Being Benadé

The costume
is a uniform
of piety and patriotism,
the matching script
of hymns and folk songs
carefully crafted
the set exclusive,
of church and state
inseparable,
the only familiar

“Be natural,” urges my mother on more than one occasion, “there’s no need for sites, Tessa, it’s so frivolous.” She is referring to my natural inclination to mimic and dramatise; her disapproval makes it clear that ‘being natural’ means being serious and subdued, behaving like a Puritan.
“I’m going to be an actress” is met with: “Over my dead body! I will not allow you to become a scarlet woman!”
Little did she know that I was already an actress, always studying and perfecting my part on the Rustenburg stage of the 50’s. And with God as model, perfect performance was the only goal.
There are two components to my role, the public and the private. The personal rituals are modelled on those of my family. I learn by looking and listening. I study the pious body language of the adults around me: the head bowed, the eyes closed, the hands folded in prayer.  I like the quiet concentration, the way one can cut off the world in order to speak to God.
As soon as I could speak, I prayed first thing in the morning and last thing at night. This may seem like a duty or a habit but to me these times were special; they offered a unique opportunity to get close to God in my own childish way. There was much I wanted to say to God: praise and thanks given in various forms. I loved using words from the Psalms: righteousness and mercy, wicked transgressors, iniquity and wrath rolled off my tongue even though I only half understood their meaning. David, the poet warrior, was my first literary hero. The privacy of prayer – away from human censure- was the only opportunity for freedom of expression. Up, up rose the psalmist’s words, like ardent smoke from a fervent fire. Up toward heaven where God would receive them with compassion and send down loving blessings in return. Those pre-school talking prayer times, when prayers were poems and poems prayers, were times of pure spirit.
With reading came reason and intellectual enthusiasm. Bible reading was encouraged; it offered a reading opportunity not seen anywhere else. At school we were forbidden to ‘read ahead’ and the Public Library had strict rules about the books available to the under eights. My daily devotions became a scholarly activity, poems became submerged in prose, small essays to be scored and graded. Before prayers, God was given an offering of long, tricky passages from the Old Testament. Sometimes it was a struggle sounding out difficult words and figuring out vocabulary but I was being clever for God, sure of His patience and pleasure. Sometimes I tendered short parts from the New Testament to Jesus, the holy Son, but felt as though this ‘easy’ way out would merit lesser blessing. It never occurred to me that I was showing off before God, that intellectual prowess was changing my former spirituality into religion.  That spirituality went into hibernation/aestivation, or whatever the soul does to cocoon itself against public pressure and expectations. It was to be a long time before the spirit would be invited to make its appearance again.

The public role, as minister’s daughter, demands a special blend of concentration on correctness and comprehension of the needs of the audience. In pumping out piety it helps to have grace, in spouting religion a head of brown curls and a dimple is an asset. It is soon understood that people expect to see a performance of exemplary behaviour, the ability to recite psalms, hymns and passages from the Bible. They look to see if you sit still in church and listen attentively. Their ears strain to catch any inaccuracy in the singing of Hymns and Psalms. What people think is important, we are told repeatedly. I do not find this public performance difficult; I happily memorize and gladly recite. I sing at –and sometimes over- the top of my voice. I enjoy the full sound of the organ, the voices of the congregation dragging on in solemn unison. Music is, after all, the only art form left in the Calvinist church.
Pious comments and ambitions are smiled upon. For the amusement of visitors my father would ask me: “Tell us what you’re going to do when you grow up, Ounôi?” Without blinking I would give the rehearsed reply: “I’m going to study music at the Conservatory in Stellenbosch and marry a tokkelok.” The amused approval of my audience reassures me of my talent and fools my mother. Her worried eyes relax. This was an ambition worth encouraging, a safe choice, a do-able destiny. She is gratified that I should choose to model my life on her own. She pats my head: “That’s right, Tessala, you’ll be able to play the organ in church and lead the choir. You’ll be good at that.” I am the apple of my mother’s eye. It gives me a particular corner of emotional security.
She is careful to hide the resentment she feels at being a twofer, forced to organize bazaars and service clubs rather than following a teaching career. She thinks her children don’t notice that the monthly Dienaresse meeting is usually followed by an incapacitating migraine that puts her out of action for days at a time. She thinks we are not aware of her anxiety as the church bazaar approaches and we have to tiptoe around her edgy temper. She thinks her piety tricks us. We experience her nerves.

