The Covenant Part 72

'How did you get the job? How old are you?'

'I'm twenty-one, and the country is hungry for bright young men who can speak Afrikaans and English. You might say that I am needed in Cape Town.' He said his name was Michael van Tonder and that one day he would be as famous as Jan Christian s.m.u.ts, but Detlev never heard of him again.

At Bloemfontein he was met by a committee of women wearing sashes; they were in charge of the ceremonies and had brought with them bold sashes for the twelve young survivors of the camps to wear. Across each was lettered in red: concentration camp survivor concentration camp survivor, and when Detlev was handed his the woman said, 'Wait here. We have to find a girl coming down from Carolina. Her father was a hero of that commando and her mother and two brothers died in the camp at Standerton.'

So he stood alone on the platform, his sash across his chest, while the committee searched for the girl; and when they found her, they placed a ribbon on her, too, bearing the same words but in blue. She was introduced as Maria Steyn of Carolina. 'We're neighbors,' Detlev said and she nodded.

For three days they were together, young people caught up in the tormented memories of the camps and proud of the performances of their mothers and their siblings struck down by disease and hunger, and especially their fathers, who had served in the great commandos. 'My father,' Maria said, 'is Christoffel Steyn. Of the Carolina Commando. Many said they were the finest unit in the war.'

'We all know Christoffel Steyn and Spion Kop. My father rode with General de Groot in the Venloo Commando. They didn't accomplish much at first.'

'Oh, but they were heroic! That dash down to Port Elizabeth.'

'That didn't accomplish much, either, from what they tell me.'

'But such willingness!'

At the dedication they stood facing each other, Maria with the young women, Detlev with the young men, and he noticed that when the solemn words of remembrance were spoken, she had tears in her eyes as he did in his.

'I wouldn't want to do that again,' she said, but then they were taken to a church where a very old predikant delivered a marvelous oration, preaching forgiveness and the love which Jesus Christ extended to all his children: 'And I would say to you young people who bear across your bosoms the sash that tells us that you were in the camps, that Jesus Christ personally saw to it that you were saved so that you might bear witness to the forgiveness that marks our new nation.'

This was followed by a sermon of a much different stripe, for at the conclusion of his prayer he announced that one of the most brilliant of Stellen-bosch's recent ministerial candidates had been asked to speak of the new South Africa that would be erected upon the spirit of the Vrouemonument. It was Barend Brongersma, who spoke in a deep, controlled voice of the dedication 'which we the living must accept from the hands of those dead': 'Not a day dare go by without our remembering the heroic dead, the loving wives who would see their husbands no more, the beautiful children who were destined to cruel death before they could welcome their fathers home from defeat.

'Yes, it was defeat, but from such defeat great nations have risen in the past, and a great one will rise today if you have the courage to ensure it. You must build on the crucifixion of your loved ones. You must take to your hearts the covenant your forefathers received from the Lord. You must ensure and send forward the convictions of the devout people who formed this nation . . .'

His voice rose to a powerful thunder as he challenged every individual in that audience to do some good thing for her or his nation so that the martyrs represented by the Vrouemonument should not have died in vain. Detlev, looking across the aisle to where the young women sat, saw that Maria was sobbing, and he felt his own throat choke with patriotic emotion, so forceful had been the peroration of the predikant from Venloo.

During the final session on a vibrant spring day Detlev found himself with Maria constantly, under various circ.u.mstances, and while eating a hearty breakfast provided for the young people or walking to a church service with her in central Bloemfontein, he had an opportunity to study her closely, as he did with all people who interested him. She was three years younger than he, but mature for her fifteen years. She was a heavy girl, not beautiful, and even though she had lovely blond hair, which she might have dressed in some attractive way, she ignored it, pulling it back tightly in the old fashion. None of her features was distinctive, each being marked by a certain rural grossness, and she moved with no special grace. She was not a lumpy peasant type, not at all, for she had a quickness of mind which showed itself constantly; she was, indeed, much like Johanna Krause, and since Johanna had served as Detlev's mother, he had a predilection toward that type of woman. But the essential characteristic of this girl, which even Detlev was old enough to perceive, was the gravity of her deportment. She was a serious young woman in all the best meanings of that word, and any young man who came into contact with her at an emotional level would have to be impressed by her moral solidity. She was not a person forced by the tragedy of the camps into a premature adulthood, worn and withered; she was naturally adult.

