When Time Fails (Silverman Saga Book 2) (7 page)

Thys was quiet. Too quiet. He’d been mulling over something since Yossi had taken them to – where was it? They had been to so many places in the past few days it was all a bit of a blur.

As they’d driven on towards Jerusalem she had seen he was scheming. Dreaming up some impossible plan which would change their lives. Again. It was just like before. He’d gone all quiet for days, not hearing her when she spoke, not even paying attention to the children’s shrieks and fights and noise. And then he’d just come out with it. As she put out the light on her side of the bed, threw her excess pillow onto the floor and turned to him to kiss him goodnight, he’d said: ‘I think we should start a school for the farm workers’ children.’ Then he turned over and within seconds his deep, steady breathing told her he was fast asleep.

She’d wanted to kick him, to wake him to explain, to discuss. Instead, she tossed and turned all night. He’d explained the next day and it had all made sense, except... except he wanted to use Christo’s house. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought.

‘Think about it,’ Thys had said. ‘Think about what Christo would have wanted. Do you really think he’d want the house he built with his own hands to be some kind of an empty shrine – a practical guy like Christo?’

Her inspection of her brother’s house had been a formality really. She knew it made sense. She just had to force herself to let go, to face the future. Except the past wouldn’t release her.

Her husband, relaxed in the big armchair in front of the TV, a glass of orange juice at his elbow, had looked up as she’d stormed in that afternoon. Beauty’s father – it was so obvious. Why hadn’t she seen it before? But of course she had. Perhaps that was why she’d always felt drawn to the child. Beauty and Arno... it was so clear. But she really shouldn’t have been feeling hurt, and angry, and disgust and shame – a tumult of emotions that squirmed at the pit of her stomach and insinuated itself into her brain. She had no right to feel like that. Not after so, so long. But, may the Lord forgive her, she felt betrayed and she hated herself for it
.

And Thys was right. It had been two years since the murders; she couldn’t leave Christo’s house locked up forever. He was right when he said that it would give girls like Pretty hope. He was right when he said they wouldn’t be as vulnerable to predators like Stefan Smit, because if she did what he suggested, they’d have other options
.

She berated herself for not thinking of it herself, especially after Petrus had told her how dangerous it was for the children to stay in Driespruitfontein township. They were her people. She had grown up with them, not Thys. But it was Thys who realised and gently pointed out that the workers wanted to keep the children at home, on Steynspruit, away from the so-called comrades who beat – and sometimes even killed – anyone in th
e
lokshi
n
who didn’t support them as they jostled for support while the democracy negotiations up in Johannesburg limped towards an impossible peace. So she agreed that the Steynspruit children could come home, despite her concern that they would distract Beauty from her lessons. She should have known better. Beauty – no longer a child – had been so determined to catch up with Arno and also get to high school, thatshe still appeared at the kitchen door for her lesson every day, ignoring the yells of the other children that drifted up from the farm workers
’
khay
a
.

And once the children were home, he had come up with his next grand scheme. This time it had been harder but she had summoned all her will power, conquered her jealousy and churning emotions and blurted: ‘Ja, okay, let’s do it.’

Thys had unfolded himself from the chair and danced her around the lounge to Arno and Beauty’s whoops of joy.

‘But I’m not going to run it,’ she’d said when he stopped, breathless.

He stumbled. Bewilderment, disappointment flashed across his face. The children stopped dancing around and stared at her.

‘What do you mean you’re not going to run it? That’s the whole idea. You’ve done amazing things with Beauty. Now you can do it for all the others,’ Thys said.

‘No I can’t. I’m a nursery school teacher. Teaching Beauty in the kitchen is one thing. Teaching a bunch of noisy children who probably aren’t nearly as clever as Beauty is something else. They need a real teacher, a qualified teacher, someone with experience and knowledge and... they need you.’

The unbridled joy on his dear, strong, honest face unleashed a fresh wave of guilt and anger, and remorse that she had to deceive him, yet again.

