When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) (16 page)

Annamari sank down into the wicker armchair, pulled the old mohair rug around her shoulders, cupped her hands around her steaming mug of coffee and closed her eyes. But she could still see it, as vividly a
s
ever: Ma in her favourite green dress, smiling, pouring milk into the coffee in two delicate white mugs, adding two spoons of sugar to one and three to the other and stirring both; carefully placing two buttermilk rusks on the white plate with the pink flowers around the rim, saying ‘Here, Annamari my child, eat these, drink this, it will make you feel better’, and knowing, knowing that if she opened her eyes Ma would not be there, and she would never feel better again. Ever.

But she knew that if she kept her eyes closed, Ma’s smile would slowly transform into a wide open scream, and her flailing arms would knock over the mug, and liquid – shiny red liquid – would ooze over the table and spread a bloody stain across Ma’s frilly green chest and... Annamari’s eyes flew open. The sun was struggling to rise above the Maluti mountains turning the sky from black to a deep navy. She could just make out the silhouette of the poplars in the waning moonlight. She drew in a shaky breath. She couldn’t go. She shouldn’t go. But she had to. For Ma and Pa and Christo. And for Beauty. Because Beauty had asked her to. Because she hadn’t spoken to Beauty for weeks and weeks. Until last night. Going was the least she could do.

‘MaAnni, it’s Bontle... Beauty,’ she’d said when Annamari pressed the green button on her cell phone.

‘Beauty! How are you? Where are you? What time is your flight? I’ll fetch you at the airport and then we’ll go to the hearing.’

But no, Beauty had changed her mind. She wasn’t coming to Bloemfontein. She just wanted to let Annamari know – her voice had faltered – the lawyers at the law clinic had told her that although their presence wasn’t strictly necessary at the hearing as they were represented by a lawyer, it was always better for them to be present. Just in case the Chairman wanted to ask them anything.

‘MaAnni, you have to go. You just have to. Please,’ Beauty begged.

Shaking so badly she could barely hold the phone, Annamari had promised that she would. Not that she had any idea what she could do, or was supposed to do. But Beauty had asked her, and she owed Beauty so much. And Ma and Pa and Christo. And Thys and Arno and everyone. For once in her life, she was going to do the right thing. Even if it killed her.

***

Annamari pulled down her skirt and marched into the hall alongside the red-brick Anglican Cathedral, her head held high. She wished Thys hadn’t come: who knew what that bastard would say this time? But she was so glad Thys had come: she would not get through this without him. He took her arm and she leaned into him briefly.

Mr Venter was seated behind a long table on the far side of the hall with several other suited men and women. He rose and nodded a greeting. Then he walked over and shepherded them towards the five rows of chairs at the back.

‘You can watch the proceedings from here,’ he said.

‘Where are they? The accused?’ Thys asked as they settled into two chairs on the far right of the front row. Annamari couldn’t speak. Her stomach churned and her tongue felt as if it was glued to the top of her mouth. She hooked her left foot around her right ankle and reminded herself to keep her knees together.

‘They’re called applicants here,’ Mr Venter said. ‘I understand they are on their way from Bloemfontein Prison. They were transferred there from Pretoria Central yesterday. Correctional Services will bring them in and keep an eye on them. See that man there?’ Mr Venter indicated a tall black man seated at end of the long table. ‘That’s Thabo Khumalo. He’ll be leading the evidence – sort of what a prosecutor usually does. Two of the applicant
s
– Buya an
d
Xlongwane – are represented by Mr Yusif Naidoo over there.’ Mr Venter pointed to a large Indian man with a 1950’s Elvis Presley hairdo seated at a table on the left of the room. ‘And that woman, standing next to him, that’s Strydom’s lawyer.’

Annamari stared at the elegant brunette who looked like she’d stepped straight out of that TV show, the one about tha
t
do
f
anorexic TV lawyer – Ally McBeal, that was her name. Except that this lawyer looked like she knew exactly what she was doing, all slim and trim in a tailored black suit that showed off her nice thin legs and pretty knees and could probably have paid for lunches for the entire Steynspruit School for a month, a year. Annamari would have happily bet the entire farm that that woman had never had to contend with the discomfort of a too-tight, scrunched up waistband cutting into her. How on earth could that slimy bastard afford a lawyer who looked like that? Mr Venter’s suit looked like he’d bought it at the Pep Store in Driespruitfontein. Thys never wore a suit. Not even today. He’d put on a tie, of course; but he had flatly refused to even wear a jacket, even though she had asked him to. Arno would probably have to buy one or two new ties for his new job...maybe she should look for some for him during the lunch break, seeing they were in Bloemfontein. Then she laughed silently at herself: what made her think Bloemfontein would have nicer ties than Johannesburg? She dragged her attention back to the lawyer.

‘... Jo – Joanne – van Niekerk,’ Mr Venter was still looking at Ally McBeal. ‘She’s ... ja, well, she’s ... well... ummm. Look, I’ll speak to you later. Looks like we’re about to begin.’

