When there were no sea winds to fill my tent-sail, I pulled up my blanket and saw myself in front of a classroom, all eyes focused on me, shaping little minds with my words. I loved the control a teacher had over their view of the world. Could there be a position of greater power than steering children’s minds?
Sometimes when I dozed in my private space, I thought of times when I had gone riding with Schalk and it felt like floating through the tall, dry grasses. I could feel the animal’s great warmth coming up through me, and feel the way I moved against it with each stride. I’d rock as we galloped, and post into a canter. Rock and post: I could ride forever, rocking to the motion of the horse, warming, rocking . . . faster . . . feeling so good.
“Lettie . . . stop,” Moeder said. “Wake up and pray.”
She woke me so forcefully it felt as if I had been thrown from the horse.
I resented having my pleasant escape disrupted and wanted to snap at her, but I blinked myself awake and prayed as she ordered. And I did so with a sincere heart. But my prayers changed in ways I could not share with her. What would I say? Yes, Moeder, I count my blessings as never before and appreciate God’s gracious gifts. But now I also tally the cost.
When it had been cold, I thanked God for the next warm day. But I knew it would bring the flies that could drive me mad with their inescapable buzzing, biting, and clustering at my eyes and ears.
I then thanked him for the blessing of wind that drove the flies away, but it carried grit that could tear away skin. After the drought brought so much dust that our faces turned gray and our noses caked, I blessed the rain that he gave. I would hold my arms open to feel it wash the dust from my body and know with certainty that God himself had sent it down. And then it would turn the soil into glue and cause the latrines to fill and overflow, and the stench would be so complete that I prayed that God would take my sense of smell.
I was blessed to have my family but paid for it with the agony of loss. And soon they’d have to deal with my death. My body was shutting down, and from what I’d seen, it would happen one process at a time and come quickly.
Thankfully, I was now able to withdraw my body into my mind, to pull it all into such a tight place that I was certain I had disappeared. Let me hide myself in thee, I sang in my mind. It got easier and easier to drift away like that. But increasingly difficult to return.
So many questions still came to mind that I could not voice, especially as there was such little conversation now. At times Moeder communicated with little more than looks and gestures, as if words would clutter the small tent. I spent more time watching her, studying her subtly. I used to be able to see my reflection in her eyes, but now they absorbed light. It was so much harder to read her face now, as it seemed she wore a leather mask, with deepening lines and hollows and shadows.
She sat on the cot, fingering the hem of the doll’s dress. I remembered sitting next to her when she stitched the lace ruffle to the bottom. I had named the doll Lollie for a reason I could not remember, and she had slept with me every night until I passed her on to Cee-Cee, once she needed a nighttime friend more than I did.
For all the hugging Lollie had endured, the stitching had held up well. Moeder had used the same color of green thread she had given to Vader when he left for war two years earlier. I expected Moeder thought about Vader’s stitched arm even as she fingered the dress of the doll that had belonged to her daughter, to their daughter. Maybe someday there would be another child, a new sister. I tried to recall how old Moeder was. How long would the war go on? How late can women have children? But the figures did not fall into place.
Moeder called Rachel to her cot.
“Here,” she said, handing her the doll. “You can play with Lollie.”
Rachel and Cee-Cee had played with her together, and Rachel had at times tried to snatch it away when Cee-Cee wasn’t holding it, leading to a scrap. How could she give it to Rachel, as if rewarding her for Cee-Cee’s death?
I knew I was being unchristian again. After all, how long would the doll be hers before getting passed along to the next child? How many little girls would this doll outlast? Giving away Lollie was Moeder’s sign that we were all going to try to move on. She was right; we can’t forever cling to our little dolls.
But what else was going through her mind? Would she try to get word to Vader about Cee-Cee? Vader held a firm rein on his emotions, like most men. But I was sure none of us should ever tell him about Cecelia’s final days. If he knew now, it would cause him to act the fool in battle, to attack the British by himself. Maybe that would be a good thing. But I could see him trying to ride into this camp alone, firing his weapons with both hands, if only for the chance to say a prayer at her grave.
I suspected that Moeder saw everything that had happened as the fault of Oom Sarel. Vader would have to learn of this later, or maybe never. I knew she was thinking of ways to find strength and pass it along to us. Nothing is unbearable, praise be to God. She had said that many times when we first got to camp. But less often since.
I lifted my eyes, but instead of the heavens, I saw our elongated and distorted shadows on the canvas pointing to the tent peak. It made us look thinner. I looked at myself . . . my wasting arms . . . another sign of death. I had suspected it for at least two months, and now I knew I would be the next to go. I would fade to a trace and then disappear, like a written word rubbed slowly from a page.
Moeder would tend me. Willem would go fetch the dominee. They would clean me raw and wash my pinafore and wrap me in canvas and carry me to the hill, where they would drop me in a hole and stuff my name in a bottle.
Dear Tante,
Cee-Cee died. It came on quickly. She didn’t even seem sick, just tired. Passed in Moeder’s arms. She’s buried on the hill. She has no marker. But if you want to go pray over her, you might as well pick any of the mounds, God will know which is hers. I should have noticed her getting sick and we could have done something sooner. She was like my little girl and I didn’t do enough to save her. Moeder said that “not a sparrow falls without God’s blessing,” but I feel as if I should have caught her.
I try to remember her every minute so that she won’t disappear. I feel as if I should hate somebody for her death, to make somebody pay, but I don’t know who. All I can do is question myself. I haven’t been righteous and I worry that taking Cee-Cee was God’s punishment.
Sorry to have to tell you this way.
Love,
Lettie
“Betty, the silly goose, sent me this,” Maples said, holding up a strange knit hat that seemed designed to conceal everything but the wearer’s eyes.
“I could have used that after the lice,” I said. “But I need to tell—”