Winnie Mandela (26 page)

Swanepoel was flanked by other officers, all in uniforms with shiny buttons, and it seemed to Winnie that they took a sadistic pleasure in appearing before her neatly groomed, emphasising their superiority, while she was unkempt and confused after a fortnight in the most unhygienic conditions imaginable.

Clearly, the first two weeks had been a ‘softening-up’ period. At the end of this time, many prisoners were already mentally broken, and readily supplied the information the police wanted. Those who resisted usually obliged after application of a minimum amount of brutality. But Winnie was a special case, and the security police knew it. Apart from being Mandela’s wife, she had become well known in her own right and they dared not subject her to the same physical torture they meted out to less prominent detainees. They would have to make use of other ways to break her spirit. Few people could withstand solitary confinement and prolonged sleep deprivation, and neither left any visible scars.

The questions centred on Winnie’s ANC activities and the banned organisation’s ‘communist’ contacts outside South Africa. Standing under a bright light, she was interrogated for hours about the assistance she had organised for the Nylstroom prisoners, and told that a number of other people were also in detention, and that her sister and Peter Magubane had been arrested. She had thought Zeni and Zindzi were with her sister, and was filled with fear for her children. The police said they had eighty witnesses against her, and named many of her close friends and confidantes, claiming that these people had already told them virtually everything they needed to know, and that all they required from Winnie herself was corroboration. A policeman was sitting at a typewriter, ready to take down her confession.

In the present age, when the world has become a global village, when communication across several continents and many oceans is instantaneous, when flesh and blood have been reduced to a series of DNA symbols and sequences on the human genome map, the human psyche remains the last true frontier of exploration. Science and technology can help us to understand how we function, even explain certain behaviour patterns, but nothing and no one has yet been able to dissect the soul, that unique and ephemeral core that not only makes us who we are, but governs the ‘why’ and ‘how’ of our actions.

In writing this book, I have constantly been confronted by the ‘why’ of Winnie
Mandela’s choices. Some are easily explained by the circumstances that presented themselves at various stages of her life. Others, however, demand far deeper examination. In the absence of empirical evidence, I found it impossible not to wonder about, and imagine, her reflections and fears, and in particular those that might have been conjured up by her gruelling ordeal at the hands of her interrogators. I trust that readers will indulge my use of poetic licence to share the pictures that unwittingly came to mind as I tried to place myself in another woman’s shoes. Some of the interpretations are mine alone, while others are based on pointers to Winnie’s thoughts, observations and perceptions, as recorded in various publications and paraphrased here.

In classic manner, the interrogation switched between polite and gentle prodding and naked brutality. After a while, Swanepoel complained that she was being tiresome, boring and useless, and assured her, menacingly, that she
would
tell them everything they wanted to know. Then he told another man, Gert, to take over.

Gert was a large man with a red face and a malevolent manner. He didn’t talk, he shouted, and Winnie constantly felt as though he was about to assault her. She tried to think of other things, to remain in control of her mind and not allow fear to take over. She tried to remember Nelson’s voice, and how he recited the verse from his favourite poem, ‘Invictus’:

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul
.

Winnie tried to imprint the words on her mind:
I am the captain of my soul …
She knew what they were trying to do, she’d heard about it often enough: the good-cop, bad-cop technique. Determined not to let this well-known tactic, accompanied by much shouting, scare her, she tried to think of something else in order not to focus on the questions. She wasn’t planning on telling them anything, anyway. Gert’s red face turned a deeper shade of red as the shouting continued. Winnie quite feared for his blood pressure, and the thought momentarily amused her. She willed herself not to smile, knowing only too well that the police had no sense of humour. She concentrated on keeping her mind occupied:
I am the captain of my soul …

Gert shouted that all the others were cooperating; what made her think that she was so special? He wanted to know who she was protecting, shouting that they had taped information of Mandela’s secret instructions to Winnie, of her telephone conversations with Tambo. In short,
everything
had been recorded! They were going to put her away in any case, so why didn’t she just cooperate?