But the Dominee’s daughter was also the daughter of the man, Johannes Benadé, son of Andries Petrus who bravely fought in the War against the British and Catherina Badenhorst who survived the Concentration Camps. He is the brother of the dead little uncles whose portraits hang on the papered passage wall at Goedgevonden. Grysie and Thysie in formal faded cepia, both dead in the Concentration Camp. This direct link with the War, the heroism and the suffering, validates my claim as a true Afrikaner. My role as heir to the Boer struggle fascinates me and I am determined to give a compelling performance. I am coached by my grandmother who regales us with tales of the War. We know her repertoire and have only to ask:
“Tell us about when the Kakies came to Goedgevonden, Ouma?”
Her sad eyes flash, her serious face becomes animated:
“We knew they were coming and we were ready for them: the pumpkins were on the roof and big pots of boiling water on the stove.
So, a dozen of them come riding up and the Captain tells us to come down from the roof. We don’t even bother with words; we just start throwing those pumpkins at them. More of them start shouting. And how do we shout back? With boiling water! The horses rear and some of the Kakies land on the ground badly scalded. But then reinforcements arrived.
The face falls, we know the inevitable end to this episode.
And, of course, we were outnumbered. What could a few women and servants do against so many professional soldiers, so many guns pointed at us?
They forced us off the roof and made us watch while they forced the servants to carry out our clothing and bedding. And then they torched the house.

“Now you have nowhere to live!” says the Captain, “You are refugees. We will escort you to the refugee camp.”
Refugee camp! Refugee camp indeed! It was a Concentration Camp and everybody knew it.
“And tell us about the soap boxes?” I’d rather not hear this story but my sisters will not miss it for anything.
So the children were dying. Every day children died from drinking dirty water, from getting their little insides cut up by the wire hooks in the bully beef, from fever and measles and mumps and chicken pox and whooping cough, diphtheria and pneumonia. My own Grysie and Thysie………
A memorial moment of silence and a tear or two. Collectively we embrace the memory, of my father’s brothers in particular and all suffering Boer children in general. Ouma wipes her eyes.
Well, one of the women in my tent lost her child one night. She laid him out the next morning and called for a coffin. No more coffins in the camp, so they used soap boxes. Do you know how small a soap box is? Not much bigger than those Langkloof apple boxes. They brought one of these miserable little boxes. Of course, the poor dead child was far too big for it. ‘That’s easily dealt with,’ says the guard, ‘if we break his legs, he’ll fit.’
‘BREAK HIS LEGS?!’
‘Don’t fuss! He won’t feel a thing. He’s dead, after all! He’s lucky to have a box to himself. The way your children keep dying, we’ll soon have to put two in a box.’
Ouma straightens her back for the conclusion. She becomes larger than life, her voice that of an avenger.
I saw red! I could not helps myself. I attacked that Kakie with my bare hands. He was surprised and called for help.
‘You will show respect, you barbarian! You go and tell the camp Commandant we demand a proper coffin for this child!’
The Commandant came with his interpreter, a shameless hensopper who had been fighting with your Oupa on commando not long before.  The Commandant looked at us in that arrogant British way as though we were no better than cockroaches. He barked something in his vile language.
‘The Commandant says if you want a proper coffin you will have to wait until the next consignment next month. Do you want to watch the boy rot before your eyes until then? Stop making trouble and get the body in the box!’
I was ready. I aimed a clay pot at that Kakie’s head. He staggered and fell.
‘Don’t be stupid!’ shouted the hensopper in Afrikaans
The first soldier brought some reinforcements but now we were all throwing things at them. Somehow the tent collapsed. It was chaos!
But, of course, they had guns. I was accused of being the chief trouble maker and sent to the camp in Howick in an open cattle truck. Thysie already had whooping cough…..
She never tells the end. We know it. Thysie died of pneumonia soon after they arrived in Howick.