He’d protested. Of course he’d protested. He had a job – at Driespruitfontein Hoër. Yes, it was a pain having to drive forwards and backwards between the farm and the town every day, especially now that both Arno and De Wet were perfectly happy as weekly borders at the high and primary schools. Eventually, however, she’d managed to persuade him. It was best for all of them – Thys, the children, herself – and especially Beauty who deserved the very best teacher, a teacher like Thys who would do the impossible and enable her to pass matric.

***

And now Thys was brimming with another bright idea. As the plane flew on towards South Africa, Annamari knew better than to push her husband to tell her what he was thinking this time. It wasn’t that he was hiding anything from her, not consciously. He was always open and honest with her, just as he was with everyone. It was one of the things she loved about him. It was also one of the things she hated about him. Because she had to deceive him. All the time. Every single day. And she hated it.

She knew he’d tell her when he had thought it all through. It was just so hard to wait. She replayed everything they had seen since arriving in Israel, everything they’d discussed, searching for a clue to his thoughtful withdrawal.

It couldn’t have been because of that first day, could it? Yossi had been waiting for them as they’d dragged their cases down into the hotel foyer. A slight, bookish-looking man with neat grey hair and glasses, he’d apologised for his rusty Afrikaans and loaded their luggage into his car.

They drove north, along the coastal road to Caesarea. This was an important site in Christian history, Yossi said. Pontius Pilate governed there during the time of Jesus; this was where Simon Peter converted some Roman guy, Cornelius. Cornelius was apparently the first non-Jew to believe in Jesus. She’d never heard of Cornelius. Thys, of course, quickly found the reference in the bible Yossi carried with him. ‘There,’ Thys said. ‘I
n
Acts 1
0
.’

Yossi smiled and added: ‘Paul was also imprisoned for two years in Caesarea.’

‘
Acts
... um ... there it is,’ Thys said.
‘
Acts 2
4
.’

Yossi laughed. ‘Seems you’re going to keep me on my toes, young man. The bible – both the old and the new testament – is the best guide book when exploring Israel. I always use it – but not many of my clients know the good book as thoroughly as you.’

Annamari was so proud of Thys. She also felt a little better: at least she knew who Paul was. Yossi said many of his clients had never heard of Paul. She found that hard to believe.

They explored a Roman amphitheatre and afterwards Yossi waved his bible at the beach.

‘See over there? That stretch of beach played a very, very important part in Israel’s history. What do you think, Thys? Which great event played out there?’

Annamari found herself holding her breath: had Jesus Himself walked there? Thys shook his head.

‘That’s where Jonathan Friedman – now Yossi Friedman – entered the Promised Land,’ Yossi said, and burst out laughing.

‘Really? Where? How?’ Thys said.

‘We landed on the beach. It was 1947 and Israel wasn’t Israel yet. We came over from Italy on one of the illegal immigrant ships.’

Annamari listened, fascinated, as Yossi explained how horrified – and guilty – he and his friends had felt when the full extent of the Holocaust became apparent during the Nuremberg trials. She wasn’t sure what the Nuremberg trials were; nor did she know much about the Holocaust, other than that a lot of Jews died including Anne Frank who wrote a diary that Mr Franklin had said they should read but she hadn’t. She wished she had. Their itinerary said they’d be going to the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem in a few days and she hoped she wouldn’t appear as ignorant as she felt.

‘We all knew war would be inevitable if the United Nations voted in favour of establishing a Jewish homeland, so my friends and I, we decided to come over and help,’ Yossi said. ‘I was eighteen and it meant I had to drop out of varsity but I told my parents it was the least we could do after sitting out the war so safely in Cape Town. My parents didn’t object too much.
I think my dad would have joined us if my mom
hadn’t threatened to divorce him if he ran off again
to another war.’

They took off their shoes and walked onto the beach, allowing the sea to gently lap at their toes. The Mediterranean glinted blue and calm. ‘We landed right about here, I think,’ Yossi said. ‘We were damn lucky the British didn’t see us on our way in – we spotted one of their patrol boats not too far away so we landed in the pitch dark. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. I’ve always wondered what they would have done with three South African youngsters if they’d caught us. Deported us, probably.’

