The Monster's Daughter (19 page)

“Why aren't you there, then?”

“They d-d-didn't choose me.” Benjamin looked away, his thin arms crossed. Tessa looked over at the young men pulling the wagon, all thick-necked masses of muscle. She felt sorry for asking.

An old woman stepped out from the sidelines, hunched over a cane, and lay her hand on one of the wagons as it drew near, tears streaming over her cheeks, her body shaking. Another woman stepped forward to do the same. Soon, bodies crammed close to touch the wagons, guiding them forward. Tessa stumbled as the crowd heaved around her, a confusion of long skirts and suspenders. Her breath came in short panicked puffs as she realized that they were trampling her, knees and elbows dealing blows to her body. A hand closed around her wrist. Ben pulled her up in one motion, setting her back on her feet.

“I don't like this.” Tessa tried to move to the edge of the stampede, but Ben held on to her.

Ben fixed his gaze on the wagons. “It is an imp-portant m-moment in history of the
v-volk
. Don't you see? We can t-tell our children and their children.”

The wagons rolled through the center of town, past the big two-steeple church. More people joined the procession. The Women's
War Memorial, a thirty-five-meter obelisk with a semicircle wing on each side, rose up to meet them. At its base, a large bronze statue of two women stood on display, one sitting with a dead child in her lap, the other staring off into the distance, her face partially covered by a
kappie
. The models could have been any of the women in the procession. Tessa felt relieved as the stampede around them eased, people scrambling to find a good vantage point. She looked down, reading the engraved rose-colored stone at her feet.

WINBURG

“
How long, Lord, must I call for help, but you do not listen?
Or cry out to you, violence! But you do not save
.” (Hab 1:2)

Long rows of similar stones lined both sides of the walkway. Each bore the name of a town where a concentration camp was located, with the total deaths, most of them women and children, a whole generation decimated. Could this be what had happened to the frail woman with the blond hair that once held her? The memory was sheer, clinging on through the abyss of time. Overwhelming sadness suddenly took hold of Tessa.

The crowd suddenly hushed, a church-like reverence descending over them as the
trekkers
lighted the relay torches. Some of the women scorched the edges of their handkerchiefs in the flames and tucked them away next to their breasts as mementoes.

A platform had been erected next to the monument for the choir, which was comprised of singers from all the schools of the district. Their footsteps were the only sound as they arranged themselves. Mrs. Uys gave the note. The power of hundreds of voices united in singing “My Sarie Marais.” It sent an involuntary shiver through Tessa. She found herself drawn into the drama around her. Her mind reeled with an unfamiliar sense of belonging, pride and indignation at what had been done to people she never knew. She didn't know what to make of this thing that felt and moved together, faces blurring among the sameness of
kappies
and beards. Ben seemed to disappear, his eyes
burning with a fervid passion, mirroring the expression of everyone around them. It scared Tessa.

As the sun set, the mood seemed to calm down. A traditional Boer orchestra with concertinas and accordions accompanied school groups and adults going through their dance steps on the grass. Tessa and Benjamin joined in under Mrs. Uys's glare, mechanically going through the steps they had rehearsed, Benjamin's face twisted in painful concentration, his awkwardness excruciating. Tessa felt his discomfort deep in her own core, the connection between them palpable. As the last notes died down, they assembled at the base of the monument, where the
trekkers
conversed with town officials, frowns marring almost every brow.

The
trek
leader, a short man with an unkempt beard, held a Bible in front of his chest.
“Broeders en Susters.”
He bellowed. “Brothers and Sisters. Bloemfontein is a proud Afrikaner city, a place where our forefathers deemed it fit to raise their children as faithful Christians. Your hearts are warm, but the Orange Free State has been a cold place for us. Why should an Afrikaner like myself feel like a stranger in his own city?” A murmur rippled through the people. “Therefore, before we have our reading and prayer for the evening, I would like to request that Mr. Prophet leave the proceedings.” A violent cheer burst from the subdued crowd, all eyes focused on a blushing man in a dark suit. He looked around nervously, his hands clutched in front of him. Tessa felt sorry for the mayor as two
trekkers
escorted him off the stage.

