Steeped in Blood (3 page)

His response was electrifying. He phoned the senior officer at the police station and raised hell. The next thing, a police car with a colonel and other officers arrived at the school and I went with the
police to recover the little corpse. Not a word was said about the breach of school rules, and I seem to remember that Stern gave Currie and me twenty cents each. He was that kind of man.

Michael Stern, however, committed the cardinal sin of allowing the black school cook to swim in the school’s swimming pool. This was simply too liberal for South Africa at the time, as was the teachers’ regular participation in protest marches and their resulting arrests. The upshot of all of this ‘liberalism’ was that the school board intervened, and Stern left to found Waterford School in Mbabane in Swaziland, taking some of the better teachers with him. (My brother, interestingly, went on to teach Afrikaans and Music at Waterford School the year after his matric.)

St Martin’s provided a broad education. The teachers were unconventional and some were even a bit off the wall, but many of the more general lessons I was taught stood me in good stead. As Mark Twain said, ‘Education is what remains after what has been taught at school has been forgotten.’

Rob Taylor taught me science in Standard 8. He must have awakened a deeply covered interest in the subject, as I went from failure marks to respectable to even good results. At that stage, I also developed an interest in biochemistry. My brother Peter was in London at the Royal College of Music at the time, and he found a second-hand bookshop in Charing Cross Road where, quite serendipitously, he bought me two books,
Biochemical Society Symposia
numbers 22 and 23, for ten shillings.

These books described the structure and functions of the membranes and surfaces of cells, and methods of separation of sub-cellular structural components, nurturing the seeds of my future academic interests. Much of the content was beyond me, but the books stimulated me to enquire more, and eventually my postgraduate studies focused on cell-surface biochemistry and culminated in a PhD in the subject. Rob Taylor encouraged this sort of enquiry, and I owe him much gratitude.

The same could not be said of the other teachers at the school. They were by and large indifferent towards me, and some did not appear to be qualified in the teaching profession. I remember Mr Yule, the maths master, who suffered from post-traumatic stress as a result of the Second World War. He was stern and strict, demanding respect from his pupils. Often, at the slightest provocation, he would fly into a blind rage, leaving us fearful and uncertain.

My English master was Jeremy Taylor, of ‘Ag Pleez Daddy’ fame. He left after my first year to pursue a musical career with the
Wait a Minim!
show. My brother Peter, being very musically gifted, wrote down the music of ‘Ag Pleez Daddy’ in note form so that Jeremy could get the copyright.

Michael de Lisle succeeded Michael Stern as headmaster at St Martin’s. He was a rigid man, and I learnt some valuable lessons from him – including the fact that ‘military intelligence’ is a contradiction in terms! He had been a distinguished soldier during the Second World War, and we clashed from the word go, as he believed in creating and upholding rules, no matter what the consequences. Michael de Lisle and I were not destined to be happy with each other at all.

I had set my heart on studying medicine after school, but my grades were poor. The only way for me to be accepted was to put in many hours of extra work, which would mean studying in the library after prep, late into the evening. The school rules stated that we could do this two nights a week, and De Lisle was not prepared to waive them. He appeared to be totally insensitive to my motivation – rules were there to be obeyed.

I did not accept this lying down, and after ongoing tension between De Lisle and me, my mother was called in and asked to take me to a psychiatrist. De Lisle thought that I had some deep-seated personality issues that needed resolution.

The psychiatrist found me to be a reasonably normal sixteen-year-old, and I left St Martin’s and returned home to Standerton.
The rest of the year was largely wasted. I attended the local Afrikaans high school to brush up on my Afrikaans, and started at Nigel High School the following year, in Standard 9 again.

I met up with Michael de Lisle recently when he attended a public lecture that I gave. He and I appear to have mellowed considerably, and he complimented me on my performance. Memories are short, and I bear him no lasting animosity – we were both products of our own experiences.

The headmaster at Nigel High School was Louis Spruyt. His wife had been at school with my mother, who had been taught by Louis in the early days of his career. He had a soft spot for me, and sometimes allowed me to use his office to study. There was none of the rigidity that I had encountered up until that point. I worked almost every evening up at the school library – I had my own key – and my results reflected the effort I put in.

Looking back, what amazes me was the short-sightedness in the education system, where teachers were often more focused on upholding rules and regulations than on recognising ambition and determination, and facilitating the development of the young minds in their care. Louis Spruyt, for me, was a breath of fresh air.

In my last two years at school at Nigel, I encountered many people who can simply be described as incredible human beings. One of these was Dr Gevers, my English master. A German by birth, he had a PhD in English and exuded wisdom and knowledge. Imposed discipline did not form part of his world: for his pupils, to disappoint Gevers was punishment in itself. We looked up to him in awe, and the many life lessons he imparted through teaching his subject still live with me today.

Gevers was Socratic in his approach to teaching, constantly questioning and engaging in debate with his students to stimulate critical thinking. I recall one such instance when we were studying William Blake’s poem ‘The Sick Rose’:

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

The poem’s bleak political overtones reflect Blake’s insecurities with the changing world around him. I went to Gevers with an interpretation, and his approach was mindful. He never said that I was wrong, but questioned me on how my analysis interacted with the matrix of knowledge that I had about Blake. He did not criticise my interpretation, but pointed out in a very gentle way its inadequacy with regard to what I already knew about the poet.

These English classes taught me a number of things, one of them being the open-endedness of knowledge. I realised that you will never know everything there is to know about your subject, no matter how limited the subject matter is. There will always be others who will surpass you in knowledge – others from whom you can learn.