‘And then?’ Thys asked.

‘And then there was the war. 1948. Afterwards, I decided to stay on and help to build our new country.’

‘And your friends? Did they stay too?’ Thys asked.

‘Mark was killed trying to defend Jerusalem. David went home and became a doctor. Okay, enough about me. Time to get moving if we’re to make it to Tiberius.’

A tractor pulling a trailer filled with young men and women dressed in shorts and an odd assortment of shirts trundled past.

‘They’re from the kibbutz over there. Sdot Yam,’ Yossi said. ‘Probably off to the banana fields. Sdot Yam means “fields of the sea” but when the British blockade was introduced, their main crop was illegal immigrants like me.’

‘What’s a kibbutz?’ Thys asked. Annamari was so shocked that for once Thys didn’t know something, she barely heard Yossi’s reply. Something about a communal farm – a settlement where everyone shared everything, where everyone was equal.

‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.I believe it’s the purest form of communism,’ Yossi said
.

‘Could we have a look around? Would they mind?’ Thys asked and Annamari wondered why Thys wanted to see
a
commi
e
place.

‘What do you think... idea... Steynspruit?’

‘What?’ The roar of the engines assailed her as she pulled out her earphones. She’d discovered that if she closed her eyes and turned up the classical music loudly enough, reducing the engines to a distant hum, she actually quite enjoyed flying.

‘So what do you think?’ Thys yelled.

‘Don’t shout. I can hear you. What did you say about Steynspruit?’

This was it. Finally, he was going to tell her. She’d thought it might have had something to do with Megiddo, or maybe Tiberius...

Annamari had been so disappointed. Because of the time they’d spent walking around th
e
commi
e
kibbutz, there had not been sufficient time to visit Rosh Hanikra.

‘It’s not a biblical site,’ Yossi said. ‘It’s just a very pretty place with white cliffs and blue grottos. It’s a pity to miss it but I think you’ll find Megiddo very interesting. Some Christians believe it will be the site of Armageddon.’

Yossi opened his bible and read fro
m
King
s
about the waters of Megiddo; then he read a few passages fro
m
Revelation
s
as he led them through the blazing sun from one pile of crumbling stones to another.

‘The Tel of Megiddo covers more than twenty layers of ruins. Each layer is from a different age, a different civilisation,’ he said. Annamari tried to be impressed, but she was bored. And hot. But Thys kept asking questions. Then Yossi led them down slippery stone steps and through a long tunnel until finally they came to a pool of water. Annamari couldn’t believe that people living thousands and thousands of years ago – ‘long before Jesus,’ Yossi said – had actually cut this tunnel through what appeared to be solid rock. The little frog croaking away in the pool was a more recent addition to the water source, Yossi joked. Annamari made a note in her diary to get hold of the novel Yossi mentioned
.
The Sourc
e
by James Michener, Yossi said, might not be totally factually correct, but it gave a good explanation about how the tunnel was built.

Dear Yossi. Such a nice man who made ancient history come to life with his seemingly endless stock of gory stories about the ancient and modern warriors whose blood had nourished this barren land.

That evening, with the Sea of Galilee – the Kinneret, Yossi called it – lapping at the restaurant wall, Annamari gingerly picked at her St Peter’s fish, trying not to look at its accusing eyes. Yossi and Thys chatted about rugby. Yossi was still a fervent Western Province supporter, even if many of the players he remembered from his boyhood trips to Newlands were long retired, or dead.

Now Yossi asked the questions: what was really going on in South Africa? Would there be peace? Would the whites really be safe? What about the Jews? Would South Africa maintain its close ties with Israel if a black government was elected?

‘There’s n
o
i
f
about it. There will be a black government,’ Thys said. ‘But Mandela seems to be a good man. And a strong one too. Look how he calmed everyone down after that communist leader – Chris Hani – was killed. De Klerk is also a good, strong man. With our prayers, I believe they will sort something out.’

‘Thys always was an optimist,’ Annamari said. ‘I’m not so sure. There’s too much bitterness. Too many bad things. And I don’t trust terrorists...’

