Bloodlines (15 page)

We met in his office—small and crowded, a typical elementary school headmaster’s office, not meant for five adults. There were only four of us at first—me, my attorney, Miss Coetzee and the headmaster, who might have been great with children, but seemed very uneasy with us, or perhaps with the situation. It was clear that he didn’t know how to address the meeting, and had no idea what was supposed to happen, so we sat in silence until Miss Coetzee, who had a formidable look in her eye, said that an officer from the Special Branch—Lieutenant Viljoen—was having a smoke outside.

“Viljoen?” I asked. “Big, red haired fellow?”

She nodded, surprised that I knew him. My worst fear was that you had shared something incriminating with Miss Coetzee, and that she was about to give us up. As we waited, I wracked my brain for any information I might possibly have let slip to you, and how to protect us all from it when it came out, whatever it was.

Lieutenant Viljoen walked into the office without knocking, and sat in the only open chair.

“Mr. Green,” he said, “we meet again. I hope you and your son are well.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Yes, we’re doing all right. Under the circumstances.”

I realized that he thought exactly what I did—that Miss Coetzee had called the meeting in order to give us away, and I was filled with panic. Mr. van Rensberg started the meeting awkwardly, going round the room and introducing each of us, but he quickly handed control over to Miss Coetzee. She was calm, but she was as determined as usual, and not to be trifled with.

“Let me be very clear about why I’ve requested this meeting, and why I’ve asked for it to be in the presence of Mr. van Rensberg and Lieutenant Viljoen.”

“Just tell us what happened in your classroom, Miss Coetzee,” interrupted Viljoen. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

She gave him a piercing glance and there was a look of surprise on his face as he seemed to physically deflate.

“The purpose of this meeting,” she continued, “is to share with everyone here exactly what has transpired in the last two weeks, and to let those of you who don’t already know that, regardless of what my politics may be, I am first and foremost a teacher. Mr. van Rensberg already knows that.” She turned to him. “I have always found you most supportive, Mr. van Rensberg, and I have never been more in need of support than I am now. May I anticipate your continued goodwill?”

“I don’t see why not, Miss Coetzee,” he stammered, turning to the Lieutenant. “Miss Coetzee is one of our most experienced teachers, and she is devoted to her students,” he said.

“I’m sure Miss Coetzee is an excellent teacher,” he said smoothly, smiling at her. “And I’m sure that nothing is more important to her than the safety of her pupils.”

She continued as if he had not spoken. “I have been a teacher for over thirty years,” she continued, “and in that time my only concern has been the welfare of the children in my charge. For as long as I am able to teach, I will continue to do whatever I can to further their health and their education.”

She turned to Viljoen again. Her back was ramrod straight, her cheeks pink with indignation, and there were tears of fury in her eyes.

“But I am not a spy. Even for the sake of state security I will not inform on my students for the police or the Special Branch or for any other organization.” She turned to me. “Nor will I lie for them. Is that understood?”

“What are you talking about, Miss Coetzee?” asked the headmaster, sitting up straight for the first time. “Has someone asked you to inform on the children? Or to lie for them? And why?”

“Miss Coetzee, no one has asked you to be a spy,” said Viljoen quietly. “I think you misunderstood the request we made. All we’ve asked is that you—”

“I’ll decide whether or not I’ve been asked to spy,” she retorted. “What do you call your request to me last week—your request that I share with you anything Steven Green might say about the whereabouts of his mother?”

“You went directly to one of my teachers on an issue of this nature,” said Mr. van Rensberg, his thin face darkening as he glared at the Lieutenant, “without going through my office?”

Viljoen rose, his bulk filling the room. “You all seem unaware that this is a criminal matter,” he said. “I’ve been charged with conducting a search for convicted terrorists who’ve managed to escape, and I have the authority to obtain information any way I deem necessary for the protection of the public.”

Mr. van Rensberg ignored the Lieutenant and turned again to Miss Coetzee.

“What did you say about lying for your students? Who asked you to lie?”

“No one has asked me to lie,” she said. “But I wanted to make it clear to Mr. Green that even though I will not be an informer for the police, neither will I lie about anything his son may say in my classroom.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I haven’t asked you to lie about anything my son might have said.”

“Exactly what did Steven say in your classroom, Miss Coetzee,” asked Viljoen, “that you are so reluctant to tell us?”

Again, Miss Coetzee ignored the Lieutenant, and turned to me.

“Mr. Green,” she said, “I grieve with you about what’s happened in your family. And if what Steven says is true, then I am with you in your loss.”

“I ask you again, Miss Coetzee,” said the Lieutenant, “exactly what did Steven say?”

“You don’t need to answer that, Miss Coetzee,” said my attorney, “at least, not without having your counsel present.”

“I’m not afraid of speaking,” she responded. “And nothing I have to say will cause any harm to Mrs. Green, or be of any use to the Lieutenant.” She looked at me again. “Mr. Green, I must tell you that unless you have information about your wife that is not public, I think you are doing Steven a grave disservice by telling him that his mother is dead.”

“Dead?” I said, catching myself. “I have no idea whether she’s dead or alive. I don’t even know where she is—the Lieutenant himself said that they’re hunting for her. And I certainly haven’t discussed it with Steven—he’s a little boy, and he’s got enough to deal with. Who told you that she’s dead?”

“Steven,” she answered.