Therefore, when the young couple walked to the Vrouemonument for the farewell picnic they walked together, their conversation falling into the pattern of grave thoughts. 'How were you chosen for the honor?' Detlev asked as they strolled across the gra.s.sy mound. 'I mean, I know about your father. We learned about him in school. I mean, who chose you?'

'I think it must have been the dominee.'

'In my case it was the schoolteacher. He's married to my sister, you know.'

'I was not aware of that.' She spoke cautiously and in a somewhat old-fashioned way.

'What do you propose doing after we return?' Anyone talking with Maria Steyn found himself quickly falling into her stately patterns.

'I shall continue to read. And work on rebuilding the farm. My father remarried, did I tell you?'

'No.' He reflected on this, then said, 'I wish mine had. I think Father has been very lonely.'

'War alters people,' she said. 'Perhaps he had no further need of a wife.'

'All men need wives.' He said this with such speed that he felt embarra.s.sed. He had not yet touched Maria, not even by any accident, other than shaking hands one time at the railway station, and he was deeply impelled to take her hand now, but as they turned a corner in the path they came upon another young pair who were kissing rather ardently and b.u.mping into each other, and, as Detlev later expressed it to himself, 'perhaps doing other things even more awful,' so that he and Maria backed away in deep confusion. The lively eroticism of the other couple did not, as it might have done with another pair, inspire them to kiss, too; it shocked them; and they returned to the monument, in whose grim shadow they finished their conversation. They were, in other words, both puritans of an especially tenacious character: Huguenots imbued with the living spirit of John Calvin and the intellectual and moral torments that come with that persuasion. But they were also l.u.s.ty Dutch peasants, close to the soil, and had they once kissed there on the mound, they would have expanded with happy love. The moment gone, they talked, reverently.

'Detlev,' Maria said. 'That's a curious name.' When he explained its German origin, she said with some force, 'But if you're to be an Afrikaner, working on the things your brother-in-law . . . What was his name?'

'Piet Krause.'

'Now, that's a proper Afrikaner name. You should have one too. Detleef, that's what it ought to be, here in a new land.'

'Do you like it as Detleef?'

'I do. It sounds proper and responsible.'

Whenever their conversation might have taken a lighter tone, the shadow of the monument fell across them, and they would study its well-carved figures and envision once more the episodes of the camps, or they would look up at the monitory obelisk rising one hundred and thirteen feet above them, summoning them back to serious matters.

'If the Germans should arrive from the west and the east, would you join with them?'

'Is there reason to believe . . .'

'Oh, yes! My father is sure there will be war in Europe, and that the Germans will ma.s.s their forces in South-West Africa and Tanganyika and come toward us like pincers.' She hesitated. 'You'd join them, of course?'

Detlev didn't know what to say. He'd heard such rumors frequently in recent years, when things seemed to be going badly in Europe, but he had never believed that Germany would actually strike at South Africa. If she did, he would leap to her support, of course, because any enemy of England's had to be a friend of his, but he was not prepared to commit himself openly.

'My father will be the first to join them,' Maria said. 'We pray that they will come soon to liberate us.' Detlev understood this enthusiasm but still remained silent. 'It would be rather wonderful, you know, to be a free country again,' she said, 'under our own rulers, with a strong Germany on either side to protect us.'

When Detlev made no response, she changed the subject: 'Will you make your name Afrikaans?'

'I've been thinking about that. I don't much like it the way it is.'

'Detleef,' she repeated. 'I like that.'

