Kitchen Boy (9 page)

Every evening for years, Lofty Munn has sat in his veranda-cave of golden shower overlooking the railway in Jacobs, remembering pain, starvation, filth, the foul smell of gangrene. After Italy capitulated and he was released and sent home to Durban, there were no jobs for one-legged men on crutches. He seldom wore the surgical pink artificial leg fitted by UDF orthopaedic surgeons because it felt all wrong, like a clumsy alien leeching on him.

He lived alone, eking out his war pension until he met Joyce on a bench in Albert Park, feeding the pigeons. She took him on, stump and all, to help run her tobacconist shop in Smith Street and to jazz up her nights. That’s what she said: ‘You jazz up my nights like a crazy cricket, Lofty, man.’ Just looking at her gave him a hard-on. She loved sex and cigarettes – and then cancer got her lungs, so he was alone again with the shop and their house in Jacobs and his war memories.

Nowadays, he finds it hard to remember more about Joyce than her body – tits like watermelons, generous hips he could grab onto, passionate smoke-sour mouth, all the delicious wobbles he plunged into, both of them laughing. But the war is still sharp and clear. He knows damn well what ungodly means.

So does Stanley Magwaza, who is sitting next to the granite column in the fourth pew on the right. By rights he should be with the other veterans, but he has never been invited to join the Moths. He was also marched through the desert, though when a drum of water and a few loaves of bread were provided, members of his Native Military Corps only got a crust each; the water had run out among the white soldiers long before it reached them.

He was in a rage for years after that war, for which he was rewarded on demob with a train ticket home, ₤2, a khaki suit and a bicycle. He took out his rage on women until he found soccer and a home with Orlando Pirates, moving on to start a business when he was too old to play. Stanley’s Place was for a while the ‘in’ shebeen for Soweto amagents – with its Italian furniture, leatherette walls, chrome and mirrors, and jukebox. Sexy girls in fishnet tights served cocktails made with cherries and imported liquor at a time when black people could only legally buy Bantu beer. The high life was sweet. He drank expensive Scotch and had his choice of choekies in high-rise minis and jeans tighter than coats of paint. Only top-class dagga was allowed, no drugs. He wore tailor-made suits, bespoke shirts, gold chains, a diamond ring, and two-tone shoes. Knew how to bribe the right policemen. Never felt the need for a family.

But the zols and the hooch got him in the end. Now Stanley’s Place is a concrete culvert, and he is a wiser man for the tribulations that got him there.

He refused J J’s offer to help him find a home. ‘I’ve got used to living with nature, nè? It’s kinder than people.’

‘But you do get a war pension?’

‘Ja. It’s small, but I don’t need much.’

‘Damn it, man, nobody should be living like
this
today
.
’ J J’s induku swished to indicate the embankment and the bush. He was sitting on an upturned bucket cushioned with a sack. ‘It’s a bloody scandal.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘You’re not okay. I’ll build you a rondavel in my garden.’

‘No. Thanks. Here I can do what I like. Nobody pushes me around.’

It was the first time J J had heard anger in his voice. He wanted to apologise for causing it – for everything, actually. He said, ‘I’m sorry. I should have known. Been blind as a bat.’

‘It’s okay, mfowethu. This is enough.’ Stanley gave him a caustic smile. ‘Now I only worry about my food and the bush growing too high.’

‘It’s a bit on the late side to come around to it, but I really mean that. I’m sorry.’ J J peered at him in earnest. Meeting Stanley had forced him to admit a painful truth: he might have suffered for his country in the war, but hero-worship had dazzled him. He had been pampered like a racehorse and was just as blinkered. ‘I’m also ashamed,’ he added.

In the evening air, the words hung like insignificant gnats under the cumulonimbus of his wrongdoing, until there was a quiet response, ‘It’s appreciated, sir.’

‘Don’t call me sir. All that’s over now.’

‘You think so?’ At J J’s affirming nod the black man chuckled and said, ‘Ja. We can dream, nè?’

Now Stanley Magwaza sits in St Ethelbert’s remembering that afternoon and thinking, Hamba kahle, John. When your daughter came looking for me to take part in this big funeral, she brought your best suit – old, but good quality – and a folding camp chair and these strong walking shoes. Rest in peace now. You can start apologising again when we meet in the paradise for war heroes.

