Брайс Куртенэ - The Power of One

Lieutenant Borman died knowing what it felt like to have a donkey prick jammed up your arse until your entrails spill out.

It wasn’t until I went to boarding school the second time that I learned that survival is a matter of actively making the system work for you rather than attempting merely to survive it.

My partner from the very first day at school was Hymie Levy. Hymie was Jewish of course, which was a very rare occurrence at the Prince of Wales School.

I was wrestling my heavy suitcase off the train at Johannesburg Central Railway Station when he walked towards me.

‘Hey you, stop! If you want to build muscles take a Charles Atlas course.’ He signalled for the black porter to take my suitcase. ‘Howzit? I’m the token Jew. Who are you?’

‘Thanks, my name’s Peekay,’ I said, proffering my hand.

He took it almost absently. ‘Hymie… Hymie Levy, what’s your first name, Peekay?’

‘It’s just Peekay, first and second,’ I replied.

Hymie stopped in his tracks. ‘Just one name, you’re not bullshitting me now are you?’

‘Ja, that’s right, just one.’

Hymie seemed to be thinking as we continued together down the platform. ‘I like that, no complications. Me, I’ve got the whole catastrophe, Hymie, Solomon, Levy, you can’t get more kosher than that, kings and priests, not bad insurance for a kid whose parents escaped the Holocaust by pretending they were Roman Catholics.’

I had no idea what he was talking about but he seemed a nice sort of chap. All the Jews I’d ever known were pretty nice. Harry Crown and old Mr Bornstein and of course Miss Bornstein. It seemed a pleasant coincidence that the first kid I should meet from the Prince of Wales School was a Jew.

We were supposed to meet the school sergeant at the station and I was glad to have someone who was so obviously confident along with me. We heard him before we actually saw him. ‘Prince of Wales new boys over here! Ahaaat the double!’

‘Christ, Peekay, look at that!’ Hymie said pointing to a large man wearing a scarlet tunic. Despite ourselves we straightened up a bit and Hymie ran a comb through his dark, brylcreemed hair which was swept up in the pompadour style of the time and ended in a ducktail at the back.

As we drew nearer we could see four other kids who had formed a line in front of the big man who stood to rigid attention, his pace stick clasped under his armpit. The top half of his face was hidden from view under the shiny black peak of a red-banded guardsmans’ cap. The only thing that protruded from under the peak was a large waxed moustache. On the right sleeve of his military tunic were three gold sergeant’s stripes above which sat a brass crown. His trousers were of black serge with a red stripe running down the sides of each leg leading directly to a pair of highly polished black boots which appeared to be rooted to the platform. A white shirt with celluloid collar and black tie completed his uniform.

Hymie tipped the porter who added our suitcases to a pile already stacked on the platform and we joined the four other boys to stand, more or less at attention, in front of the school sergeant.

I was tired and except for cleaning my teeth and splashing the gritty feel of the train journey from my face I hadn’t washed since the morning of the previous day. The Barberton train had left at four o’clock that afternoon, its single school carriage pulled by the coffee pot to Kaapmuiden, where it was shunted onto the school train which would travel through the night to Pretoria and Johannesburg. Several other Barberton boys and girls went to school in Pretoria, while one boy wore the navy blue blazer of St Johns College and another the black and white stripes of Jeepe High, both Johannesburg schools. I was the only one going to the Prince of Wales and, I must say, I had felt constrained and thoroughly out of place in long pants, starched collar, blazer, tie and a strange straw hat called a boater.

It was a big send-off, much bigger than anyone had expected. Of course my mother, Granpa, Marie and Dee and Dum were there, also Doc and Mrs Boxall, Miss Bornstein and old Mr Bornstein and all the kids from the boxing squad, who clapped and howled and whistled when they saw me in my uniform. Snotnose and Bokkie pretended to fall on the ground they were laughing so much, in particular at my straw boater. Gert finally had to tell them to behave, but I could see he also thought I looked pretty funny in my fancy Rooinek school clothes. But the really big surprise came when a prison truck arrived and from it climbed the prison brass band. They set up their stands in the middle of the platform and commenced to play.

‘It’s the Kommandant’s idea, Peekay,’ Captain Smit said. ‘He wanted to give you a big send-off. You know, man, he is very proud of you.’ He paused for a moment, ‘So am I, I got money on it, you going to be the welterweight champion of the world one day. Don’t let that Rooinek school change that, you hear?’ He gave me a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘You’re a proper Boer, little boetie, we all counting a lot on you.’

At last the guard blew his all-aboard whistle and I said goodbye to everyone and climbed into the carriage. Dee and Dum and Marie were all having a bit of a sniffle and my mother would have too if she hadn’t thought she ought to set an example for Marie. Doc was burying his nose in his red bandanna and pushing it all over the place. When the guard blew his final whistle and the band struck up with ‘Now is the hour for us to say goodbye’ nearly everyone started to blub and I was pretty choked up myself.

I recalled how I had last boarded a train to leave a part of my life behind me, how I had fallen over with my clown tackies stuffed with newspaper, and how Hoppie Groenewald had dusted me down and lifted me up the steps, explaining how he too was always falling down the stupid things. ‘No worries, little boetie, Hoppie Groenewald will look after you.’

Now here I was, dressed in a starched collar, hand-tailored blazer, long pants and highly polished shoes. Gert had shown me how to polish boots prison-style until you could see your face in them. The coffee pot’s chuffa-chuff-chuffing drowned the band, and then the farewell party soon grew so small I could hardly make out Dee and Dum still waving. I looked up to see the hills and in particular the hill behind the rose garden where I had met Doc the day I had gone to grieve for the loss of Nanny. I was once again alone in a railway compartment headed for a new adventure.

After the train left Kaapmuiden I lay awake for a long time in the top bunk of my compartment listening to the wheels saying ‘First-with-the-head-and-then-with-the-heart. First-with-the-head-and-then-with-the-heart.’ It was as though Hoppie was coming to me on this second train ride into manhood. The night rushed past the window, black light broken only occasionally by a pinpoint as we roared past a cooking fire in an African village.

Every once in a while the train would whistle at something in the dark and I knew the sound would carry for miles across the veld. ‘First-with-the-head-and-then-with-the-heart. First-with-the-head-and-then-with-the-heart.’ The hectic lickity-clack finally put me to sleep.

Now we were standing in front of this huge old soldier who looked like a recruiting poster for the Great War. With his pacing stick still held under his arm he removed a small spiral-bound note pad from the top lefthand pocket of his tunic and flicked it open. Pulling his head back and squinting down his nose, he looked at each of us in turn. I wondered why he didn’t simply lift the peak of his cap so that he could see properly.

‘Righto then, my name is Bolter, Mr Bolter to Mrs Bolter if there was a Mrs Bolter which there ain’t, thank Gawd! Sarge to you lot. Answer your names as I call them out!’ He shouted this information at us as though he were addressing the entire length of the platform. I could see that the five guys around me were just as scared as I was. He glanced down at the pad in his hand. ‘De la Cour!’ A pale looking kid with curly blond hair stuck his hand up in the air. ‘Not your hand, lad! You only raise your hand when you want a pee! Present Sarge! Or just, Sarge!’