“Here, Willem, I’ll tear them. . . . You put them in, just a page or two at a time,” I said. “Wait until one is almost burned down and then light the next one with it. Don’t hurry.”
With responsibility for such an important task, Willem grew serious, and we formed a tight circle.
“Lettie . . . are you sure?” Moeder asked.
“I know this book almost by heart.”
I scanned pages as I tore them from the book, reading passages that I had marked as favorites, thinking my reading would keep Willem at a steady pace.
“ ‘When I am grown up,’ she said, ‘I shall wear real diamonds.’ ”
The paper flamed quickly, and Willem startled, almost tipping the pot.
“Careful,” Moeder said, dropping a few pinches of salt into the water, the smoke and smell of the burning paper climbing the sides of the pot.
“It seemed as though Death had known and loved the old man, so gently it touched him. . . . So it . . . sealed the eyes that they might not weep again; and then the short sleep of time was melted into the long, long sleep of eternity.”
I extended the words “long . . . long” and “eternity” to hold off Willem.
Moeder eased the potato into the center of the pot as gently as if bathing a newborn.
“Didn’t the minister tell me, when I was confirmed, not to read any book except my Bible and hymn-book, that the devil was in all the rest?”
My tongue swelled at the smell, so that it was difficult to read. Moeder leaned over the pot but knew it was too early.
“Overhead it was one of those brilliant southern nights when . . . the Milky-Way is a belt of sharp frosted silver.”
I was almost halfway through the book.
“We need more at a time,” she said.
“The troubles of the young are soon over; they leave no external mark. If you wound the tree in its youth, the bark will quickly cover the gash; but when the tree is very old, peeling the bark off, and looking carefully, you will see the scar there still.”
“Save that page, Lettie,” Moeder said. “It’s beautiful.”
I shook my head. “I’ve written some of these down in my journal.” I peeled more pages from the binding.
“Oh, my darling, I think of you all night, all day. I think of nothing else, love, nothing else.”
Moeder looked alarmed by the passage but withheld comment, returning her focus to the small flames. I ripped out the pages in larger portions now, and the smell of the warming potato overtook the scent of burning paper. Mevrou Huiseveldt sniffed so loudly we could hear. She’d been watching all along. I didn’t care. I could easily deny her a part of this . . . payment for all the sleepless nights and complaints.
“So age succeeds age, and dream succeeds dream, and the joy of the dreamer no man knoweth but he who dreameth.”
Only the cover remained now; I ripped it at the spine of the book.
“Wait,” Moeder said. “The binding may be gum. . . . We might need to eat that later.”
I put it aside.
With a spoon, Moeder rescued the potato and positioned it in the middle of a plate. She sliced it in half lengthwise, the steamy mist of scent rising from the incision. The halves fell open.
“Ohhh,” Willem said. It drew Rachel to stand over us, Mevrou Huiseveldt holding vigil from her cot.
Moeder then made three slices crossways through the two halves. She sprinkled most of our weekly salt ration across the pieces, the salt reflecting like tiny diamonds on the soft, golden pulp. We sat silent, pulling the smell into our lungs, my stomach begging loudly enough that all could hear.
She held the plate out in my direction. I placed a piece on my tongue and allowed the salty warmth to fill my mouth; I dared not chew. She held the plate out to Willem, and he studied the pieces and took the largest. Rachel had retreated to the cot with her mother. Moeder held the plate toward Rachel, who put down Lollie and looked to her mother for approval. She used both hands to lift the small piece, placing one beneath it as if holding an invisible plate in case it fell.
“What do you say, Rachel?” The little girl looked at her mother and bobbed her head sincerely, not willing to open her mouth to voice appreciation.
“Here,” Moeder said, extending the plate toward Mevrou Huiseveldt. “Mathilda . . .”
Mevrou Huiseveldt looked to the top of the tent, wiped her eyes, and took the next piece.
“Thank you,” she said. She knew the words after all.
Moeder took a small end piece for herself and cut the last piece in two for Willem and me. I looked at the others; all sat with eyes closed, absorbing the potato more than eating it. . . . It felt like a holiday.
I panicked when I realized we had not blessed the food. But I didn’t know whether a simple blessing was enough for an occasion like this. We should have sworn a solemn vow on the spot to recognize the Miracle of the Potato each year.
I thought of my favorite meals at home and I knew I had never cherished any as much as this. Without having recognized it, I had always admired the versatile potato. Moeder cooked potatoes in so many different ways, but they had been afterthoughts, something to fill up on after enjoying the flavor of the meat that was the foundation of our meals. I had never taken time to think about a simple potato, to understand how delicious a single mouthful could taste. How I wished we had butter, and then immediately felt like an ingrate for even thinking of such a luxury.
The tent was still the rest of the night, but each face, in turn, offered me a brief smile before returning to quiet thoughtfulness. It wasn’t until the next day that Moeder thought to ask me again about the potato’s journey to our tent.
32
November 1901, Concentration Camp
My inner war never relented, conscience and guilt battling for dominion. Oupa always preached that we were to live by “the Word of God,” but in quiet moments, Moeder had a different message: “People can bend the Holy Word to their own purposes,” she said. “You should let your own conscience be your guide.” When she said that, she was trusting that I had one that worked. But I’d failed her. I was weak.
I had known for months that Moeder would ask the question, and I had prepared a series of responses that evolved over time. But it arrived in a form I had not expected, and I felt ambushed.
“Who is your guard?” she asked.
“My guard?”
“Your guard.”
“I don’t have a guard to myself. . . . I don’t understand. . . . They guard all of us.”
“Aletta . . . a woman doing wash asked me what I knew about ‘your guard, ’ ” she said. “She looked at me as if it was a well-known fact. So, who is ‘your guard’?”
None of my prepared excuses involved someone’s telling my mother before I could. And certainly no one had the right to call him “my guard,” although just hearing that caused me to shudder with what felt like ownership.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you, Moeder, but haven’t because you’ve been so busy and there’s been . . . so much. I knew you would worry, and there really was no need. I was thinking all along it would be better for you if I didn’t tell you.”