Брайс Кортни - The Power of One

Progress was much faster than it would have been for any white students in a conventional classroom situation. Hymie, not content with our first curriculum, worked and worked on the notes, ironing out the errors and getting them perfect.

Some four months later we were visited by a reporter and photographer from the Rand Daily Mail and in the following Wednesday morning edition we had a full page write-up, which also contained a picture of Hymie, Gideon and me.

The article, very exaggerated, told a cocked-up version of the fight I had with Gideon and how Hymie and I had opened a school for boxers which continued to grow, giving the impression we had become a major black education resource. It was full of inaccuracies but nevertheless it caused some real excitement in the school. Singe ’n Burn called Hymie and me into his study and admonished us for not checking with him before speaking to a reporter. He suggested it was altogether a rather silly thing to have done in the light of the political situation, where black schools were forbidden in white urban areas.

Coming out of the head’s office, Hymie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Any publicity is good publicity, I guess.’

‘I hope you’re right, I reckon we goofed.’

‘Yeah, so do I,’ he said softly.

The following Saturday night the police raided us. The doors of the hall were suddenly blocked by khaki-uniformed police both white and African. A police lieutenant wearing a Sam Browne belt and a holstered revolver jumped up onto the stage and blew his whistle loudly.

‘This is a police raid, everybody remain seated and nobody will get hurt, you hear!’ He stood on the stage, his legs apart, with his hand on his revolver holster as though daring one of us to move. ‘Who is in charge here?’

‘ Ons is ,’ I said in Afrikaans, indicating Hymie and myself.

The police officer continued in English. ‘Why is there no adult in charge?’

‘The class is run by the boys,’ I said.

‘You mean white kids teach these blêrrie Kaffirs?’

‘That’s right.’ I was beginning to gain courage after my initial surprise.

‘Ag sis, man, are you telling me you teaching blêrrie stinking Kaffirs their ABC’s? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time on a Saturday night?’

‘Have you got a search warrant?’ Hymie asked.

‘Who’re you, man?’ the policeman asked.

‘You answer my question first,’ Hymie said in an even voice.

‘Hey, you being cheeky?’

‘He merely asked if you have a search warrant, officer,’ I said. The policeman suddenly realised that we were not intimidated. In fact he was wrong, we were both scared to death.

‘And what if I heven’t?’ he challenged.

‘Then you’re trespassing and I must ask you to leave at once,’ I said.

‘You’re only a blêrrie kid, who you think you talking to, hey?’

‘If you haven’t got a warrant to enter this school then piss off!’ Hymie spat at the officer.

To my surprise the police officer suddenly grinned. Then stroking his nose with his forefinger and thumb he said, ‘You’re the Jewboy, hey.’ He turned towards me. ‘And you the boxer who fights Kaffirs.’ He pointed at the Africans seated silently in front of us. ‘Let me see the Kaffir you fought, man.’

Without being asked to do so Gideon rose from his chair. ‘Come here, Joe Louis, come and stand next to the Jewboy and the Kaffirboetie.’

The officer called a black policeman over from the doorway, and as he waited for him to come onto the stage, he undid the shiny brass button holding the flap of his khaki tunic pocket and withdrew a piece of paper which he extended in our direction. ‘Here, Jewboy, read it for yourself.’ Hymie moved over and accepted the paper which was obviously a warrant to enter and search the premises. The lieutenant turned to the black policeman at his side. ‘Tell the black bastards that they must all show their pass books and a pass from their employer to stay out after nine o’clock curfew.’

I turned to the white policeman. ‘It isn’t nine o’clock yet, Lieutenant. No one’s broken curfew.’

He grinned. ‘Ja, I know, man, but it will be when I’m finished here and any black bastard without a pass is arrested.’

‘This warrant is for St Johns College,’ Hymie said suddenly. ‘Look, see it says St Johns College, Houghton. That’s the school about a mile down the road!’

‘Don’t play silly-buggers with me, you hear? Or you three will spend the night in a cell down at Central.’

Hymie walked over to the white police officer. ‘Read it for yourself. It says St Johns College, Houghton. That’s not us. Now will you kindly leave!’

‘This is the right place, this is the place in the newspaper, I’m telling you, man! St Johns, that school, does it also teach Kaffirs?’ I could see he was suddenly confused.

‘You’ll have to ask them that yourself, officer,’ I said, not trusting myself to look at Hymie.

The police officer folded the warrant and put it back in his pocket. ‘I should arrest you for obstructing the police in their duty, you know it’s only a technical error, man. They got it wrong when they was looking on the map. This is the school, I’m telling you!’

‘That’s not what it says on your piece of paper, I really must ask you to leave, officer,’ Hymie said, playing the situation for all it was worth.

‘Okay, Jewboy, but don’t think you seen the last of me. I know a comminist when I see one.’ He pointed to me. ‘You too, you and your Kaffir friend. I can smell a comminist a mile off.’

He left with his men and we could hear their boots on the cobblestones as they crossed the school quad.

‘Holy Molenski! That was close,’ I said. ‘What happens now?’

Gideon grinned, a lopsided sort of smile, ‘I think it is finish… the school is finish.’

‘Not on your fucking life!’ Hymie said. ‘I’ll get my old man’s lawyers if they try doing that again.’

Gideon gave a wry laugh. ‘You will be safe but we will go to jail, it is always like so. You are very clever and the magic of the Onoshobishobi Ingelosi is make the change for the school name on the paper. But the police they are bad people, they will not give up so easy, but also I think the big baas for headmaster he will make finish with this school.’

‘Over our dead bodies,’ Hymie said. ‘I’m telling you, he’ll fight for the night school.’

But he didn’t. The next Monday the two of us were called to Singe ’n Burn’s office to be confronted by an officer of the South African police force.

‘This is Captain Swanepoel of the Johannesburg Central Police Station, he wishes to ask you a few questions,’ Singe ’n Burn said sternly. ‘It seems your report to me on the weekend doesn’t quite respond with the one submitted by the police officer who attended your class on Saturday night. I urge you to tell the complete truth to Captain Swanepoel.’

‘We told you precisely what happened, sir,’ I said to the head.

‘With respect, the officer in charge of the visit is trained to report correctly, you can take my word for that,’ the police captain said.

‘Well then, in that case there will be no difference in our versions, Captain Swanepoel. I mean if we both told the truth,’ Hymie said softly.

‘The truth? What is the truth? In my experience the truth goes out the window when emotions come in. Emotions always tell a story different, you take my word for that, Headmaster,’ Captain Swanepoel replied.

‘Captain, both these boys have been trained to observe a situation with some dispassion, even though it be one in which they are involved.’

‘Ja, I mean no disrespect, Headmaster, but I must take the written evidence of an adult police officer against two young boys who were very excited at the time.’