'Done!' he said. 'I prefer all things Afrikaans. I am now Detleef van Doorn.' He was sorely tempted to take her hand, or even to kiss her to mark the solemnity of his rechristening, but the mournfulness of the monument prevented this, and they spent the rest of that meaningful day talking of sober subjects.

When he returned home he found himself something of a hero, for he was invited to speak at various communities, telling of the splendid monument which memorialized their hardships in the camps. He was asked to come even to Carolina, an invitation he accepted eagerly, since it enabled him to renew acquaintance with Maria Steyn and to meet her father. When in his talk he alluded gracefully to the heroic performance of Christoffel Steyn and the Carolina men, everyone applauded.

After his speech he shared supper with the Steyns, and in later years he remembered this affair as one of the most important in his life. It had nothing to do with Maria, and was a silly thing, really, but as he watched Mrs. Steyn, almost as plump as her husband, moving easily about the kitchen and displaying her love for her family, it occurred to him that she was a second wife, not a first, and he wondered if his childhood would not have been happier had his father married again. He saw Mrs. Steyn as the epitome of what a loving Afrikaner woman could be, and it was important that he see this.

When he returned to his own home he was struck by its bleakness, and he felt depressed, but his thoughts were diverted by a series of mysterious incidents. Unidentified hors.e.m.e.n arrived at Vrymeer asking where General de Groot lived, and when they were told, they galloped off into the darkness. Excitement was caused by the appearance of an automobile containing three serious-looking men who wanted to consult with the general, and one afternoon Maria Steyn's fat little father appeared on the stoep, asking to talk not only with General de Groot but also with Jakob. Van Doorn was now sixty-nine years old, white-haired and somewhat stooped, but still mentally alert, and after the meeting ended he was obviously disturbed.

One evening in midwinter, 1914, when supper was over, he pushed back his plate and looked at his son. He said nothing, reflected for some moments, then stalked from the room, and Detleef could hear him walking back and forth across the stoep. Much later he returned to the kitchen and said brusquely, as if his thoughts had suddenly clarified, 'Son, England has declared war unrightfully against Germany. We must all make decisions. Let's go see De Groot.'

In the moonlight they walked to the other farm, where they found the old general in bed, a weary man past eighty, very thin, his long white beard r.i.m.m.i.n.g his sunken face. He had not been eating well, and it looked as if his sheets had not been changed for weeks, or even months, but the fire in his eyes had not abated. 'Have you heard the glorious news?' he cried in weakened accents. 'We have a chance to fight England again!'

'We come asking your advice, Paulus.'

'Only one thing to do. Take this country into the war on the side of Germany. Only that way can we win our freedom.'

'But won't s.m.u.ts try to make us fight in the English armies?'

General de Groot got out of bed and began to stride about his little room. 'There's the man we have to fear. That d.a.m.ned Jan Christian s.m.u.ts. He will try to make us fight on the wrong side, because he loves everything English. Uniforms. Medals. The king. People bowing to him. I wish I could shoot him tonight. Save us all a lot of trouble.'

They talked long about the strategies they must follow to a.s.sure that South Africa joined this war beside Germany, and what great steps they would take when German victory set them free of the bondage in which they were convinced they languished. Toward dawn De Groot said, 'By tonight I'll have the commando a.s.sembled again, and if they'll take me as their leader, we'll ride out to battle once more.' And from a pile of clothes in a corner he found his frock coat and top hat, donned them, and rode off toward Venloo to start training his men.

In the last weeks of August, when the big guns were firing salvos across wide fronts in Europe, the schoolteacher Piet Krause was marshaling public opinion in Venloo, and he was most persuasive: 'There is no reason on G.o.d's green earth why we Afrikaners should fight on the side of England against Germany, the land of our brothers, to whom we have always looked for deliverance. We must tell Jan Christian s.m.u.ts that he cannot bludgeon us into this war on the wrong side.' Constantly he harped on this theme, convincing most of the Afrikaners in his region that they must join with the Germans. In a show of hands in his cla.s.sroom he found that some fifty-two boys out of sixty would volunteer for war against England. 'Wonderful! It proves that the spirit of the great commandos is not dead.'