Winnie smiled inwardly at the thought of calling Tambo from her telephone
at home. She could just picture herself telling him about Nelson’s latest secret instructions and his suggestions for overthrowing the government. And, of course, about the sabotage they had in mind, and how they were going to spring Nelson from Robben Island, and then fly Tambo back to South Africa in triumph … and all the while knowing that the security police were listening to their every word. Winnie wondered what kind of fool Gert took her for. And wasn’t it illegal listening in on other people’s private telephone conversations?

Time dragged by. She had no idea how long she had been in that room. A day? More than a day? There was no way of telling whether it was day or night, because the room was constantly flooded in bright electric light that invaded every corner, every bit of space. In Soweto, Winnie thought bitterly, there were no street lights, and most people didn’t have electricity in their homes. Here, they kept the lights on night and day.

She tried measuring time through the changing shifts of the interrogators. She calculated that each shift was four hours, but this calculation only worked for a while. As the interrogation wore on, the shifts – and time – blurred into one long torturous harangue. She didn’t look at her questioners, identifying them by voice alone. She allowed the blinding light to blot out as much of the appalling surroundings as possible, trying to visualise the light as a barrier between her and her interrogators. One would bombard her with questions, another would shout and threaten. Swanepoel’s speciality seemed to be personal insults, while one of his colleagues would feign compassion, offer to help her – if she would just cooperate and give them satisfactory answers. Food was brought in during the ‘good cop’ sessions, but although her stomach was burning with hunger pains, she couldn’t eat, and just drank some water. When she needed to use the toilet, a woman warder went with her.

During one of Swanepoel’s sessions, he asked if she wanted a cigarette. She said she didn’t smoke. He offered her coffee and, without even waiting for a response, instructed one of the policemen, in Afrikaans, to get her some. Then, suddenly switching to English, he added that the policeman should get Mrs Mandela some toasted chicken sandwiches.

He then made a preposterous suggestion. If Winnie cooperated and made a radio broadcast calling upon ANC forces on the country’s borders to lay down their arms and start talking to the government, she would be released. Moreover, she would be flown by helicopter to see Nelson on Robben Island, and he would be moved to the cottage where Robert Sobukwe had been held, so that he could hold secret talks with high-ranking police officers.

Winnie was appalled that Swanepoel could think, even for a moment, that she would betray Nelson’s dream in order to save her own skin with the mediocre justification that he was suffering in more comfort. And after he had given the best
years of his life to the cause. Did they honestly think her and Nelson’s principles were for sale?

When she refused, he became menacing again, threatening that she would be broken completely, and that she might as well accept that she was finished. People thought that Nelson was a great man, and that he was in prison because he was prepared to sacrifice himself for his people. But, said Swanepoel, he knew better. He knew that Nelson had run away from her – and who could blame him? If he, Swanepoel, had a wife like Winnie, he would have done exactly the same, seeking refuge from such a woman in prison.

A harsh voice called out her name. Bad cop was back.

Winnie wondered what kind of person Gert was. What kind of man becomes a torturer, makes a living out of tormenting others, and accepts money for it? She speculated, sardonically, on where he had been trained; was there a training college for torturers? In that case, Swanepoel must have passed the advanced course. Did they have practical assignments to do? Was
she
Gert’s practical assignment?

Swanepoel again. He shouted that her innocent act wouldn’t work with them! He threatened that if she didn’t tell them what they wanted to know, they would tell her people a few things about her. That, Swanepoel said, would finish Winnie’s ambitions of being a great ANC leader. Who, he asked, did she think she was anyway? All she deserved was a kick on the arse!

Then he lowered his voice and hissed that he knew she had all the secret plans written in code in invisible ink. She needn’t think that they couldn’t decipher them. Swanepoel said that they were giving her a chance to help herself. If she was smart and helped them, they would make life easier for her.