“That’s what he told you?” interrupted the Lieutenant, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. “That’s what you called this meeting for? To discuss the fantasies of a sad little boy who misses his Mommy?”

Lieutenant Viljoen strode to the door and turned back to us, one hand on the door handle.

“Mr. van Rensberg, I’ll thank you not to waste my time again unless you have substantive business to discuss. And as for you, Mr. Green, I’m sure we’ll meet again. Good day.” Then he walked out and closed the door noisily behind him, and there was an audible sigh of relief.

Once he was gone, Miss Coetzee told us what had happened in her classroom. You’ve never given me any indication that you remember any of this, Steven, which I find surprising considering the nature and content of the family history class project you did in Boston several years later, when you were in the fifth grade.

Miss Coetzee gave you an assignment to talk about the work your parents did, and, she said, she had purposely worded it that way because there was one child in the class whose father had recently died. Very few mothers worked for a living, and she knew from experience that most children would choose to talk about their fathers. She assumed that you would, too. She told you all to go home and interview the parent you were going to talk about, and she gave you specific questions to ask. You must have discarded the questions, and you never interviewed me.

On the day you were supposed to give your report, you came in very quietly, with purpose written all over your face, and you behaved with great courage. You were far from the biggest child in the class, and some of the boys had been giving you a difficult time—you know, children sometimes overhear their parents talking, and they repeat what they hear. There must have been some talk about your mother, and Miss Coetzee found you on several occasions during playtime outside on the playground alone and crying. Once or twice she stopped you and another boy fighting, and had to punish you both for misbehaving in class. When it was your turn to talk, you walked bravely up to the front of the room.

“I know your Steven,” Miss Coetzee told me, “and I saw that behind the courage and determination, he was just a little lost boy, longing for his mother.”

Sitting in the headmaster’s office, Miss Coetzee repeated what you said, and I’ve never forgotten the little speech you made. If I close my eyes, I can remember hearing her, voice shaking with emotion, as she recited your words.

“All people are created equal, and they all deserve to have enough to eat, and a good education like the one we get at our school. It shouldn’t matter what color their skin is. My mother believed that—but not everyone agreed with her. And some people who don’t believe that took her away and killed her. I loved her a lot, and she was brave and she worked hard to help everyone, and now she’s dead and I miss her.”

Then you stopped, and you walked out of the class. Miss Coetzee was deeply affected by your performance, and she waited for you to return so that she could praise you in front of the classroom. But when you didn’t return after a few minutes, she became concerned that you might have done yourself harm, so she had someone from the office take over the class, and she went looking for you. She almost didn’t find you—but as a last resort she walked the perimeter of the school—you probably don’t remember, but there was a high brick wall around two sides of the school, and a row of old blue gum trees on the far side of the playground. Anyway, that’s where you were. She found you hidden behind one of the trees, sitting cross-legged in the grass, leaning against the trunk. The only reason she headed in that direction was that she heard something clinking against the wall, and that’s when she looked in your direction.

“He looked so sad,” she told us. “He had been crying hard, and he was still sobbing deep in his chest as he threw marbles at the wall. So I sat down beside him, and I really wanted to take him in my arms. But that wasn’t what he needed—your boy needed to know that he would be okay, no matter what happened. We sat together in the sunshine, and he continued to throw marbles, and eventually I joined in.

“When he calmed down, I put my hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. And I said to him, ‘Steven, look at me.’ As he turned to me, the tears ran down his cheeks and he wiped them off with his shirtsleeve. ‘Nothing wrong with crying,’ I told him, and I wiped my own cheeks, too. ‘See?’ And then he managed to smile.

“‘I don’t know whether or not your story is true, Steven,’ I said. ‘But no matter what anyone says, you must believe that your mother lived her life with courage and with her eyes open. You have those same wide open eyes, and you have her courage inside you. You’re a brave little soldier, my boy. You’re very sad now, but I know that you’re going to be just fine. You make sure to remember that. You hold your head high, Mr. Steven Green, and put a smile on your face, because you’re the son of a very brave woman. Now, you pull yourself together, and when you’re ready, come back and join the class.’”

Miss Coetzee rose and returned to her other students. You got up and ran after her, and she said that when you walked into the room, your head was held high, and there was a brave smile on your face.

I can only imagine how much pain you were in. You had to deal with the absence of information, because I wasn’t telling you anything, and neither was anyone else. On top of that, you were being teased at school, and your classmates were accusing your mother of misdeeds you didn’t even understand. Where you got what you said, I will never know. You didn’t hear it from me—perhaps some of it came from conversations you remembered having with your mother.

You’ve shown no indication that you remember any of these events, Steven. I can imagine you asking, as you read this, why I never told you that the story of how your mother died was your own invention.

Perhaps you can understand now why I was so reluctant to watch you make your presentation in Mrs. Tolliver’s class when you were in the fifth grade. I knew it would be a more elaborate version of the same story—but for me, it was sadder than you can imagine. It was déjà vu—with an older and more articulate you, in a different country, before a different audience. The only thing that was unchanged was your pain and isolation, and your sense of being different from everyone else; and your need—your constant need—to put the issue of your mother to rest. But you were insistent, and Mrs. Tolliver was unrelenting, and so I came. Reluctantly. And I sat in that cramped little desk at the back of the classroom, and when you were through all I could do was cry. For the lies, and the secrecy; for how much they cost us over the years. And for how much they cost us still.