To lose his wife and daughter like that and then to come back and find... that’s why he never went again. He said it was too painful.’
‘I knew it! The fokking liar.’
Thys put down the newspaper and glared at her. ‘Don’t swear! What are you talking about?’
‘The Pretoria bomb was on the twentieth of May, right?’
Thys nodded.
‘But Ma and Pa and Christo were murdered on the sixteenth of June. Soweto Day. The cops said terrorists always planned big attacks for Soweto Day. It was a Friday, remember? So Stefan Smit couldn’t have been in Pretoria that day. Well, he might have been but it wasn’t because it was the anniversary of their deaths.’
‘Well maybe he went for something else.’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
Chapter 15
1995
The minibus shuddered over a series of potholes and the alarmed cries of Annamari’s passengers penetrated the maelstrom of thoughts whirling through her brain. Heavens, she was doing 140 and hadn’t even noticed. She eased her foot off the accelerator.
‘You okay, Kleinmissie?’ Rosie asked.
Annamari forced a smile and nodded at the old woman next to her. She had to focus on the road. She’d think about it all later. Up ahead, she could just make out the poplars, marching quickly towards them. Home. She stopped. Pretty clambered out, opened the gate. She drove through and Pretty, having closed the gate behind them, scrambled back into the minibus and slammed the door. Annamari drove slowly up towards the garage. It was quiet.
Arno and De Wet were having the time of their lives, playing soccer with a ragtag assortment of black kids up and down the street, oblivious to the historical importance of the day. Beauty watched them with the haughty disdain of a seventeen-year-old young lady, and stayed close to Rosie, who stubbornly refused to take advantage of her age to jump the queue.
Thys, ever the teacher, had insisted that as many Steynspruit children as possible also make the trip to Driespruitfontein that day, even if they were too young to vote.
‘This is history in the making, Annamari. They need to experience it,’ he’d said.
And when they’d all voted, they climbed into the two new Kibbut z Steynspruit minibuses and headed back to the farm – hot, tired but strangely exhilarated. As they turned onto the Steynspruit road, Petrus turned to Annamari and said: ‘I never thought I’d see the day, Missie. I voted. I voted for the government of my country, our country.’ She blinked back her tears.
***
‘Thys,’ Annamari said, pushing the newspaper over to him to look at the story about the Church Street bomb commemoration in Pretoria, ‘weren’t Stefan Smit’s wife and daughter killed in that bombing?’
‘Ja. They were. So sad for him, such a tragedy. I always wondered if that’s what had made him a bit crazy.’
‘Didn’t he say he was in Pretoria when Ma and Pa and Christo were killed – because it was the anniversary of his wife and daughter’s deaths? Didn’t he say Pa always gave him time off to visit their graves then?’
‘Ja. Remember, he only got back early that morning and found them when he went to check where they were. I felt so terrible for him. To lose his wife and daughter like that and then to come back and find... that’s why he never went again. He said it was too painful.’
‘I knew it! The fokking liar.’
Thys put down the newspaper and glared at her. ‘Don’t swear! What are you talking about?’
‘The Pretoria bomb was on the twentieth of May, right?’
Thys nodded.
‘But Ma and Pa and Christo were murdered on the sixteenth of June. Soweto Day. The cops said terrorists always planned big attacks for Soweto Day. It was a Friday, remember? So Stefan Smit couldn’t have been in Pretoria that day. Well, he might have been but it wasn’t because it was the anniversary of their deaths.’
‘Well maybe he went for something else.’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
Chapter 15
1995
The minibus shuddered over a series of potholes and the alarmed cries of Annamari’s passengers penetrated the maelstrom of thoughts whirling through her brain. Heavens, she was doing 140 and hadn’t even noticed. She eased her foot off the accelerator.
‘You okay, Kleinmissie?’ Rosie asked.
Annamari forced a smile and nodded at the old woman next to her. She had to focus on the road. She’d think about it all later. Up ahead, she could just make out the poplars, marching quickly towards them. Home. She stopped. Pretty clambered out, opened the gate. She drove through and Pretty, having closed the gate behind them, scrambled back into the minibus and slammed the door. Annamari drove slowly up towards the garage. It was quiet.
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