We had heard nothing of our men but had seen others plodding to their homes as we made our way. It had been so long. I was desperate to see Schalk. I thought at first that I could not imagine Moeder’s longing for Vader, but then realized that, yes, I could. Now I could.
The place reeked of rain-soaked ash, but I picked up the scent of overnight fires from native kraals. I prayed for Bina, for her health and safe return. I listened for drums but heard none, feeling only the rhythm of my throbbing feet. Although exhausted, I found I could not sleep without the sound of Mevrou Huiseveldt’s snoring. The woman plagued me still, even in her absence. I laughed into the darkness at the thought. I untied the dead woman’s boots that had delivered me home, and finally slept without dreams.
Tante Hannah woke us with a tentative “hallo” from the stairs. I ran to her, and Willem followed. We were wet with night dew, but she gathered us in and squeezed. She smiled at Moeder.
“I’ve been home for a few days,” she said. “Roof and walls still standing. . . . Everything looted . . . except my stitchwork on the walls. Everything broken or taken . . . except the stitchwork. I am happy . . . and insulted.”
We laughed softly, and once we started, we each looked around out of habit. But there was no one there to offend. We continued talking, getting louder, testing our limits. Even Moeder.
After the morning of the rifle shots in camp, Moeder and I did not speak of Maples nor Oom Sarel. It was the only firing squad we’d ever heard, but it was the talk of the camp for months, triggering rumors and speculation among the women. We were both alert to the tent flap, certain the commandant would march in to take us for a date with the firing squad for our part in Maples’s death. All it would have taken was one word from Oom Sarel, maybe as he tried to bargain for his life he had relented and told them that it had been us. Or perhaps someone who had seen me with Maples had made some connection. But each day that passed without our being taken grew less stressful, and my appreciation for Oom Sarel grew in proportion. I came to realize that I had admired Maples’s desire to back away from the savagery of the war—the same attitude that we found so objectionable in Oom Sarel.
Moeder asked about my well-being, and when I assured her I was fine each time, the questions came less often. She continued to look into my mind through my eyes. I was not fine, of course; I had many things to think through, and she seemed to trust that I could.
Perhaps a week after the shots, Moeder and Hannah met at the fence. I stood back, outside the range of their voices. Tante Hannah gestured with her arms, first out wide, then folded at her chest. I saw the back of Moeder’s kappie move slowly. Then Moeder gestured, hands upraised. They continued, nodding like guinea fowl. Tante Hannah pointed in my direction the way Oupa used to point to constellations, and Moeder turned to look.
I imagined they were filling in the parts of Oom Sarel’s death that the other could not have known. I doubt either knew how Sarel got caught with Maples’s body, or what he might have said by way of explanation. I thought of all that had happened that night, and wondered how Moeder could explain to Tante our part in it. She might be honest but not tell the truth, or present a truth that was not honest. I’d learned the two were not the same.
Tante kept touching her chest with crossed hands, as if trying to assure Moeder that every word was rooted in her heart. This was far more than the solemn exchange of grief and condolence that had become so common for us.
They talked for so long across the wire that I needed to sit on the ground. They bent closer to each other. Moeder looked to me and then turned back to Hannah. She folded her hands low on her stomach. Tante Hannah’s face softened and she teared up. She reached a hand through the fence, and Moeder accepted it with interlaced fingers. Their shoulders then bobbed as they cried. When the bobbing stopped, each turned away.
“Ma?”
“We’ll talk later.”
But we did not talk about those things. Not for the remaining few months in camp, and not for years after that. I did not know whether Moeder had found some peace with Tante or just could no longer shoulder the weight of hatred. Whatever settlement they had reached, it was obvious that Tante Hannah knew she would be welcome when she arrived at our house that morning.
“Please . . . come stay at my place,” she said to Moeder. “We can keep out the weather, at least. We can all come back and work to rebuild yours in time. You are welcome in my home.”
Moeder stood.
“Thank you,” Moeder said, dipping her head. I studied her face, reading the emotion in those words.
Moeder turned to each compass point, looking at the debris in full daylight. It seemed worse than it had the night before. But the crunching sound did not frighten me in the light, as it was clear that there was nothing among the things at our feet that could not be done without. The past two years had proved that.
“This much remains . . . ,” she said. “His will be praised.”
“His will be praised,” Tante Hannah repeated.
When I went to the open place that had once been my room, I found only one thing unbroken and worth keeping, the thimble that Tante Hannah had given me. I had thought it so meaningless when we left that I didn’t bother to take it.
I DIDN’T WRITE IN my notebook the final month in camp, in that uncertain time after the war had ended but before we could make our way home—the only time I truly felt like a refugee. The last entries were made the Sunday morning we got the news. When Moeder had prayed on the night of the shots, she must have made promises that included our attendance at camp services, so we had started gathering with others for sermons by the dominee.
On this day, he read a poem that I wanted to study later—“The Reaper and the Flowers.” It could have been written about the camp, he said, referring to the way the innocent children had been taken from us, harvested to heaven by mistake, like pretty little flowers among grain stalks. It was beautiful, better than most of the psalms we recited or sang. He was trying to make us feel better, but I did not think we needed reminders of our losses.
Before he finished the poem, the commandant stomped in and whispered to the preacher, who closed his eyes, bowed his head, and retreated from the cartridge-box pulpit that held his Bible.
“Peace is here,” the commandant said.
“We won!” I said.
I could tell from the profile of Moeder’s face that we had not won.
The commandant knew no specifics of the agreement except that it meant that our leaders had surrendered. “We are no longer enemies,” he said.
Moeder mouthed a few words I could not hear.
“What?”
“A prayer.”
Willem stood and moved from my side to directly in front of Moeder, looking up into her face.
“We’re not going to die?” he asked.
Moeder dipped her head but did not answer. I suspected she did not want to make promises.
“But the war is over, Ma,” I said.