strokes pissing your pants would earn in her book. When she had recovered somewhat she pointed a trembling finger at Granpa Chook.
‘You are right, Pisskop. That is a good chicken. He can stay. But he has to earn his keep,’ she gasped. Then she seemed to become aware of what had happened beneath the chair. ‘Go now,’ she said, and grabbing the cloth from my hand she pointed to the door.
And that’s how Granpa Chook came to do kitchen duty. Every day after breakfast he checked every last corner in the hostel kitchen for creepy-crawlies of every description. The toughest damn chicken in the world had survived, he had beaten the executor by adapting perfectly and we were safely together again.
The weeks and then a couple of months went by. I had become slave to the Judge. In return for being at his constant beck and call, I was more or less left to my own devices. The odd cuff behind the head or a rude push from an older kid was about all I had to endure. Things were pretty good, really. If the Judge needed me he would simply put two fingers to his mouth and give one of his piercing whistles and Granpa Chook and I would come running.
Granpa Chook was now under the protection of Mevrou, although he still needed to be constantly on the alert. Farm kids just can’t help chucking stones at Kaffir chickens. He would cluck around the playground during lessons, hunting for grubs. The moment the recess bell went he would come charging over to my classroom, skidding to a halt in the dust, cackling his anxiety to be with me again.
No class existed for my age and so I had been placed with the seven-year-old kids, all of whom were still learning to read. I had been reading in English for at least a year so that the switch to reading Afrikaans wasn’t difficult, and I was soon the best in the class. Yet I quickly realised that survival means never being best at anything except being best at nothing, and I soon learned to minimise my reading skills, appearing to pause and stumble over words which were perfectly clear to me.
Mediocrity is the best camouflage known to man. Our teacher, Miss du Plessis, wasn’t anxious for a five- year-old Rooinek to shine in a class of knot-headed Boers. She was happy enough to put my poor results down to my inability to grasp the subtlety of the Afrikaans language as well as being the youngest in class, whereas I already spoke Zulu and Shangaan and, like most small kids, found learning a new language simple enough.
It became increasingly hard for the other kids to think of me as being different when no visible or audible differences separated us. Except, of course, for my hatless snake; but even this, like a kid with a birthmark or a little finger missing, started to go unnoticed. I was becoming the perfect stick insect.
And then on September 3rd, 1939, Neville Chamberlain finally and sadly concluded that Herr Hitler was not a gentleman, not to be trusted and not open to negotiation. That Britain, having let Czechoslovakia down thoroughly, couldn’t face the embarrassment of doing the same thing to Poland and so found it necessary to declare war on Germany. The new headmaster had arrived.
At lunch in the hostel dining hall, the old headmaster with the drinking problem addressed us. He stood, swaying slightly, both hands holding the edge of the table. Then, picking up a knife, he thumped it on the table with the handle. ‘Silence!’ he roared. Whereupon Miss du Plessis, lips pursed, rose quickly and left through the swinging doors. The old headmaster seemed not to notice, dropping the knife onto the table he started to talk in a very loud voice, as though he were addressing hundreds of people: ‘Today, England has declared war on Germany!’ He paused to gauge the effect of his words on us. There was no reaction except for a low murmur from where the senior boys sat. ‘Do you know what this means, man?’ Not waiting for an answer he continued, ‘It means freedom! Freedom and liberty for our beloved fatherland! Adolf Hitler will destroy the cursed English and remove the yoke of oppression placed on the Afrikaner nation by these
The headmaster made it sound as though it was all happening at that very moment in South Africa. I suddenly realised that this was what had really happened to my mother. She had been mistaken for a Boer woman and put in a concentration camp.
The headmaster took a couple of steps back from the table and then lurched forward again, his spit-flecked mouth worked silently, as though he were trying to say something but it wouldn’t come out. Instead he raised his arm in the same way the Judge had done in the dormitory. ‘Heil Hitler!’ he blurted out at last.
Just then the doors burst open and Mevrou entered the dining room; through the briefly open doors we could see Miss du Plessis standing in the hallway biting her knuckles. Mevrou marched up to the headmaster, and taking him firmly by the elbow she led him quickly from the dining hall.
‘Heil Hitler!’ he shouted back at us as he passed through the swing doors.
We sat there bewildered. Then the Judge jumped to his feet and stepped up onto the bench on his side of the top table. He rolled the sleeve of his shirt up over the top of his shoulder so we could all see the crude blue crossed and angled lines of his swastika tattoo.
‘Adolf Hitler is the King of Germany and God has sent him to take South Africa back from the English and give it to us.’ He jabbed at the swastika on his arm. ‘This is his sign… the swastika, the swastika will make us free again.’ His right hand shot up in the same salute the headmaster had given moments before. ‘Heil Hitler!’ he cried.
We all jumped to our feet and, thrusting our arms out in the manner of his own, yelled, ‘Heil Hitler!’
It was all very exciting. To think that this man, Adolf Hitler, who was going to save us all from the accursed English, was going to be our new headmaster!
Then, slowly at first, the words of the Judge on the first night back at school began to form in my mind, gathered momentum, and then roared into my consciousness.
‘Don’t be stupid! Pisskop, you
The long march to the sea had begun.
Flap-lips de Jaager at our table just kept on shouting ‘Heil Hitler’ and soon everyone was chanting it louder and louder. A piercing whistle from the Judge finally stopped them.
‘Some of us have sworn a blood oath to Adolf Hitler and the time has now come to march the Rooineks into the sea. After school we will meet behind the shit houses for a council of war!’
I don’t suppose any of us had much idea of where the sea was supposed to be, somewhere across the Lebombo Mountains and probably over the Limpopo River. Whichever direction, it was a long, long way away. The long march to the sea would be a pretty serious undertaking and I could understand why it would take some planning.
The dining room buzzed with excitement and the Judge held up his hand to silence us. Then he pointed directly at me. ‘Pisskop, you are our first prisoner of war!’ He brought his fingers together and raised his arm higher. ‘Heil Hitler!’ he shouted.
We all jumped up again, but the two kids on either side of me pushed me back into my seat. ‘Heil Hitler!’ the rest of the dining hall chorused back.
It was the most exciting day in the school’s history, although my own prospects looked pretty bleak. What was certain was that Granpa Chook and I were living on borrowed time and needed to make some pretty urgent escape plans. I was in despair. Even if I did know how to get home, which I didn’t, how far could a little kid and a chicken travel without being spotted by the enemy?
That afternoon in class Miss du Plessis, who seemed even more upset than usual, rapped my knuckles sharply on two occasions with her eighteen-inch ruler. In the end she grew totally exasperated when, deep into my escape plans, I simply didn’t hear her ask what three times four came to.
‘
‘Please, miss! I’m sorry, miss. It won’t happen again, miss,’ I begged. In a desperate attempt to make amends I blew my camouflage. I recited the nine times table, then the ten, eleven and twelve. I had carefully concealed my knowledge of anything beyond the four times table and, what’s more, we hadn’t even reached the eleven and twelve times table in class. The effect was profound. By the time I had almost completed the twelve times table, which I’d learned from the back of the Judge’s arithmetic book, Miss du Plessis was consumed by anger.
‘Twelve times twelve is, ah… one hundred and… er, forty-four,’ I announced, my voice faltering as I perceived the extent of her indignation.