He looks down at the new Reeboks which will carry him to the pension payout office on the first Friday of the month. J J had asked Shirley to buy them several weeks before he died, knowing he would never wear them. Small amends, he knew. But he and the friend he’d made during his last few months had agreed on the importance of shoes.

The new Springbok flank Rick Savidge, representing his team in the sixth pew, also knows about the ungodly, though at one remove. The word takes him back to his grandfather’s workshop where he’d sat on the window ledge watching the old man plane stinkwood. Aromatic shavings curled and tumbled to the floor as he made long smooth strokes, grumbling under an unkempt moustache.

‘Ungodly swine, those Huns. Heartless bastards. They’d weigh out your prison rations to the milligram one moment, then shoot you the next. Fellow went over the tripwire to fetch a ball kicked into the no-go area, and blam! Sniper in the tower and one rifle shot. Dead.’

‘But why?’ Rick at seven does not understand any of it: the war, the Huns, why his grandfather had been in prison.

‘Because he stepped out of line. Watch out for the Hun and the Jap, boy. They’re murderers.’

‘Can you really get killed for stepping out of line?’ Rick thinks of assembly in his school courtyard and one of the masters standing in a second-floor window with a rifle, ready to shoot transgressors who step outside the white lines on the tarmac.

‘At any time. It’s a merciless world. No quarter given.’

‘What does that mean?’ Rick can feel himself shrinking inside. He gets teased at school because of his surname. One of the boys nicknamed him ‘Kaffir’ and the name has stuck.

The old man stops planing and fixes him with a mad blue glare. ‘Beware the ungodly. Get the fuckers first, before they get you.’

‘Dad? Please come,’ Rick calls out to his father who has brought him because the old man asked to see him.

He is at the window in a flash. ‘I’m here, boy.’

Rick snuggles into his father’s arms and feels better, though he never forgets the old man’s furious words. He learns when he is older that Percy Savidge had played rugby in Stalag IVB at Mühlberg-on-Elbe, where the lines were scratched in icy gravel and endless kicking over sketchy goalposts helped to while away the hours. In the rugby competition of 1944, twenty teams of bored prisoners took out their frustration on one another. The camp’s handwritten wall newspaper
The Observer
reported after the ‘Springboks’ had beaten ‘England’: ‘Both teams played excellent rugger … Both teams are to be congratulated on the splendid spirit in which the game was played.’

Percy Savidge’s spirit had been battered to the point where he could only communicate with wood after the war, shaping and stroking it to make furniture. He ignored his wife, who soon left with their son Ian. In turn, Ian had kept his own son Rick away from the bitter grandfather in the workshop until he was dying. When Rick plays rugby, he remembers his grandfather saying, ‘Get the fuckers first before they get you.’ He is known for his robust tackling.

Now he looks at the coffin where J J Kitching lies under its bright flag, and wonders why some men are galvanised by war while others are destroyed.

The teammate sitting next to him nudges his arm and mutters, ‘Keep your trap shut, Kaffir. You’ll be snoring next.’

‘Don’t call me that!’

‘Why not?’

‘Nobody should use the k-word now.’

‘Even for a white ou? Come on. It’s a joke.’

‘For anyone. So you keep
your
trap shut, bru.’

He remembers his grandfather saying, ‘Watch out for the Hun and the Jap,’ and thinks, At some rugby matches men hurl ‘Honky!’ and ‘Fokken witman!’ where they used to throw naartjies.

Passchendaele had been hell. Bodies split, heads blown off, grovelling fear, shrieking fear, unspeakable fear. There might be something to be said for seasons in hell because, when we’d dragged ourselves back from the bloodiness, life had seemed brighter than we’d remembered it.

– J L C
ARR
,
A Month in the Country

When the
Arundel Castle
docked in Durban with its cargo of POWs, all they wanted was to go home. But Herbie Fredman insisted on driving J J round town in the Buick before he caught the night train to Zululand, to show him the sights and give him a good time. ‘We’re home in one piece, man,’ he kept saying. ‘Can you believe it? Yee-ha!’

They drove along the Esplanade and the Marine Parade and then down West Street to take the long escalator up to the tea room at Payne Brothers for a pie lunch followed by knickerbocker glories. Herbie said, ‘I love these things. The Yanks saved me at the end, you know? I was on my last legs in that camp.’

He didn’t mention the war again. J J was hustled off to a matinée in the Playhouse, followed by a stroll along Smith Street to the Royal Hotel for beers.