Winnie would not even contemplate the idea, and scoffed at his mention of the non-existent, coded letters. Even in her current dire straits, she could see through his absurd lies. She knew that Swanepoel would not be talking to her if he had what he needed – he’d be presenting her with the evidence in triumph, as befitted his over-sized ego. They mistakenly thought she was stupid, but that was not necessarily a bad thing – it might even help her.

She caught a glimpse of him and quickly looked away. His face was puce and he was looming over her. She thought he might pick her up and throw her on the floor, and almost wished he would, so that she would be knocked unconscious, maybe even die. That would put an end to the agony.

When ‘good cop’, Major Coetzee, took his next turn, she told him she was feeling faint and had severe palpitations. He promised to get her a doctor, then asked: ‘Why go through this hardship?’ She was young and beautiful, and she owed it to Zeni and Zindzi to live a normal life, he said.

Although Winnie’s heart was shattered at the loss of her daughters, she vowed that they would not break her by reminding her of Zeni and Zindzi. They had to
know that she was anxious about her daughters, and that she was in agony not knowing what had happened to them, but that cheap tactic would get them nowhere. She was exhausted and in pain, but they could forget it – she was getting out of there, even if only in her mind. She was going to go to Pondoland, to its soft green fields in summer, to the voices of the boys as they run and laugh and fight …

He could get her a job with the police, Swanepoel said. Someone like her could easily become one of them.

Suddenly, Winnie understood. This was the point where informers usually stumbled and fell. They would feel like she did now, or worse, because of the beatings and the pain inflicted on them, and they just wanted it to end. They would be convinced that they could take no more, and when they agreed, they would sell their birthright for a pot of apartheid soup. But not Winnie. They had just said exactly the wrong thing if they wanted her to cooperate. She would never become one of
them
. How could they think, even for a second, that she could become one of them?

In his soothing voice, good cop urged her to think about his proposal – then all her problems could soon be over.

Winnie willed herself to remember Madiba’s voice, planning a holiday in Durban, images of the waltzing waves, the sun bouncing off the water, Zeni and Zindzi building sand castles on the beach …

Good cop woke her up abruptly, telling her she could not sleep. They had to finish so that she could get out of there. Winnie wondered where Gert was. But then she was back in Pondoland, walking in the fields with her Tata, picking mealies. It was a good crop, and Tata promised that with the money he made from the sale, Winnie would go to boarding school. Then Winnie’s mind drifted from the Pondoland fields to Orlando, her home; Buthelezi and Mandela were standing in the doorway …

She tried to estimate how long she had been there, and thought it might be the morning of the third day. Her head was spinning. Coetzee asked whether she would like to take a shower, and someone led her to a cubicle further down the passage.

Winnie was in a daze, her body swaying with fatigue. She felt close to death, as if she was floating, and she wondered if she were dead. But she could still hear sounds, which came from far away. Longing to sleep, she knew they would not let her, yet exhaustion threatened to engulf her. Then she felt the water on her body, cold, clear water with which she could wash away the pain and the fear. She was shocked to see that how swollen and blue her body was.

Winnie felt stronger and fresher after her shower. The policeman said everyone was very concerned about her, they knew about her heart condition. And they all
respected her. Winnie doubted that very much. She was sure they couldn’t care less whether she lived or died. They saw her as a cheeky maid who had risen above her station in life, and had the gall to resist the white
baas
.

He asked about her meetings with various people, the addresses she had used to receive mail, the pamphlets she had printed at Maude Katzenellenbogen’s house. That was when she realised that they knew too much – and that someone must have talked. Over and over he asked about her role, accusing her of inciting people to commit sabotage, claiming that other detainees had taken their instructions from her. He told her they had arrested a young mother named Charlotte, who had stayed briefly with Winnie, and said unless Winnie made a statement, Charlotte would be held indefinitely. Winnie wanted to weep. Charlotte was not involved with the ANC, but she knew her denials were useless. This had nothing to do with finding out the truth. This was about getting her, Winnie Mandela.