The
trek
leader held up his hands again once the mayor was out of sight. “We are welcomed in slums, but men like Mr. Prophet deny us here, in a place we rightly belong!” The murmurs turned to jeers. Eyes rested upon those present who were known to be English—businessmen, politicians, neighbors. The
trek
leader nodded his head, the corners of his mouth drooping in disgust. Behind him, town officials in suits and slicked-back hair stood expressionless.

“While the Afrikaner works with a pick and shovel, the Stranger occupies the offices of this land. There are monuments to men who gave their lives to foreign countries, but where are monuments of our Afrikaner heroes?” He pointed to the heavens with his right index finger. “We will erect those monuments in the cities they belong. Cities like this. Today I plead with you to stand together, my Brothers, my
Sisters. The time is here for the Afrikaner to demand an Afrikaans government, bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh. To inspire us, bind us together in unity and power as God destined it. Join me, for we will no longer be strangers in this land, a land paid for by the blood of our ancestors.” He took his hat off, his tenor almost inaudible above the crowd's cheers as he began to sing. “
Uit die blou van onse Hemel
 …”

One by one voices joined, singing the song by the poet, Langenhoven, “Die Stem van Suid-Afrika.” The Voice of South Africa.

There was an eerie silence as the last note died down. Tessa touched Ben's arm. He jumped, relaxing as their eyes met.

“I'm hungry, Ben.”

He looked away. “I d-don't have any food.” There was an apology in his voice.

“I have some money,” Tessa smiled. “You like fat cakes and mince?”

Tessa bought them food from the stall at the back of the monument, where women worked feverishly to feed the crowd. They sat on the ground, watching the bonfire as they ate. Sugar syrup seeped from the dough of Ben's
koeksister
, running down the side of his mouth, pure joy on his face as he licked his fingers. It made Tessa happy to think that she was the cause. With Ben there were no lies, no hiding. She had tried to tell Andrew about him, but a chasm had opened up between them after Flippie left. Andrew came home later than usual now, and barely talked to her, his mood desultory. He didn't even say anything when she appeared in the kitchen that morning wearing her costume. Though it was ugly, the accomplishment of making it herself had given her a sense of pride, but Andrew barely looked up before going back to his paper. Tessa knew at that moment that he blamed her for everything.

Tessa reached to wipe syrup off Ben's cheek, his whole face sticky. “I'm glad I found you.”

Ben smiled, hesitantly placing his hand over hers. “Me too.”

“We found each other.” She thought of what Sarah had told her. “There must be others like us.”

Ben frowned. “God will reveal them, if that is His plan.”

Tessa shifted. “You believe that?”

“Don't you?”

Tessa shrugged. She had always read the Bible the way she read
Homer or the Brothers Grimm. “The Greeks and Romans had gods, and even Arabs have their own Bible. How do you know which one is real?”

“Those are false gods.” Ben had an absoluteness in his voice. “The Bible warns us about them. There is only one true God. He created man in His image. The Devil is making you doubt, Tessa. You should pray that God sends him away.”

Tessa tried to silence the voice of rebellion in her. Ben believed. So did everybody else. Andrew prayed on Sundays, and even Flippie when he thought nobody was looking. She felt jealous of everyone's conviction.

“Tessa?” Ben's eyes were fixed on the toe-hole in his shoe.

“
Ja
, Ben?”

“We're together now. For always, right? Will you promise?” Ben looked up when she didn't answer right away, his eyes mirroring a longing she knew intimately.

“For always.” Tessa leaned over and kissed him on his forehead. “I promise.”

“There will be an attempted-murder inquiry,” Captain Groenewald said. He had graying temples, leathery skin, and thick bags under his eyes; a decent type, just worn down by many years on the job.

“I should bloody well hope so.” Alet sat down in the chair in front of Groenewald's desk. The Joubertina police station was even smaller than Unie's. Groenewald's office was directly behind the station's service desk, and you could see the shadow of a constable hugging the frosted glass of the door.

