I expected that we would feel an us-against-the-world togetherness, that we’d be united by the bond of our shared condition. But the bulk of those I passed seemed to prefer staying at arm’s length rather than linking arm in arm against our fate. After a few weeks, though, I was walking with my head down like the rest, eager to hear no more stories of sad displacement and loss. Soon I could tell which people were new to camp when I recognized in them the unwelcomed openness I had once shown.
I was not less sympathetic, just more practical. I started focusing on one of my books to keep me from assessing the needs of each person I passed. I had read it through several times by then, so I did not have to concentrate, nor did I have to hurry. My walking was rarely with intent or direction, just going row to row, tracing a grid at a pace barely above stationary. I considered it ambling, amble being one of my new words.
The sack Oom Sarel had tossed to me when he confronted my mother in our tent contained a small Chambers’s Dictionary. Tante Hannah had written a note on the first page: “To help your writing.”
I was already very comfortable with English, but I decided I would put the time in camp to good effect by learning every word in the book, start to finish. So many were not practical, though, particularly the long ones that others did not understand. I decided that going around using big words would seem supercilious.
But I loved the short ones that captured the perfect meaning with just a syllable or two. Deft. Adept. Dank became a favorite, as it exactly described the air inside a crowded canvas tent after days of rainfall. I wrote the words on scrap paper and then committed them to memory. Each time I smelled wet canvas, I mentioned to someone that it certainly was dank. Sometimes they gave me long looks, impressed by my intelligence, I assumed. So on this day, I ambled, and if anyone asked, I would edify them.
I learned to glance over the edge of the book to be sure I was not about to collide with someone or trip on a tent rope. I was startled back into the moment by what sounded like a barnyard of warring hens. More than a dozen women were at the fence line between our side of the camp and the Hands-Uppers and Joiners on the other side.
Two guards sought to bring order to a pack of women straining to reach a small clutch on the other side. Some of the insults were so profane I’d never heard words combined with such hateful imagination. I did not write them down but committed them to memory in case I ever needed a vile condemnation. We take our lessons where we may.
Several of those on our side spat comets of fluid at the other women’s faces. A woman on our side reached through the fence and grasped the dress of a struggling woman and pulled her tight against the wire. That made it easier for others to claw at her, too. They tore at her dress, shouting each time they came away with a piece of ripped fabric, waving it about like a trophy of war.
The taller of two guards pried women from the fence with the butt of his rifle, and when he broke their grip, he shoved them backward. The shorter guard contributed nothing by holding his arms extended, since the women merely ducked beneath.
An old woman fell and dragged down several others. In a tangle, they screamed even louder and tumbled in their attempts to rise. A rifle fired, freezing the women as if in a photograph. By the time the echo faded, the women on the other side had retreated. The last of the group to get away was the woman with the shredded dress, the back of her white underskirt showing like a flag of surrender.
Even in victory, our women remained agitated, and the taller guard kept his rifle readied. The shorter one tried to help them to their feet, although each shrugged him off, and several slapped his face. One of the women scrambled up despite another’s standing on her skirt, ripping her hem, but she did not seem to notice. She was one of the spitters, and she unleashed a full charge at the tall guard, who slapped her before wiping his face. It was Mevrou Prinsloo, the quiet woman from the wagon that had brought us to camp.
The shorter guard intervened and sorted through the fallen women, who cursed his existence and the fertility of his mother. Those near me aligned their clothing, shouted their contempt one last time, and dispersed to spread word of their victory.
“Are you all right?” the short guard asked me as I turned away. “I’m sorry about this.”
He was not worth the breath it would take to form an answer. Besides, he had red hair, which I had never liked. That night I tried to write about the drama and the looks on the faces of the women. I sorted through the dictionary for better descriptions and came upon the word ire. But that didn’t capture the savagery of the women on our side, nor the look on the faces of the Joiner women, which was something like fear but more fragile. Maybe no one had yet created words to describe the kind of things seen in places like this.
I THINK I WAS drawn to Janetta Maartens as a friend because I saw myself in her. When we walked past her in our first month in camp, Moeder pointed her out, saying she could be my twin, slender, with wide eyes and light brown hair. Perhaps that made it prideful to see myself in her, but it helped start a friendship.
“Ma . . . ,” I complained when she stopped to make Janetta and me stand next to each other to reinforce our similarities. But I was soon delighted that she had, and we were inseparable after the first day. I embraced the idea of having a twin sister, or any sister who wasn’t still a child like Cecelia. As much as I loved little Cee-Cee, we could share time but not thoughts. Having a girlfriend my age was one positive to come from being taken into camp, since our farm’s remoteness prevented close friendships. It was interesting when we first spoke to learn that Janetta actually did have a twin, her brother Nicolaas, who did not resemble her as much as I did.
When anyone was nearby, Janetta and I talked about our families and the things we missed from home. And when we were by ourselves, we talked about boys to the exclusion of all else. We lowered our voices, looked around to be certain of privacy, and spoke quickly for fear of interruption. Benefiting from the closeness of her brother, Janetta was an expert on boys. It was as if she were fluent in a foreign language or had spent time as a spy in an enemy camp. I confessed that boys confused me.
“They’re simple . . . and all the same,” she said. “They have no idea who or what we are, and no matter how much noise they make, they are afraid of you.”
“They certainly are not afraid of me.”
“Oh yes, they are,” she said. “They may just be too simple to realize it. You must assume they are three years less mature than a girl their age. That’s why girls need to marry boys at least three years older.”