Bloodlines (9 page)

There were exceptions, of course—people who recognized the inhumanity of apartheid, and who did their bit to make a difference. But for the most part it was a sort of willed ignorance—because if you acknowledge how evil the system is but continue to live in it and benefit from it, then you have to live each day with your hypocrisy. Most people aren’t evil enough—or strong enough—to do that, and it was easier to simply ignore the problem. We all did.

Sophiatown, 1953

Sophiatown was a hodge-podge of people—black, colored, Indian, Asian, and they all lived in relative harmony. They belonged. It was one of the few places in the country where they could own their homes and the land they lived on. I didn’t understand quite what that meant until Michaela and I drove up to the center of Sophiatown that first time in her father’s Volvo.

It was the first time I saw Christ the King Church, where Father Trevor Huddleston preached, and where Michaela helped in the Mission school. Father Huddleston was an Anglican priest who had brought his ministry from England, and he was the first white religious leader to come out strongly against apartheid. He was way ahead of his time, and the first time I met and heard him speak was on that winter evening at the Odin Theatre.

When your mother and I arrived in Sophiatown we drove straight to the home of Dahlia and Charlie, a young couple who worked for Father Huddleston. Dahlia was short and energetic, with a sweet face and an easy smile; Charlie towered over her, a big, serious man who moved quietly as if he didn’t want to reveal his true size. I remember thinking at the time that being so tall must have been even harder for a black man; that it’s difficult to fade into the background when one stands out in a crowd.

We were the only two white guests in the house. Our hosts were gracious and pleasant, and I felt truly welcome. They greeted us warmly, looked into my eyes instead of down at my feet as they would have in Johannesburg. It was a new and freeing experience for me.

The house was modest and poorly furnished; the floor of unfinished board and the table a heavy, ancient thing with a flowered oilcloth attached by thumbtacks. We sat down in their home to eat before the meeting—the first time I ate a meal in the home of a black family. As I sat eating thick chicken soup and bread out of a chipped white enamel bowl, I remember thinking the most striking thing about it was that it seemed so normal. Your mother insisted upon helping to serve and clean up after the meal, and she laughed with them and their friends as she would have with her friends at university.

We left the house as a group just before the meeting was scheduled to start, and your mother and I walked hand in hand through the streets of Sophiatown.

“Come,” said Charlie as we reached the entrance to the theatre, “let me introduce you to the speakers, and to Father Huddleston.”

Father Huddleston was tall and exceedingly thin, his black cassock hanging on his shoulder blades as he stood outside the main door in deep conversation with two men, both black, one slightly younger than the other. As we approached the little group, four armed policemen walked toward them, and several of our party moved in front of us, as if to protect Michaela and me from what was about to happen. Our white skins were conspicuous enough, but they were all aware that your mother had already been arrested because of her editorial and wanted to shield her from view. We all watched from a distance, but my heart was pounding. I had no idea how quickly a situation could deteriorate, or how ugly it could get, and this was closer than I had ever been to a confrontation with the police.

The commanding officer was a balding middle aged man with light brown hair, a beefy face, and a trim, graying beard. He wore a serious expression, but one side of his mouth was raised in an expression of contempt. It was clear that both men were known to him, and that he resented having to deal with them. He spoke brusquely, completely ignoring Father Huddleston.

“Walter Sisulu and Nelson Mandela, I’m placing you both under arrest,” he said. “You should know better than to be here—you’re both banned from attending public gatherings.”

He gestured with his hand and the other three officers stepped forward, but Father Huddleston stepped between them.

“These men have done nothing. And you should be aware,” he said accusingly, “that the orders prohibiting them from attending public functions have expired. If you arrest them you will have to arrest me, too.”

“I suggest you stick to your business, Father,” said the officer. “Stand aside.”

Father Huddleston refused to move, and the police took him by the elbows and began to force him out of the way. What happened then opened my eyes to something I had not thought possible. One of the two black men—the one he had addressed as Nelson Mandela—took a small step forward, faced the commanding officer, and looked calmly into his eyes. He was young and tall, but there was something in his presence greater than his size or his age. The officer was accustomed to using race, position, uniform and manner to intimidate people, and in his stance there was a promise of violence. But Mandela continued to look calmly into his eyes, and eventually the officer faltered and took a step back. He seemed to be stepping out of a force field, and there was relief on his face as he gestured to his men and they released Father Huddleston.