Another valuable lesson I was taught by Gevers is that whatever you know about a subject has to be factored into the matrix of your general understanding on that subject. Blake’s poem had to fit in with whatever else Blake had done and said, with his philosophies, and with how and where he interacted in other circumstances. Any interpretation of Blake’s poem had to be coherent – I could not simply create an interpretation in a vacuum.

This is true of any scientific logic, and, of course, of forensic investigation. You have to investigate everything, covering all the intersecting points and the logical flow of events. The forensic
scientist has to place the actual crime scene in the context of events leading up to the incident, and needs to investigate each event carefully to ensure a coherent conclusion.

Even if you are seeing a situation for the very first time, you need to conduct research – you have to create the matrix of understanding to reach the correct conclusion. Let’s say, for example, that I was to investigate the properties of a protein in the blood. I would determine the name of the protein, then research and gather all the information that is at hand about that particular protein. I would then conduct a ‘what if’ set of circumstances and ask how it would react under different conditions – whether it would affect coagulation, for instance. I would plot my findings and draw scientific conclusions based on results, thereby creating a picture to aid my understanding. Those conclusions would be based on scientific information and, eventually, my comprehension would become more and more coherent, reaching a final point of scientific conclusion.

Everything you do in life is like building a jigsaw puzzle. Pieces of information fit, sometimes slowly, into a greater picture, up to the point where you reach a more advanced understanding. Gevers taught me this. He also taught me never to accept anything at face value: question everything, I learnt, to find out how it fits into the matrix of your understanding.

The other English teacher who had a profound influence on me was Jean Cameron. I recall her coming to me to tell me that I was going to win the English prize. She asked me, ‘Klatzow, have you read
Alice in Wonderland
?’ When I replied that I had not, she said that it was high time I did. That was a huge compliment for me, as
Alice in Wonderland
is not a children’s book. Lewis Carroll was a mathematical scholar, and Alice was written on multiple levels – very little of the book is accessible to children. There are many complex wordplays, and he invented words in that book that are now accepted as part of the English language – ‘chortle’, for
instance – in order to paint a precise picture in our minds. I received a copy of
Alice in Wonderland
as a prize that year. Gevers and Cameron had a remarkable influence on me, and we corresponded and kept in touch for many years after I left school.

Through these influences, I developed an incredible love of the English language, which is one of the most amazing mediums we have at our disposal. English is the language in which some of the deepest and most noble thoughts of mankind are embedded, and is an important means of conveying concepts from one mind to another. It is not without reason that English is the lingua franca of the scientific world.

When I testify in court in my capacity as forensic scientist, I have to create a picture in the judge’s mind. The more accurately and precisely I can use words to do this, the more effective I am – it’s as simple as that. Everything is an image or concept in your mind, and the only way to share that with someone is through words, which paint that picture. This is true whether you are using the Queen’s English or slang.

The accurate use of language enables me to give more focused and elegant explanations of my thoughts, and a case can be won or lost depending on the ability to communicate. Through the skilful use of language, you can enhance the evidence and make it accessible to the judge. In a courtroom, I teach the judge about the basics of a subject of which he or she knows nothing: the legally trained judge doesn’t know how to combat a fire or measure heat or evaluate a scientific argument. My job is to lead him or her on an intellectual pathway by providing the stepping stones of thought along which he or she must tread to discover my reasoning and the conclusions that I have reached. I am not there to adjudicate the issue; I am there to tell the judge plainly what evidence I encountered and how I reached my conclusions so that he or she can make the appropriate decisions.

During my last year at St Martin’s School, I spent the December holiday at Charles Johnson Memorial Hospital in a small hamlet called Nqutu in Northern Zululand run by an interesting and wonderful husband-and-wife team, Anthony and Maggie Barker, missionary doctors of great humility, kindness and skill. They ran a model hospital in the wilds of northern Natal for about thirty years before they returned to England.

The Barkers’ lives were dedicated to administering medicine and treatment to the poorest of the poor. Maggie was famous for not wearing shoes, and she had thick calluses to prove it. Anthony had a huge beard that had to be swathed in a special type of operating cap during surgery. Their kindness and compassion was boundless. Anthony had the most beautiful italic script, in which he wrote even his clinical notes and prescriptions. I have included a letter he wrote to me to show something of this fine man (see
Appendix B
).

At Charles Johnson I was exposed to medicine in its most idealistic form. The Barkers’ attitude to life can only be described as sublime. Breakfast was rough and ready but was invariably accompanied by Beethoven or any of the other great classical composers. Beethoven and Maltabella porridge will always bring memories flooding back to me of those mornings with the extraordinary couple. Sadly they were both killed in a cycling accident in Britain a few years ago. Somehow I think that is the way that they would have liked it to happen.

Another remarkable man that influenced my interest in medicine was Leon de Villiers, the district surgeon in Standerton. He became a surrogate father to me, as my own father was largely uninvolved in my life. To me, De Villiers was larger than life and my role model. He also practised as a general practitioner, pouring endless energy into treating those who could not afford private medical consultations. As district surgeon he conducted the post-mortem examinations on any unnatural deaths that occurred within the
area, and I eagerly assisted him on many of these occasions. Leon would do his district rounds after the daily grind of consulting, and during my school holidays I was fortunate enough to accompany him late into the night, visiting sick folk in the district. He was a good teacher and never spoke down to the young, eager student. He was one of the many people who motivated me to aspire to great heights in the field of medical research.

Leon’s wife, Thea, was also wonderful, involving me in so many of the medical activities in the Standerton area. I travelled the length and breadth of the district with her, and inoculated countless babies against smallpox, which was then in its dying days worldwide. I was also a volunteer at the local blood bank, which she managed, and spent many happy evenings taking a pint from members of the local population.