John Davis - Roots of Outrage

But they had to take life very seriously indeed. Because the next week the police raided Buck’s farm, and all hell broke loose.

The editor slammed down the telephone. ‘The cops have found the ANC’s headquarters on a farm in Rivonia called Lilliesleaf – grab a photographer and get your ass out there!’ The name Lilliesleaf didn’t mean anything to Mahoney but the sketch map the editor thrust at him sure did. Christ , it must be right next door to Buck’s Farm! It wasn’t until he saw the policemen guarding the gate that he realized Lilliesleaf was Buck’s Farm … Christ … His hand was shaking as he held out his press card to the policeman. The ANC’s headquarters … And he’d been screwing himself flat in the middle of it.

He drove up the track towards the main house. Over there, amongst the trees, was the cottage, two police cars parked outside it. His mind was racing – God, had he left anything there that would identify him? Was there anything of Patti’s? Oh God, he had to get to a telephone and warn her. His heart was knocking. He crested the rise, and there was the main house. It was swarming. A dozen police vehicles, policemen everywhere, police dogs. Cars from the newspapers. He got out and walked shakily over to the group of pressmen, his face ashen. ‘What’s the story?’

‘We’re going to be briefed in a moment.’

‘ANC headquarters … ? Anybody arrested?’

‘Lots. They’ve all been whisked off to town. In irons.’

The terrible question: ‘Any women?’

Then Colonel Krombrink walked towards them, a malicious smile on his weathered face. ‘Ah, so Drum has arrived an’ we can begin our little tour. How are you, Mr Mahoney?’

Mahoney felt white with fear. ‘Fine thanks, Colonel.’

‘Did you bring a photographer? Good. We want your black readers to realize the police aren’t asleep, hey, man. An’ we want them to realize what the penalty for treason is – death, hey, man. Will you make sure they understand that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. So first I’ll read to you the official police press release, then you can take your nice photographs.’ He produced some sheets of paper and began to read in his heavy South African accent:

‘On the afternoon of Wednesday 23 July 1963, the South African Police, as the result of intensive undercover investigations, conducted a raid on Lilliesleaf Farm in the Rivonia area on the fringes of Johannesburg. A hundred and ten policemen were deployed. The first party of them arrived at the farmhouse inside two panel vans, one a bakery truck, the other a laundry van. The house was stormed. Inside we arrested nine leading members of the banned African National Congress gathered around a table studying a mass of documents which cursory examination proved to be plans for military-style insurrection and sabotage within South Africa. In different rooms were found two telex machines, two powerful two-way radios capable of reaching anywhere in the world, a photocopy machine, numerous cameras and film-development equipment, filing cabinets full of documents pertaining to the ANC and the Communist Party and other subversive matters, and a large quantity of arms, ammunition, land mines, grenades and explosives, all of Russian origin. The police believe that this raid has exposed the headquarters of the ANC and the Communist Party. Investigations continue and it is expected that a large number of other persons will now be traced who will be able to assist the police in their enquiries.’

He folded up the paper with a little smile. ‘Any questions, gentlemen, before you are taken over the house?’

Andy Murphy of the Star said: ‘Who is the owner of the farm?’

‘The registered owner is a certain white person whose name we cannot divulge at this time, but clearly somebody sympathetic to the ANC and SACP, who bought it on their behalf.’

‘What are the names of the people arrested?’

‘When their identities have been definitely established, a list will be released to the press.’ He looked at Mahoney. ‘How about a question from Drum ? On behalf of all those black readers.’

Mahoney’s ears felt blocked. All he could think of was Patti, all he wanted to do was get the hell out of here, grab her and run like hell. His mind fumbled: ‘How big … a breakthrough against the ANC have you made today – do you think you’ve smashed them?’

‘Thank you for that question.’ He looked at the expectant pressmen. ‘Today is a triumph for the forces of law and order over the forces of darkness, hey! We believe we have smashed them, yes. Of course all the documents must be evaluated, but we believe we’re going to finish them off and mop up the rest with the information we’ve got today.’

Mop up the rest … Oh God, he had to get to a telephone.

The tour of the house seemed to take an eternity. A nightmare. They crowded through the rambling house, the photographers’ bulbs flashing, Colonel Krombrink like a showman, showing them the dining room where the men were arrested in flagrante delicto. They saw the office with its two-way radios, its filing cabinets, telexes, rooms with a dozen unmade beds, the kitchen with meals still in preparation, the fingerprint experts everywhere dusting for evidence, and outside on the back verandah the weapons neatly laid out in rows, the hand grenades, the landmines, the explosives, the ammunition, all neatly labelled for the public prosecutor. ‘That alone will hang ’em …’

Oh God, how much did Patti know about this? He just wanted to get the hell out of here.

But he was the last to leave. As the pressmen hurried back to their cars, Colonel Krombrink called: ‘Meneer Mahoney?’

Mahoney turned, his heart knocking. The colonel took his elbow and led him aside. He appeared to be thinking, then he said: ‘Are you feeling all right, Mr Mahoney? You’re very pale, hey, man.’

Mahoney’s pulse tripped. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Very pale, man,’ the good colonel said, ‘like you’re sick to your stomach. Or jus’ seen a ghost, hey, man. Anyway …’ He paced beside him pensively, down the verandah. ‘Mr Mahoney, you asked if we’ve smashed the ANC today, an’ yes we have, because we’ve chopped the head off the snake, hey? Quote that – the head off the snake. An’ now we’re going to get the rest of the snake out of its hole. Easy, man. Quote that too. Okay?’

Why was the man repeating this if it wasn’t a threat?

‘Okay.’

They came to some wicker armchairs. The colonel waved to one and sat down. Mahoney slowly sat down on the edge.

Krombrink said: ‘But, Got , man, it’s the eggs that snake laid that we’ve also got to find, before they hatch. An’ those eggs are buried, but not in the snake’s hole, hey? An’ sometimes they’re not so easy to find, hey?’

Mahoney knew what was coming, and he felt sick. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, I can imagine …’

Colonel Krombrink snorted. ‘Imagine? Don’t you know ?’

Mahoney felt his guts turn over. ‘Know what?’

‘ Got , man, Mr Mahoney, newspapermen are supposed to use facts , hey? Tell the people the facts , not so?’

Oh God, the facts … ‘Yes.’

‘Jus’ like the judge wants. Facts , that’s what he wants to hear. An’ that’s what the police have to give him, not so?’

Mahoney’s nerves were stretched, as the colonel intended them to be. ‘Yes, that’s so.’

‘Yes …’ The colonel sat back pensively and looked at the ceiling; then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, he continued: ‘But, of course, newspapermen do use their imagination, hey, to get a good story. And so do policemen, to outsmart criminals, get information … So?’ He looked at Mahoney. ‘So you an’ I have a lot in common, really. We both work with facts, but we both have to use our imagination. An’ we both got to keep our ears open to get those facts. An’ another thing, hey – we both work a lot with kaffirs, don’ we? You write for them, and most of my customers are kaffirs, who’re trying to ruin the country.’