“Thank you, officer,” said Mandela. He spoke softly, but the weight and gravity of his voice compelled those within hearing to listen. “I appreciate your leaving Father Huddleston out of this. I’m sure that you would not wish to make a wrongful arrest, and I can assure you that the orders banning our appearance at public events have expired. We would not be here tonight talking to you if our bans were still in force.”

Police records were notoriously bad, and the officer in charge must have been aware that his knowledge of when banning orders began and ended was imprecise. He hesitated for a moment, but this rabble rouser was humiliating him before the men in his command, and his face reddened.

“Don’t step out of line, Mandela,” he said. “And don’t think you can cross me. I’m watching you.” Then he turned on his heels and left, his men following behind.

I was amazed and awed by the experience—I had never seen a black man confront a white police officer, and I couldn’t tell whether I was more surprised by the courage it took, or by the fact that the earth had not opened up and swallowed him as a consequence.

This was the first time I had come across Nelson Mandela, and although his courage surprised me, his strength and dignity did not. It was a quality I was used to in black men. Only later did I recognize the determination and character it must have taken to rise each day into indignity and slight and yet to maintain even a vestige of self-respect. Perhaps they had no choice—at least for some men, perhaps maintaining dignity was what allowed them to rise each day in the first place. For others, the appearance of dignity turned out to be simply a mask for rage that was inexpressible.

Father Huddleston looked in our direction, smiled, and beckoned. We walked over and he gave your mother a brief hug.

“This is Michaela Davidson,” he said proudly, introducing her to the men with him, “a fine young woman who volunteers at the Mission School. And you,” he said, “must be Leonard Green. Welcome.”

I was still sweating uncomfortably from our encounter, but the two men who had been singled out stood by calmly, as if we were attending a garden party instead of a racially charged political meeting. I shook hands with them both, and we went into the theatre as if nothing had happened. The crowd welcomed Father Huddleston, who introduced Nelson Mandela as a young leader in the opposition movement. I don’t remember Mandela’s words, but I do recall the hush that came over the audience as he spoke, and like them I found his message inspiring. It was more about human dignity and freedom than it was about the politics of the impending forced removal from Sophiatown.

For me, that day was filled with firsts. My first outing with your mother; my first visit to Sophiatown; my first and only meeting with Nelson Mandela. Back then, Mandela still believed that change without conflict was possible. It was several years before he recognized that dialogue and peaceful demonstrations alone would not be sufficient to bring apartheid to an end. I had no idea who he was, but I have carried with me since the impression of his profound gravitas and quiet power.

I went to Sophiatown because of your mother, and she was right. Once I met the people, my theories took on human expression. But by then, I had fallen so deeply in love with her that I would have followed any example she set.

Sad to say at the fading of my life, the truth is that your mother is the only woman I ever loved. I last laid eyes on her almost forty years ago, and they have been lonely years for me. You will see, Steven, as this story unfolds, that I bear full responsibility for depriving you of her presence, and of her love. Living without her has been punishment enough—both for the things I have done, and for the things I should have done, but didn’t.

.

three

L
ENNY

Johannesburg, 1953-55

I
began spending time at Michaela’s home, and came to know her parents, Selma and Samuel. Michaela became very fond of my father, Papa Mischa. Within the year we became engaged, but there seemed no rush to marry, until Selma became ill and was finally convinced to see a specialist. They thought at first it was kidney failure, but additional tests revealed that kidney failure had been caused by the inoperable cancer filling her abdominal cavity. She was given several months to live.

She wanted to dance at her daughter’s wedding, and Michaela wanted to give her that pleasure while she could still dance. We had a small, elegant wedding, and a month later, Selma died. Your grandfather Samuel took it hard, but he continued his dental practice, working long hours, and he continued to take as patients many who could only pay in kind. I always wondered how he made a living, but somehow he and your grandmother always had enough, and once she died, he didn’t need much. He continued to live in the house, and Dennis, who had been his gardener since your mother was a little girl, took care of him. Your grandfather was a warm, gentle man, and he and Papa Mischa became close friends in those years. Often we had them both for dinner; sometimes we all met at Samuel’s house, where Dennis and the cook would argue in the kitchen until they agreed on something that the Doctor would enjoy.