Bloodlines (10 page)

I went with Michaela to public demonstrations, lectures, and small meetings held in secret. But it wasn’t until July of 1955, when the Congress of the People took place on the
veld
outside the little village of Kliptown, on the outskirts of Johannesburg, that I understood how big the groundswell was, and how threatened the government was by it.

This was to be a national convention, and it had a grand purpose—to vote on a Freedom Charter that set the tone for the South Africa of the future. We decided to show our support and became Freedom Volunteers, planning the event, and acting as convention officials at the site.

At the university, Michaela wrote a carefully worded editorial in support of the convention. By then she had already spent a night in jail, and she recognized the need for caution. But tempers were high, and even a cautiously worded editorial could elicit some nasty responses. In this case, the police left her alone—but she received several letters from the right-wing fringe. One of them was delivered to the newspaper office and addressed to her, and even after fifty years, I recall it word for word. It said:

When you ask the kaffirs what laws they would make if they were in charge, you give them big ideas about freedom. Don’t you know what they want, you stupid Jew? They want your house. And when they come and take it from you, like the Nazis did, your feelings will be hurt. You people never learn. Why don’t you mind your own fucking business? Just keep up your money-grubbing and stop interfering in politics. Watch out, Jew girl—this is not your country. If you don’t like it, get out. And if you don’t know what good manners are, we can teach you.

Michaela disregarded the note, although it confirmed what her father had told her.

On the day she received the note, we had dinner plans with her father, and Michaela showed her father the note. After dinner, he insisted upon taking us for a drive to the outskirts of Sophiatown, which was in the process of being bulldozed.

The sun was just setting as we arrived. We got out and walked around to the side of the car facing the ruined city, and your grandfather took out a silver case and offered us a cigarette. Michaela was surprised, but he thrust the case at her again, and she took one.

“You’re a married woman, Michaela,” he said. “I know you smoke, and you certainly know your own mind. And after the correspondence you received today, you’re entitled to all the privileges—and responsibilities—of adulthood.”

I pulled out my lighter and lit our cigarettes, and as we smoked, we leaned against the car in the evening silence, looking at the ruins. The church tower was still standing against the sky, and a few of the better houses, but block upon block of shacks were bulldozed rubble, and the dust rose into the evening sky.

“You know the population statistics as well as I do,” your grandfather said. “Thirteen million blacks; three million whites; fewer than a hundred thousand Jews. We’re a drop in the bucket here—and we’re only safe as long as we don’t make a big splash.” He took a deep draw on his cigarette and slowly exhaled. “This People’s Congress you’re involved in is about to make a huge splash—and you’re being shortsighted if you think you’re only putting yourselves at risk.” He pointed to the acres of destruction before us, red dust rising into the sunset. “You know better than I do what’s gone on here. But I don’t want you to forget what they’ve done. The world watches, and doesn’t give a damn. This government has forced the residents of Sophiatown out—and they’ll find a way to move us Jews out, as well. It wouldn’t be the first time in our history—we’ve been expelled from better countries than this. I’ve made my life, and I won’t tell you how to live yours. But I can’t help wondering whether the writer of your little poison pen letter is right—some of us just never learn. Please, don’t you be one of them.”

But the more opposition Michaela faced, the more determined she became. She just held her head a little higher, put her chin out a little further, and kept going.

Your grandfather’s concerns didn’t stop us from volunteering at the convention when three thousand people from all over the country descended upon this little town on the
veld
. They came by bus, by car, by the truckload. Some came by foot. Most of the delegates were black, but there were representatives of Indian, colored and white organizations, too.

Michaela thought it would be a major turning point in South Africa, as important as the 1776 Continental Congress when Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, and James Madison’s writing of the Bill of Rights thirteen years later, all rolled into one. She hoped the impetus for change was so strong that time would compress and the impossible be accomplished–and we would be there to watch it happen. The police were there, too, but on the first day, all they did was take photographs and write down names and a record of whatever they heard. I thought the People’s Congress was too much of a threat to the government—they would shut it down before it started, and it would never happen. But they were smarter than we gave them credit for. They wanted to catch the organizers in the act, and make a show of force. Which they did.