Mr Venter lumbered back to his seat at the long table and Annamari’s heart dropped. Mr Venter actually sounded slightly awed by the woman. But he had assured them that he’d handled Amnesty hearings before. Annamari wished she’d thought to ask him exactly how many – and whether he had won. She half stood and pulled down her skirt which had crept up her thighs, then quickly sat down again, and clasped her hands together in her lap.

***

‘This is a hearing of the Amnesty Committee being held in Bloemfontein in terms of the Promotion of National Unity and Reconciliation Act, No 34 of 1995. I am chairing the panel – my name is Philemon Sedebe,’ said the short, dapper man in what even Annamari could see was a very expensive suit and glaringly white shirt seated at the centre of the long table.

‘Where’s Desmond Tutu?’ Annamari whispered. ‘I thought he was the chairman of this thing.’

‘I don’t think he goes to all the hearings – probably only the important ones,’ Thys whispered back.

‘But this is important. How can you say it isn’t?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. I mean I think he probably only goes to the high profile hearings – in Cape Town or Jo’burg or something ... look, here come the prisoners.’

Annamari swung around and saw three men – one white man who she instantly recognised as Stefan Smit, and two black men – being led into the hall by police officers.

‘Oh good, the applicants have arrived. We can begin,’ said Desmond Tutu’s replacement. Annamari couldn’t recall his name. She decided to call him Tutu-two – and giggled. Thys raised his eyebrows. Annamari shook her head and mouthed: ‘Tell you later.’

‘We have on the roll the amnesty applications of S Strydom, amnesty reference number AM9179/98
;
M T Buya, amnesty reference AM9863/98; and J Xlongwane, amnesty reference AM9864/98. Who is being represented by whom?’ Tutu-two said.

The Indian lawyer, all thick shiny black hair and flashy, toothy smile, introduced himself and then Ally McBeal – who Annamari was surprised to hear sounded just like the newsreader o
n
Radio Sonder Grens
e
with a thick Afrikaans accent – said she was representing Mr Strydom.

Annamari bit her lip. He wasn’t Mr anything, she wanted to shout. He was just a bloody murderer. She shuddered when Mr Venter said he was representing the victims. Tutu-two asked whether any victims were present. Mr Venter pointed at her and Thys hauled her to her feet. She hadn’t thought of herself as a victim – the victims were dead, all dead. She glanced across at the accused – no, the applicants – and sat down hurriedly, yanking her skirt over her white, fat knees as Stefan Smit smirked knowingly at her. She felt her skirt zip pop open. She lifted her head and glared at the lying, murdering rapist. She vowed to her mother, her father, her brother ... and Beauty ... that she would do everything she could to make sure the bastard stayed behind bars where he belonged.

Annamari smiled inwardly as Stefan Smit slid a nicotine-stained finger along the inside of his shirt collar, glared balefully at Mr Venter, and then stared at a spot on the floor.

‘Mr Chairman,’ Mr Venter said, ‘please instruct the applicant to answer my question.’

Thys squeezed Annamari’s hand. She squeezed back. This was so much better. She really should apologise to Mr Venter later. For doubting him. Especially when Afrikaans Ally McBeal was presenting the case for her client. Mr Strydom, she insisted on called him. Annamari would never get used to that creep being referred to as “Mr Strydom” when he was nothing more than plain old Stefan Smit, rat, rapist, murderer. That wouldn’t change, no matter what this judicial travesty decided.

The problem, however, was that Ms van Niekerk – Afrikaans Ally McBeal – had sounded so convincing. Annamari had almost believed her assertion that Stefanus Strydom had undergone some kind of Damascene conversion and become an ardent supporter of ... no, an active participant in – the Armed Struggle. Almost. She was horrified to see Tutu-two and his panel – even the white woman member – swallowing it all, hook, line and effing sinker. They sat there nodding and smiling at the too thin, tarty lawyer as she spewed lie after lie after lie.

‘It was after living on Steynspruit for some years, and seeing at first hand just how badly the black workers were treated by th
e
boer
s
, that my client, Mr Strydom, came to understand why black people had embarked on the Armed Struggle.’

If Thys hadn’t grabbed her arm and held her down, Annamari would have jumped up and screamed at the smirking murderer to get the twisted grin off his filthy pockmarked face.

‘Mr Strydom then started making enquiries about how he could also make a contribution to the struggle. He was put in touch with members of APLA who ultimately introduced him to Mr Buya and Mr Xlongwane. He assisted them to hide arms and ammunition on Steynspruit. It was ideal – no one would ever think to search a farm like Steynspruit for illegal arms caches, not with owners who were known to be fervent supporters of the AWB.’

Annamari felt Thys’ fingers dig into her arm. She swallowed the bile that had rushed into her mouth, burning her throat. Why didn’t Mr Venter do something, say something? Her parents had hated the Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging with their militaristic parades and quazi-Nazi flags. Her father had called AWB leader Eugene Terre’Blanche an egotistical Hitler wannabe, a disgrace to the Afrikaner nation. And now Stefan Smit’s terrible, disgusting lies were being recorded for prosperity by a funny little woman in a lurid pink floral dress who was banging away on the strange recording machine. Annamari glared at Stefan Smit as he slouched in his chair, his fringe flopping down over his watery eyes, his dirty fingers picking at a sore or something on the side of his nose, nodding his head in agreement with every lie his anorexic lawyer professed.