‘Annamari’s family was murdered by terrorists on their farm,’ Thys said.

‘That’s terrible,’ Yossi said. ‘I’m so sorry. Did they catch them?’

Annamari shook her head mutely. Even after all this time, the pain came flooding back, taking her by surprise, leaving her limp and breathless. Thys squeezed her hand gently and the conversation drifted to their itinerary for the next few days.

***

‘I’d been thinking about it. A lot,’ Thys said above the drone of the plane’s engines. ‘And then in Jerusalem – something happened. I felt... you felt it too. I know you did.’

She had felt it. Jerusalem had changed her, had changed both of them. Yossi had said it wasn’t unusual. Many people were deeply affected by Jerusalem. There was even a syndrome named after it: Jerusalem syndrome where perfectly normal people suddenly had psychotic delusions after visiting the holy city.

‘Quite a few imagine they are Jesus, or one of the disciples, or King David, or Mohammed or a prophet. They usually recover and get back to normal after a couple of weeks,’ Yossi had said as Tiberius disappeared behind them and they headed south through patchwork, dusty fields towards Jerusalem.

Annamari and Thys had laughed, a little uncertainly. They drove around a bend in the road.

‘There it is,’ Yossi said. ‘Your first glimpse of Jerusalem. Remember this. You will never see Jerusalem for the first time again.’

And there, far in the distance over the parched earth, Annamari could see the faint outlines of a city.

‘It’s glowing,’ Thys said, wonder in his voice.

‘They don’t call Jerusalem the City of Gold for nothing,’ Yossi said. ‘All the buildings are constructed from Jerusalem stone, and that gives off that gold glow from the sun. You never get tired of seeing it. Well, I don’t.’

The next day, after following Yossi through the Lion’s Gate – also called St Stephen’s Gate by some – Annamari glanced at Thys, and Yossi’s light-hearted words about the Jerusalem syndrome came flooding back.

For Annamari, Jerusalem’s Old City was a blur of incongruous contrasts: Muslim men in white robes and women in black, their heads shrouded, some veiled, all jostling along on narrow cobbled walkways lined by shop after shop after shop seemingly selling the same touristy tat; devout Jews with huge round fur hats and side curls blending with their bushy beards; and soldiers – men and women – with an automatic rifle slung casually over one shoulder and a rucksack over the other.

‘Keep close to me,’ Yossi said. ‘We are going to follow the Via Dolorosa – the route Jesus is believed to have followed with his cross from his trial to where he is said to have been crucified and buried in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. This is the first station of the walk.’ Yossi opened his bible and read:

Then led they Jesus from Caiaphas unto the hall of judgment.

‘Imagine,’ Thys whispered, ‘our Lord walked here, on these very stones. Possibly right here where I’m standing.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘I can’t believe this, really I can’t.’ Annamari squeezed his hand.

They moved off to locate each of the next thirteen stations that marked the spots where significant events on Jesus’ last walk took place.

‘This is the Church of Flagellation where Jesus was given the cross and flogged,’ Yossi said, and read:

Then Pilate therefore took Jesus, and scourged him. And the soldiers platted a crown of thorns, and put it on his head, and they put on him a purple robe, and said, Hail, King of the Jews! and they smote him with their hands.

Annamari gazed up at the beautiful stained glass windows of Jesus receiving his crown of thorns and shivered. While Yossi and Thys read more from the bible, Annamari waited in the shade of what she thought was an olive tree in the peaceful courtyard.

They moved on up the road, eerily quiet, the cobbles worn smooth and slightly slippery under the millions of pairs of feet that had passed this way in the past two thousand plus years. The sun beat down mercilessly and Annamari thirstily swallowed some lukewarm water from the bottle in Thys’ little rucksack. Yossi had insisted that they always carry water with them. Suddenly the road turned sharply and, as if someone had flipped a switch, the silence disappeared. The street was thronged with people of all shapes and sizes, in attire ranging from the pious to the profane.

‘This is where Jesus is said to have fallen under the weight of the cross for the first time,’ Yossi said. They entered another little chapel.

