A Beautiful Place to Die Part 42

"You invited me," the sergeant major said. the sergeant major said. "But I don't think you need me anymore. You've got the German and the African, so rest easy, laddie. Rest awhile." "But I don't think you need me anymore. You've got the German and the African, so rest easy, laddie. Rest awhile."

Zweigman took the detective's pulse, then wrapped the blankets tightly around his bruised body. How Emmanuel survived the beating was a mystery but he would carry the scars, some visible and others hidden, to his grave.

"One day," the German shopkeeper said, "I will tell you how I came to be hiding in Jacob's Rest. For now I will tell you this: my wife and I are leaving and that is a very good thing. I will open a practice and start again. I have decided to stand up and see if I am knocked down."

"Why?"

"Feel the sorrow, yet let good prevail. What else can men like us do, Detective?"

Emmanuel felt the rough ground underneath him and heard Shabalala's deep baritone voice singing a Zulu song. His life was saved by a black man and a Jew, his physical being reawakened by a mixed-race woman, and his crushed body lifted to safety by a proper Afrikaner. It was a jigsaw of people that fit against each other despite the new National Party laws.

He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. Shabalala's voice carried him out of the dark cellar of his dreams and into the sunlight. He saw himself lying on the open veldt, beaten but not defeated. Zweigman was right. What else was there to do but get up again and take another swing at the world?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

IF IT TAKES a village to raise a child, it takes two villages to raise a family and write a novel. These are the people of my village to whom I owe thanks. a village to raise a child, it takes two villages to raise a family and write a novel. These are the people of my village to whom I owe thanks.

Imkulunkulu the great, great one. The ancestors. My parents, Patricia and Courtney Nunn, for love, hope, and faith. Penny, Jan and Byron, my siblings and fellow travelers on the dusty road from rural Swaziland to Australia.

My children, Sisana and Elijah, lovely beyond compare. My husband, Mark Lazarus, who gave me time, s.p.a.ce, and the use of his impeccable eye for story. You are the roof and the walls of my little hut. Many thanks also to Dr. Audrey Jakubowski-Lazarus and Dr. Gerald Lazarus for their generosity and support.

Literary agents Siobhan Hannan of Cameron Creswell Agency and Catherine Drayton of InkWell Management, who bridge the gap between my writing desk and the world with focus and enthusiasm. I could not be in better hands.

For historical and cultural help I send special thanks to Terence King, author, police and military researcher, and historian. Gordon Bickley, military historian. Audrey Portman of Rhino Research, South Africa. Aunty Lizzie Thomas for Zulu help. Susie Lorentz for Afrikaans help. Any errors or omissions are entirely my own.

Thanks also to members of the Nunn and Whitfield clans for stories and memories, both light and dark, of life in southern Africa.

To the Randwick "Gals" and the Kingsgrove "Gals" for being a great posse of women with whom to ride out the transition into motherhood. Kerrie McGovan for introducing me to the mysteries of the intrawebs and delicious restaurant-quality meals. Loretta Walder, Maryla Rose and Brian Hunt, who lit the path on the darkest nights.

Members of the "Blind Faith Club," an invaluable group of friends who, in the absence of proof, believed I would finish the book and that it would be published. They are Penny Nunn, the terrific Turks Yusuf and Burcak Muraben, Tony McNamara, Steve Worland, Georgie Parker and Paula McNamara.

Double thanks to Atria Books and to Judith Curr for giving my book an American home. Emily Bestler, who simply made the book better and reinvigorated my belief in lucky stars. Laura Stern, Virginia McRae and all the Atria staff.

Ngiyabonga. Thank you all. Thank you all.