‘Unfortunately, the son...’ Ally looked down at her notes: ‘umm...Christo Steyn...ja, Christo Steyn. Ja, well, he started spying on my client. He even broke into Mr Strydom’s house and stole some of my client’s personal belongings including letters and photographs. Mr Strydom was concerned that the youn
g
boe
r
, Christo Steyn, would find the weapons and he alerted Mr Buya and Mr Xlongwane. They decided to move the weapons off Steynspruit on the night of June 15, 1989. They planned to use the weapons to attack the Driespruitfontein Police Station in the early hours of June 16 in order to support APLA’s commemoration of the start of the Soweto uprising in 1976.’

‘What rubbish,’ Annamari whispered in Thys’ ear. ‘Why would anyone have wanted to attack the Driespruitfontein Police Station? There was nothing there. Probably just old Constable Reineke and one of the township drunks.’

‘It would have been more of a symbolic thing, I suppose, not really intended to inflict real damage. And it would have been a very soft target – if that was really what was intended,’ Thys muttered.

‘Well, why didn’t they just do that? Why did they have to murder my family?’

Afrikaner Ally was still talking, and referring constantly to her notes: ‘Unfortunately, while the three applicants were packing up the weapons, the youn
g
boe
r
, Christo Steyn, appeared and, without warning, opened fire on them. The applicants returned fire and th
e
boe
r
retreated to the main house. The applicants, concerned that th
e
boer
s
would raise the alarm, followed and dealt with the threat.’

‘They murdered my parents!’ Annamari couldn’t help it. She was on her feet, screaming at the smug, stupid, over-dressed, skinny bitch of a lawyer, tears streaming down her face. ‘They killed my brother. How can you say they just dealt with a threat? My parents weren’t a threat to anyone. They didn’t even have anything to defend themselves with – just Pa’s old shotgun. They were murdered in cold blood...’

The chairman called for a short adjournment. Thys led her from the room.

***

‘Answer the question, please,’ Tutu-two told Stefan Smit.

‘Can he repeat it?’ the murderer mumbled, loosening his tie.

‘What happened to the dogs? Who poisoned them? And the little dog, Kaptein? Who slit his throat?’ Mr Venter asked.

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see that. Anyway, they were just dogs...’

‘Of course. Just dogs. Now, I wonder if you would clarify something else for me. When exactly did you join the PAC?’

Annamari wiped her eyes and stared at Mr Venter in surprise. Up to then, he had focused on details of the “alleged arms cache” – and every time he mentioned the arms that Stefan Smit had said were hidden on the farm, Mr Venter had conveyed the word “alleged” in a tone of deep scepticism. Annamari wanted to applaud. He had also focused on the actual shooting and killing of her family. Stefan Smit had made it sound like an episode o
f
The ATea
m
. Mr Venter had made a point of referring to her parents and brother by their names, rather than “the deceased,” or – worse – “th
e
boer
s
” – a name which Afrikaner Ally conveyed in a tone of deep contempt. Now, the rapid and unexpected change in the direction of Venter’s questioning caught Annamari by surprise. It had clearly also thrown the murdering pig off balance too.

‘The PAC? I didn’t ... I wasn’t ... I was APLA, I already told you that.’

‘But the Azanian People’s Liberation Army – APLA for short – was the military wing of the PAC. Surely, as an APLA member you knew that?’

Stefan Smit shuffled in his seat and didn’t answer.

‘Mr Strydom, you did know that, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And so, as an APLA cadre, did you support APLA’s rallying slogan?’

‘Of course. I told you. I supported everything APLA did and stood for. I was one of their most loyal cadres.’

‘And you were an APLA member?’

‘Ja, of course.I told you. But I never got a membership card or anything. It would have been too dangerous, the way th
e
boe
r
, Christo Steyn, was always snooping around.’

‘I understand,’ Mr Venter said. Annamari wondered why he was smiling. ‘So, Mr Strydom, what was APLA’s rallying slogan?’

‘I can’t remember. It was a long time ago. Why are you asking me all these stupid questions? I’ve told you everything. I’ve told you the truth. And the truth is that th
e
boer
s
had to die because they were going to betray us. If Christo – I mean the youn
g
boe
r
– if he hadn’t come snooping...’

‘Let me remind you, Mr Strydom. The APLA slogan you say you supported wholeheartedly was “One Settler, One Bullet”. Does that ring a bell?’ Mr Venter asked.

‘Ja, well, so what?’

‘So what did it mean – One Settler, One Bullet?’

Stefan Smit looked up at the ceiling and cleared his throat. Annamari’s anger rose again. How could Stefan Smit – even a slimy bastard like that – how could he have supported that?

‘Mr Strydom, are you telling us that you, a white man – a so-called “settler” in APLA terminology – that you were a member and fervent supporter of an organisation whose rallying cry was a call to murder every white person in South Africa – or did you think that didn’t include you?’

Stefan Smit looked frantically at his lawyer, but Afrikaner Ally was biting her lip and examining her long red nails.