The wind passed the latrines on its way to me, and the sour juices in my stomach bubbled up to my throat. It was happening so often that a sore had burned through back there, making it hard to swallow and causing me to try to clear my throat dozens of times a day, as if I were drying up. It bothered me most when I tilted my head back to look up.
The stars reflected memories this night, so I tried to look beyond them, above the sky. I’d been told by the dominee that the dead were in heaven and they looked down on us. They watched us. They lived through us. Wouldn’t they want me to try to find them? I looked for Cee-Cee’s face, perhaps in the shape of a cloud. One small cloud with soft edges might have been Cee-Cee’s hair . . . and a wispy gray one pulled by the wind could have been Oupa’s beard. Klaas, and Janetta’s brother . . . were they up there watching? Did Ouma van Zyl’s daughter look down at me and wonder about this girl wearing her boots?
In the way I imagined the men all healthy and clean and well fed, singing around a campfire at night, the dead of my acquaintance were once again happy and whole as they looked down. Could they help us? Could they watch out for us? Guide us? Should I pray to them as I did to God, or were they all together listening and watching at the same time? Did they watch me even when I did not want them to?
Looking up grew painful. I focused instead on the land. Cloud shadows raced across the grass like a ghost herd of springbok, taunting me with their freedom. They enjoyed whatever was the opposite of a being fenced in a “place of concentration.”
I started back to the tent. I doubted I would sleep, but I would try for a short time before rising at daybreak to write and help Moeder deal with Willem, and grind more hours from another day.
Within a few steps, I scolded myself for acting the child. This isn’t me, I convinced myself. I would go to the hospital tent in the morning and try to help, to do good work. I would think of a scripture from Oupa about the value of helping others, and it would honor him. Good works give glory to the Father, or something along those lines. I could not remember exactly, but it inspired me.
A whistle blew on the far side of camp. I turned in that direction for just a step or two. I heard a rustle at the closest tent flap, followed by a crash, and I was knocked to the ground.
“Bloody hell,” a man said.
The stench consumed me.
“What . . .”
It was a Tommy guard . . . and the smell . . .
“Bloody buckets,” he said, scrambling to his feet. He’d stumbled on a slop bucket, kicked it all over me, and fallen at my feet.
“What are you doing?”
“None of your business. . . . What are you doing out?”
“Using the latrine.”
“So was I.”
I got to my feet. It was horrid. I had to use my skirt hem to wipe the filth from my face. My clothes were covered in night soil.
“You’re a liar.”
“A woman needed help.”
“Liar. Sinful liar. Shameful liar. Abuser.”
I fired words as they presented themselves to me.
“That’s enough, you’re lucky I don’t report you.”
“You’re lucky I don’t report you.”
“I was invited to that tent. Go ask her. Go. Go ask her.”
I did not hear complaints from the tent. But that meant nothing. He could not be trusted. But he was off, apparently deciding I needed no further threats. I had no idea what I would do with my clothes until morning. My boots barely cleared the ground with my steps. I tried looking up at the sky again but needed to keep my eyes on the ground in case more pails reached out to me in the darkness.
I did not bother to keep quiet as I returned to the tent and climbed under my blanket. I didn’t care if I was caught and punished. What would be the punishment? Beaten? Fine. I deserved it. It would break the monotony. It would be human contact. Except that I was disgusted by humans and wanted less contact with them rather than more. And disgust was a feeling other than grief, at least. Now, I almost hoped I’d be beaten. But Mevrou Huiseveldt was snoring so loudly no one could hear me “God . . . make that woman stop snoring,” I said, thinking of Willem’s outburst. No one heard.
I wanted to read, to get lost in a book, and thought about lighting what was left of the candle from Maples. It was hard even to think of him when I smelled as I did. Thank God it hadn’t been him sneaking out of that woman’s tent. And thank God he hadn’t shown up in our tent, given his recent interest in my mother. I had to tell him about the guard I’d just seen. Maybe he would know him and could report him—if anybody cared anymore about guards’ behavior.
I left again at dawn to try to get my clothes washed and bring back water for the family. No sense waiting until they awakened. I could not sleep.
As I hoped, Moeder had questions when I returned.
“I was worried about you,” she said.
“I was getting water. See the bucket?”
“Lettie . . . I can see. . . . I didn’t know where you were.”
“You were asleep. Why would I wake you if you can sleep? You don’t need to keep track of me. I’m an adult.”
“I do need . . .”
“I was out last night, almost all night, and you didn’t know about it, and I got in no trouble.”
My tone begged for discipline.
“I went out to watch the stars. And I can only see them at night. And I can’t see them through a canvas tent. Did you want me to wake you up . . . or try to find a way to look at stars during the daytime? Or don’t I have the right to look at the stars? Is that something they’re going to take away next?”
“Lettie, it’s all right.”
“It is for you. . . . You didn’t love Oupa the way I did.”
“Lettie . . . I loved him.”
“I wanted to look at the sky to mourn him, or to talk to him the way I used to. You couldn’t know. None of you know how close we were. We had secrets. . . . I can tell you now that he’s gone.”
“Lettie . . . respect.”
“No . . . he used to sneak in and carry me out onto the stoep at night and teach me about the stars when everybody else was asleep. He wanted me to know so I could pass it on through the family. He picked me. I was the chosen one.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“We could hear you.”
“You knew?”
“He used to do it with Schalk when he was younger, too. They loved the time together. They acted as if it was their secret, too.”
He did it with Schalk? Neither ever said a word.
“He used to say that was their special time together,” she said.
“Bastard.”
She gasped, but I kept going.
“Did Schalk get to everything first? Did Oupa do all the same things with him? The way Oupa used to say, ‘Let’s watch the stars,’ rather than ‘Let’s look at the stars,’ as if they were about to perform. Did he say it that way to Schalk, too?”
“Aletta.”
“He lied to me,” I shouted. “Oupa was a liar.”
“Aletta . . . respect the dead.”
“Why?”
“Lettie, calm. . . . Praise the Lord. . . . Be good.”
“Be good? Be good? Or what? Be good for what? What will I get if I don’t? How will I be punished? Bad food? Lice?”
“Lettie . . . no . . .”