Then on, to the next station. Yossi read:

When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son!

At the next stop, Yossi read:

And as they led him away, they laid hold upon one Simon, a Cyrenian, coming out of the country, and on him they laid the cross, that he might bear it after Jesus.

Annamari glanced at Thys. He was deathly pale.

‘Are you okay?’ she whispered. He nodded. They started climbing, up a series of shallow stairs to where Veronica is said to have wiped Jesus’ face.

The next station.
And there followed him a great company of people, and of women, which also bewailed and lamented him.

They stepped out of the bustle of the street into the tranquility of a cave-like chapel. Annamari squeezed Thys’ hand once more. He looked like he was glowing.

Outside, they melted into the steamy human glacier creeping up the street, the noise of the market assaulting their ears. They walked past the spot where Jesus fell for the second time; past where Jesus said
:
Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children.

Annamari found herself blinking back tears at the rapture on Thys’ face.

‘Nearly there,’ Yossi said, leading them up more stairs, past the spot where Jesus fell for the third time, through a narrow gateway and into the teeming courtyard of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

Passing through enormous doors into the church, Annamari recoiled at the cacophony of chanting, wailing, shouting. Thys caught her hand and she scrummed down behind him as he created a path though the tsunami of sweating, jostling, rancid humanity, all trying to get as close as possible to where Jesus was nailed to the cross, to where Jesus died on the cross, to where His body was taken down, to His tomb.

Hordes of stolid, chunky women dressed in shades of grey and pale floral, their grey-streaked hair escaping wildly from scarves and the occasional lacy mantilla, were herded on their knees before a large, silky smooth, flat stone, washing it with their tears, scouring it with their lips.

‘What are they doing?’ Annamari asked Yossi.

‘It’s said that Jesus’ body was laid on that stone after he was taken down from the cross.’ He opened his bible again and pointed out a passage to her:

Then took the body of Jesus, and wound it in linen clothes with the spices, as the manner of the Jews is to bury.

A large, square woman pried her lips from the stone, threw up her arms and shrieked in an ostentatious outpouring of ecstatic piety.

‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ Annamari yelled at Thys who nodded and drove his way farther into the melee.

In the courtyard, Annamari drew in great gulps of burning air and planted herself in a patch of shade against a stone wall.

‘Crazy hot, isn’t it?’ a woman said, holding out a bottle of water. Annamari swallowed some gratefully.

‘It’s crazy all right. Thanks,’ Annamari said, wiping her mouth and handing the bottle back.

‘Not very spiritual in there, is it?’

‘No. It’s awful.’

‘The smell... and all that pushing and shoving...’

‘Ja, although my husband probably feels right at home,’ Annamari said and laughed as the woman raised her eyebrows. ‘He was a rugby player – it’s a popular game in my country.’

‘Mine too,’ the woman said and held out her hand. ‘I’m Diana, from New Zealand.’

‘Annamari, from South Africa.’

Yossi and Thys emerged from the church and they were soon joined by Diana’s husband, Brian, a burly man who looked like he could easily have been an All Black.

‘Diana tells me you were a Springbok?’ Brian said as they exchanged addresses over glasses of fresh pomegranate juice in a tiny, grubby restaurant – vainly seeking redemption with a tired fan that listlessly prodded the leaden air.

‘I wish,’ Thys said. ‘I just made it to the Free State team a few times.’

‘That’s still pretty damn good. I was at the Eden Park All Black-Springbok game in ’81, when they flour-bombed the pitch. Shameful it was,’ said Brian.

‘I can understand why they did it,’ Thys said. ‘But never mind. The Springboks will beat the All Blacks next time around, now that we’re back in international rugby.’

‘We’re thinking of going to South Africa for the World Cup in ’95,’ Diana said.

‘We have to decide soon,’ Brian said. ‘It’s only two years away – do you think it will be safe to come?’

Thys smiled. ‘Of course it’ll be safe. It will be wonderful. Give us a call if you do decide to come. We’ll buy you a commiseration round when the Boks win.’

They all roared with laughter.