He found it hard to take in everything, but didn’t like to disappoint Herbie by saying he just wanted to sit somewhere quiet. The cars and the neon lights and the bustle of people dazed him. Everyone seemed so healthy and well dressed. The women shoppers in floral frocks, veiled hats, high heels and matching handbags. The nannies playing with rosy children in the parks. Prosperous men striding the pavements in suits and hats, the brims tilted over their eyes. Indian women in pastel saris that left a waft of incense in their wake. Zulu mothers in layered cotton prints, with sleepy babies on their backs. Three little girls skipping past in frilly dresses bold as zinnias, bows in their hair, white socks and black patent shoes.

They all seemed unaware of the ravages of war and famine and death. Even the rickshaw men padding by from the market leapt up with exuberant joy every so often, to shrieks from passengers who grabbed hold of their baskets piled with fruit and vegetables to stop them from spilling.

It was all too much. In the camps he’d have given anything for just one slice of pineapple, one small yellow lady-finger banana smelling of home and sunshine.

The man made an abrupt gesture with his swagger stick. ‘Für die Jagd. Go!’ There was mockery in the major’s voice as he led them, boot soles flapping, towards a flight of steps. ‘It’s a hunting lodge. Probably a general’s. It’s relaxing to shoot buck and wild boar and water fowl when you’re weary of killing people.’

B
ISHOP
C
HAUNCEY MAINTAINS A REGAL POSTURE
, his hands clasped and his eyes raised to yellowwood beams hacked by early loggers, as Reverend George goes on murdering the King James English, amplified by the microphones. ‘I held my tongue and spoke nothing. I kept silence, yea, even from good words. But it was terrible pain and grief to me.’

Shirley knows pain and grief but has held her tongue through more than fifty years of marriage, not wanting to add to John’s wounds. He had gone to war so young, and seen and done things that hissed out during his nightmares when he screamed and howled and begged for forgiveness. On the rugby field he’d been concussed and his nose and ankle fractured, and his pride was almost broken by an ambitious colleague until he learnt to fight back. He had defended friends with his fists in pubs and been sued for crimen injuria by a woman he’d sworn at in a prolonged rage when her dog peed against his leg.

In the beginning, Shirley wondered why men threw themselves into violence and danger without thinking of the consequences. But as she grew older and came to know more, she understood. Men thought with their guts and their balls, not their brains. She was different: sensible, logical, weighing up the odds before taking anything on. She’d decided to be a nurse when she was twelve. Her veterinarian father was short-staffed with all the young men joining up, and she was allowed to help in his surgery. She had an easy way with animals and didn’t mind blood and pus or the maggots in festering sores. When she told him about wanting to be a nurse, he’d protested, ‘But you’re good enough to be a vet.’

‘Will they let me train at Onderstepoort?’

‘Don’t know if they take women. You could try.’

‘But I want to know now.’

‘I can’t tell you, Shirls. We’re at war. Everything’s upside down.’

‘Then I’ll be a nurse.’

It was a good decision. By the time she’d passed her Junior Certificate, the requirement for nursing, the colleges and universities were choc-abloc with ex-servicemen catching up. And there was no shortage of men hanging around the Addington Hospital nurses’ home during the four years it took her to become a registered nursing sister: junior doctors, bronzed beach boys, travelling salesmen confident of the pulling power of their wheels. She was pretty and felt flattered and thought FLs were safe when first one boyfriend and then a second talked her into bed. The war clouds had rolled away and everyone was having fun again.

A week before receiving her final diploma Shirley discovered that she was pregnant. It was early 1951 and she couldn’t tell her mother and father, who would have been crushed by the disgrace. Instead she applied for a post at Groote Schuur in Cape Town. Her parents waved her off on the train pulling out of Durban Station, pleased that she was sharing a coupé with a senior sister who was also going to a new post in the Cape – they had no idea that it was a home for unmarried mothers. Nurses looked after each other at a time when doctors were gods and abortions were illegal and often dangerous.

Shirley was allowed to hold her son for just an hour before he was taken away for adoption by an English couple. The nursing network gathered her into Groote Schuur where she did penance by volunteering to work with the most intractable patients. Sister Barnes, aged twenty-one, was sent in to nurse the Springbok wing suffering from septicaemia when he began raving and thrashing about.