The Other Side of Silence by André Brink

Author:André Brink [Brink, A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: [2012.01.09]
Publisher: [Côte d’Azur]
Published: 2001-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

∨ The Other Side of Silence ∧

Thirty-Seven

In the morning the vultures have not returned. The dark giant will survive. They feed him small morsels from the hard stale bread they still have left, and moisture from a tsamma. Katja keeps at a safe distance: she has too many nightmare memories from the time the Hereros attacked her father’s trading post and killed all the men. But she watches intently while Hanna feeds him from the tsamma. What an amazing melon it is, Hanna thinks as she cautiously makes a hole at the top as she once saw the Namas do, and inserts a sturdy twig which she twirls until the flesh inside is pulped into a liquid which she feeds to the debilitated man. Once it is all finished, she will shake and scratch out the seeds to roast, or to grind into flour. And the shell, carefully preserved, will be kept to serve as a container or even a cooking pot.

Slowly, as the days creep by, the man’s condition improves. In the beginning, when he is awake, he just lies staring at them with suspicion in his eyes narrowed into slits. But after a day or two he utters something in a voice like a subterranean rumble. It is in a language they do not understand.

Hanna nudges Katja, who asks, “Do you speak German?”

“They make me learn,” he replies, his mouth struggling to shape the words. “Otherwise I get no work.” Then he adds with what seems to be a statement of superiority, “I am a Herero.”

“The land of the Hereros is up north,” Katja quickly reminds him. “The other side of Windhoek. Not down here.”

“They kill my cattle,” he says in a rush of anger. “They kill all our cattle. They kill the fire of our ancestors. So what must I do? I come here to find work. Otherwise my people will die. My wife, my family. That way, far away.” He motions to the north. He tries to push himself up on his arms. In what sounds like a tone of accusation he demands, “Who are you?”

Katja first glances at Hanna, then says, “I am Katja. She is Hanna.”

“Why are you in this place?”

“We found you here. We couldn’t just leave you.”

“We cannot stay here. He will come back to see if I am dead.”

“Who will come back?”

“The one who put me here. The baas.”

“Where does he live?”

“His farm is that way.” He gestures. “Not far. One day.”

For the first time Katja ventures a question on her own: “Why did he do it to you?”

He mumbles something unintelligible.

He must tell us, Hanna conveys to Katja. We must know if he is a thief or a murderer. The girl puts it into words.

For a long time the stranger stares at them; his attitude is defiant, hostile, even menacing.

“Why you ask?”

“We must know who you are,” explains Katja, at Hanna’s prompting.

“And I must know who you are.” His gruff voice sounds almost taunting.

“We come from the farm Frauenstein.”

“People go to that place.

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