Groenewald took his wire-rimmed glasses off and pressed the bridge of his nose between his cracked thumb and forefinger. “Against you.”

Incredulity burst through Alet's thin veneer of calm. “What? He attacked me.”

“Be that as it may, Constable Berg, you can't fire at people just because they're running away. We also didn't find a weapon.”

“That woman didn't stab herself, I can tell you that much.”

“It's procedure. We have no proof that your bloke was the one who stabbed her.” Groenewald put his glasses back on. “Look, between you and me, I think you did the right thing.”

It was a small consolation. There would be an investigation, hearings. Usually police shootings were justified, but the fact that the suspect wasn't carrying a gun made things complicated.

“How is she, Captain?” Alet asked, fairly sure that she knew the answer.

“Ambulance took over an hour to get there. She was gone by the
time they …” Groenewald let out a sigh. “There was a second body, a man, behind the picnic table. Looks like a carjacking. There was another set of tire tracks, but we don't know for sure if it was part of this.” He shook his head. “Bloody tourists come here and think they can act like they do at home. Their rules don't apply here.”

“Tourists?”

“We found American currency. No ID on either of them, though. If you hadn't come along we would have had two dead foreign nationals and no suspects.”

“Do you have a picture of them?”

Groenewald handed her the crime-scene photographs. Alet tried not to react, imagining the faces without the blood and bruising. “There's a possibility they were in Unie on Thursday night. I thought I recognized her.”

“This is going to cause a
kak
storm.” Groenewald shook his head. “I've been here since '03. Not a single carjacking in this area on record. It's not like up north in the cities. There are some cruel bastards up there. I came back to the
platteland
to get away from that stuff. There's still some decency here. Some respect for life.” Groenewald held up his hands in resignation. “I'm required to offer you counseling. Do you want someone from EAS to debrief you?”

“So I have to drive to Oudtshoorn once a month for a mandatory cry to a fresh-​out-​of-​university shrink and a sleeping-tablet prescription? No thanks.”

Groenewald gave her a knowing smile. “Your choice.” He pushed his chair away from the desk.

“I want to sit in when you question the guy.”

“Can't do that. That bastard will be lawyered up before he opens his eyes and they'll accuse you of trying to kill him. They know their rights well enough, those people.” Groenewald locked eyes with Alet. “You're staying away, understand?” He waited for her to nod. His tone shifted, almost cheerful. “What I can do for you though, is get you a shower and some clean clothes.” He held open his office door. “Don't worry,” he said, lowering his voice, tension settling back in his shoulders. “We'll work on the bastard when we get the chance.”

The medic at the scene had winced when he first saw Alet. She had a black eye and swollen cheekbone. Now her nose was obscured by
thick white gauze. Groenewald's plump wife took Alet's appearance in stride, as if the captain regularly brought home strays. She fortified Alet with tea and homemade milk tart and armed her with fresh towels before sending her off to the bathroom.

Alet's dress was pasted against her by dried blood. She gingerly peeled it off, then abandoned it in the waste bin. Rust-colored water mixed with white foam, pooling on the shower tiles, as she rinsed her hair. Her muscles felt stiff and sore. Bending over to wash her legs made her woozy. As she reached out to steady herself, she bumped her nose against the side of the narrow stall, blades of pain shooting into her skull.

“
Eina
,
moer!
”

Tears burned behind her eyes. She tried to swallow them back, repeating the police mantra, cowboys don't cry, but she couldn't control the swelling panic in her chest. She stayed in the stall until she felt in control of herself again.

Groenewald had given her an old office uniform to wear. The white shirt was tight across her shoulders and the regulation calf-length blue skirt fell just below her knees, but it was clean. Alet usually avoided wearing the office uniform. It looked matronly, and she couldn't chase a suspect in the skirt and thick-heeled grandma shoes. That was one thing about the special task force. Everyone looked the same. As long as you got the job done, got the bad guys, rescued the innocents, nothing else mattered.