'What will you do, Mr. Krause?' one of the boys asked.

'What could any self-respecting man do? I shall ride with the commando.'

Detleef, hearing this response, thought: They all speak of riding their horses with the commando. This time it'll be automobiles, and trucks, and the government will have them. He alone among his friends was apprehensive about the outcome. He considered Jan Christian s.m.u.ts a clever man who would defend the imperial cause effectively; but despite his caution, he knew that if the Afrikaners did not rebel now, they might never win their freedom. When Mr. Krause asked, 'You, Detleef, what will you do?' he responded promptly, 'I shall fight in defense of South Africa.'

'Which South Africa?'

'The Afrikaner homeland my father fought for.'

'Good, good.'

Now the night visitors to General de Groot increased in number, and Detleef came to know the great heroes of his people: General de Wet, General de la Rey, General Beyers, tough Manie Maritz, big as an ox, ferocious as a leopard. But the hero who impressed him most was Christoffel Steyn, who showed himself to be a man of iron courage and sober judgment.

Said he during one meeting with De Groot: 'The tides of history run tempestuously. This has always been a storm-tossed land, and where the currents will sweep us now, we cannot foresee. But to stand on sh.o.r.e and watch others breast them would be disgraceful. De Groot, you have the Venloo Commando in excellent condition. Visit the others. Get them ready. And when the time comes, you must lead your hors.e.m.e.n into battle. This time we shall regain our freedom.'

From that strong position Steyn never retreated. When others wavered, pointing out the considerable advantages the government forces would have, he persisted on one steady course, freedom, and he expected all about him to do the same. But Detleef noticed that even in his most stubborn moments, he sought guidance from General de Groot and insisted upon the old man's approval and allegiance, as if he knew that he himself lacked the leadership qualities to head a revolution, whereas De Groot had them in marked degree.

'Keep your eye on s.m.u.ts,' the old man warned. 'Christoffel, you will succeed or fail insofar as you can outsmart Slim Jannie.' When De Groot used slim slim he did not intend the English word, although Jan Christian was thatslim and tall and handsomebut rather the Afrikaans word p.r.o.nounced the same way: clever, shrewd, sly, not to be trusted, devious, tricky, deceitful, treacherous. It was a wonderful word, used often in connection with s.m.u.ts, whom no republican-minded Afrikaner could trust. 'Be careful, Christoffel, of that Slim Jannie.' he did not intend the English word, although Jan Christian was thatslim and tall and handsomebut rather the Afrikaans word p.r.o.nounced the same way: clever, shrewd, sly, not to be trusted, devious, tricky, deceitful, treacherous. It was a wonderful word, used often in connection with s.m.u.ts, whom no republican-minded Afrikaner could trust. 'Be careful, Christoffel, of that Slim Jannie.'

It was sound advice, for s.m.u.ts, perhaps the keenest brain that South Africa had ever produced, was convinced that the destiny of this country had to lie with England, and stood ready to repel any German invader from the outside or discipline any German sympathizer who sought to operate secretly on the inside. Supporting him were English-speaking South Africans and many like-minded Afrikaners who were eager to forget the past and wanted to unite the two white tribes of the land. Paulus de Groot was shrewd when he perceived that the battle of his commandos would be not against England, but against Slim Jannie. It would be a precarious revolution and he said so.

But he was impatient to lead it. He fed his Basuto pony extra rations, oiled his rifle, and consulted constantly with leaders of the other commandos. He was in Venloo church that Sunday morning, tall and straight for all to see, when Predikant Brongersma delivered his famous sermon on patriotism: 'The Bible is replete with instances in which men were called to defend their nations, in which they rode forth to protect the principles upon which their homeland existed. The Israelites in particular had to protect themselves against a.s.syrians, Medes, Persians, Egyptians and Philistines, and whenever they fought in accordance with G.o.d's principles, they were victorious. When they raised their own false banners, they were defeated.