On the second day, in the afternoon, a cordon of police armed with rifles surrounded the crowd, and several went up to the podium. They pushed the delegates off the platform, and the officer in charge took the microphone.

“You’re being held here on suspicion of treasonous activity,” he said. “No one leaves until we have the identity of every person here.”

Each section of the Charter had been approved by the time the raid took place, and the goal of the convention was achieved. But for the next few hours, the police took down the identities of every person present and confiscated whatever written material they could find. We were forced to line up at a table they set up at the entrance, and only after providing proof of identity were we allowed to leave. When I reached the table I identified myself, the officer took down my information, and a photographer took my picture. Then it was Michaela’s turn.

“Name?”

“Michaela Green.”

The officer leaned back and with his thumb tipped up the brim of his khaki police hat. He was older than we were by about fifteen years, which would have put him in his late thirties. I remember him well—we met several times after the convention. He was a muscular, big-boned man; thick bellied. He had reddish hair and freckles, pale blue eyes, thin lips, and I watched with distaste as he looked your mother up and down.

“So, this is Mrs. Green, who used to be Miss Davidson,” he said with a serious expression, and in a dense Afrikaans accent. “I’ve heard all about you. Read several of your little Socialistic pieces in the university paper. I wondered when our paths would cross. Let me congratulate you on your marriage, Mrs. Green. Tell me, does your father, Dr. Davidson, know that his daughter is here today, serving food to our
kaffir
communists while they plot treason?” Michaela stiffened at the mention of her father’s name, but I squeezed the back of her arm, and felt her lean into me, acknowledging my signal. The officer missed nothing.

“No need to be alarmed,” he said, pointing to his mouth. “See these?” He opened his lips to show his teeth. “Your father keeps them in good shape. He’s my dentist. He gives me really good advice about healthy living. That way, I get to keep my teeth.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked up at her. “You should think about living healthy, too, Mrs. Green. Keep your teeth that way. And I suggest that you watch out who you keep company with.” Then he smiled a nasty grin. His teeth were the best thing about him. “You can go now—if we need more information from you we’ll be in touch. And tell your father Officer Viljoen says hello.”

The police raid on the afternoon of the second day marked an intensification of the government campaign to wipe out all opposition. Once the convention was over, the government began to gather information. They searched for evidence of sedition and treason and for anything that could be interpreted as a violation of the Suppression of Communism Act. And a year and a half later, in December of 1956, the Treason Trials began. They charged a hundred and fifty-six people with High Treason, and accused them of plotting to use violence to overthrow the government, and to establish a Communist regime.

We were small fish, and were never investigated—but many of our friends were. No one who read the Freedom Charter could have believed that it was an instrument of Communism—but it was a document incompatible with apartheid, and deeply at odds with the ruling party.

The government stated unequivocally that the Freedom Charter threatened the security of the state. Those opposed to the government watched the trial with shock and disbelief. For many, including Michaela, it gave the lie to any possibility of peaceful change, and showed the country for what it was—a police state camouflaged as a democracy.

The Treason Trials lasted for over four years, but the prosecution found itself unable to make a reasonable case against most of the accused. The court found no evidence that the African National Congress—the ANC—planned to violently overthrow the state, and it ended with the dismissal of all charges.

In the early days of the Treason Trial, we were invited to a party to celebrate the dropping of all charges against a friend, a journalist who had been charged with treason and sedition. When we arrived at his modest suburban home just outside Johannesburg, doors and windows were open to the warm, summer night, there was jazz playing on the phonograph, and the living room and verandah were crowded. Blacks, whites, coloreds and Indians laughed and drank together, dancing and making toasts to freedom. It was the South African version of a love fest, and I realize now that we were like children, living in a dream world. We behaved as if the mere act of dancing and laughing together would make it acceptable to the world we lived in; as if a glance of affection across the color line, or the joining of white lips to black, would somehow be their own validation.

Perhaps they should have been, but they weren’t. Pretending that apartheid didn’t exist would not make it go away—in fact, it did the opposite. One of the neighbors, enraged by the mere idea of blacks and whites partying together, called the police.