Now comes the musical intermission: Entertainment is a rare commodity at Goedgevonden; we all know this is a special treat for Ouma and we do our best, even deep alto Cato who is not fond of sing-songs. We gather round the piano. I stand on the left in the space between the piano and the wall. I know the program, I know I will need this refuge later. Mother plays the accompaniments from the FAK. They are fully homophonic in their hymn-like gravity. The songs in the FAK cover every aspect of Afrikaner life from the traditional to the esoteric but tonight is a night for patriotism. We will not sing of veld or vlei, we will sing of volk and vaderland. Our hearts, already primed by Ouma’s stories, will rise with our voices in reverent patriotism.
We begin with the Transvaalse and Vrystaatse Volksliedere . My tongue trips over the Dutch but I try to lip read Ouma. Dutch is her formal language and she sings about heroism, oppression and freedom with confidence and comprehension. She radiates honesty as she recognises God as our salvation and begs him for his grace. She is the heroine of her stories, she is my Ouma Benadé and I love her.
After the Dutch songs, Ouma sits down to listen as we sing the rest of the repertoire in Afrikaans: the Flag Song of heritage and loyalty, Oranje-Blanje-Blou with it’s rousing refrain: Hoog die hart, hoog die vlag (raise your heart, raise the flag). I am possessed by the marching beat as the distinction between ‘Christian Soldiers’ and ‘Afrikaners Landgenote’ (compatriots) becomes blurred. Leen overcome by sentiment and rhythm raises an imaginary flag to the ceiling, surprised that no one is stopping her.
The next song appeals to my intellect: it explains the meaning of the flag. The words are by C.J. Langenhoven, revered Afrikaner intellectual and author of our national anthem. On Langenhoven’s authority we sing about our God given right to our land. The surge of pride I feel as my patriotic batteries are charged also makes me uneasy. The responsibility for this legacy weighs heavily on me. 
We move from the flag to the land. After the emotional intensity of the previous songs, singing about natural beauty is like exhaling. We sing of our Southern country, under the Southern Cross. In my mind’s eye I see that constellation, Orion and the Milky Way as I’ve seen them on my back at Goedgevonden, almost close enough to touch.
“We’ll skip the middle verse,” says my mother. She always does that and I know why; she does it in deference to Ouma and Apartheid. I looked it up the first time she did it. The middle verse calls the land of the Voortrekker heroes ‘the abode of Boer and Brit’! Everyone knows that Emily Hobhouse is the only Brit Ouma does not despise. The last two lines of that verse speak of ‘our ample country, home of Black and White’. But we all know that we own the country and that Blacks(and the Indians and the Coloureds) are not free to claim their share. 
Die Lied van Jong Suid-Afrika is one of my favourites because it combines the Great Trek and the land. In my mind I see the heroic painting of the three bearded trekkers straining on ropes to keep a wagon from rolling down the Drakensberg. A dog, a girl and a woman look on. Whenever I see a framed print of this painting in the homes of my father’s parishioners, I wish we had one at home. I like to think of a happy ending for that family of strong men and passive women. Inspired by the song, I imagine them continuing their trek across the veld under the blue sky, free, free at last. I wallow in the romance, I gladly take the oath to continue the struggle.
After Afrikaners Landgenote my mother asks for requests. I see the glint in Katrien’s eye as she looks at me and nudges Cato. They will not let this session pass without their customary amusement. This is the moment I dread. When will I ever be old enough not to give them satisfaction?
“God sy Dank ons Land is Vry”, Ma”, says Cato. Her voice is sweet but her look menacing.
It is a ballad about a Boer who returns from war on a bright moonlight night. He anticipates the loving welcome of his wife, the comfort of his home and bed. But as he reaches the top of the koppie and looks down on his farm, he sees only deserted ruins. He hastens down to the opstal, and calls out her name, hope against hope. Silence, but for the breeze, darkness, but for the moon. My lips begin to quiver, my heart is in my throat, I can not stop my tears. As the hero finds his wife in the cemetery, I sink sobbing into the space between the piano and the wall. Cato and Katrien find a way to snigger and sing at the same time.
I listen as they sing Slaap Rustig Dapper Helde. This is a lullaby for Oupa Benadé and the dead uncles. The sadness of it all drives out all the feelings of the preceding pride and patriotism. I can hardly rise from my corner to stand to attention for the singing of the Stem van Suid-Afrika. I manage a few phrases but dissolve again at the mention of death and mourning. I am tempted to run to my room to weep in private but that would be making a scene and making a scene is definitely frowned upon. Besides, I have to stay for the customary concluding story, the happy ending for Ouma and Oupa.
So, there I was in the camp in Howick at the end of the War. They were getting ready to send us back and I was doing my washing by the drift in the Umgeni river.
Oupa, in the meantime, had gone back to the farm. As you know, all he found was the three chickens and my sewing machine hidden in an anthill, thanks to our loyal skepsels. But of his family there was no trace. It was Aunt Mollie who told him that we had been separated and I had been sent to Howick. You know for yourself what a long way it is from Klerksdorp to Howick! But he wasted no time, he did not even wait ‘till the next day! He gathered provisions and started right away. Through the night, through the day until he got to Howick. And who should he see? With her bundle of clothes?
We all smile. The sugar coating always reassures us.
That night I creep into my parents’ bedroom. I gently touch my sleeping mother.
“I’m scared, Ma”, I whisper.
Half asleep she makes room for me in her bed. She knows why I am awake. My father half wakes.
“She’s supposed to sleep in her own bed. You’re spoiling her”, he objects from his bed.
“I know, but you know how tender her little heart is.”
“Yes, and that’s going to be a problem all her life if she doesn’t learn not to be so thin-skinned.”