'What words appear on the banner of G.o.d? Justice, fort.i.tude, obedience, charity to the defeated enemy, reverence, prayer, and above all, sacred respect for the covenant under which our nation exists. If we, in moments of crisis, can comport ourselves in harmony with those commands, then we can be a.s.sured that we fight on G.o.d's side. But if we are arrogant, or seek what belongs to others, or are cruel, or behave without respect for the covenant, then we must surely earn defeat.

'How can a man discern, in time of crisis, whether he is in harmony with G.o.d's commands? Only by searching his own heart and comparing his proposed behavior with instructions he has learned in the Bible. And only by subjecting himself to that comparison constantly. It is in the Bible that we find our instructions.'

After the sermon, when De Groot asked him point-blank if he would be riding with the commandos, the predikant said that his duty lay with the community, to help guide it regardless of the outcome. 'Then you are afraid we'll lose?' De Groot asked.

'I am,' Brongersma said.

'You mean our cause is unjust?'

'I mean, General, that I have heard you say a dozen times, "We have lost the battles. We have lost the war. Now we shall win in other ways." You were right when you said that. But now, at the first chance, you go back to the battles. Why?'

'If a bugle sounds against the English, who can stay home?' As he asked this, the old warrior stared straight into the eyes of the predikant, recalling the dismal fact that in the great moments of his lifethe trek, the frontier, the battleshis church had never supported him. He did not expect it to now.

The first two weeks of September 1914 were a hectic and dazzling experience: Paulus de Groot dispatched emissaries to the other commandos, advising them that he expected them to rise as soon as the great generals declared themselves in favor of Germany; Christoffel Steyn a.s.sembled seventy-two men out of a possible ninety, each ready to mount his pony and ride forth; Piet Krause had already put away his books and was eager to fight; Jakob van Doorn, at seventy, had purchased an automobile; and his son Detleef, at nineteen, was up in the hills behind Vrymeer, practicing with a Mauser.

Beginning on Friday, September 12, De Groot convened a series of leader-meetings attended by a secret agent of the German armed forces in South-West Africa, who a.s.sured the locals that all was in readiness. The uprising was to start on Tuesday, September 16; wild Manie Maritz would lead his commando across the border into German territory; General Beyers would resign his position with the government after releasing a fiery condemnation of s.m.u.ts; and General de Groot would summon the men in the northeastern Transvaal. Pretoria would be taken, the government would be captured; and German power would reach from the Atlantic on the west to the Indian Ocean at Tanganyika. Combined with victory in Europe, this would herald the dawn of Germanic hegemony, in which Afrikaner nationalism would dominate southern Africa, under German guidance.

On the night of Sunday, September 14, Detleef van Doorn rode slowly eastward to Venloo, where his brother-in-law, Piet Krause, had a.s.sembled twenty-two men of the local commando. They rode through the starry night to a meeting point where others were gathering for the uprising; when morning came and he saw the ma.s.ses of men willing to fight once more for a republican South Africa, his excitement soared and he cried to Krause, 'Nothing can stop us now!' He gained additional rea.s.surance when he found that these men were to be led by Christoffel Steyn.

And then the blows of misfortune began to fall. As Barend Brongersma had foreseen, G.o.d was not with these Afrikaners this time. The general on whom they depended most to lead them, Koos de la Rey, a fine and brilliant man, had the horrible misfortune to be riding out of Johannesburg to convene his segment of the rebellion when a policeman, suspecting that the speeding car might contain a team of gangsters who had committed many depredations, including murder of policemen, fired a shot at the Daimler's tire. It should never have hit the car, but it ricocheted off a rock, smashed into the head of De la Rey and killed him. Sometime later, capable General Beyers, who might have taken the dead man's place, tried to flee across the Vaal River and was drowned. Tough Manie Maritz was neutralized across the border, and even brave General de Wet, n.o.blest of the lot, was surrounded and forced to surrender.

Slim Jannie s.m.u.ts made not a single mistake. When the rebellion appeared to be powerful, he did not panic; instead, he called up loyal Afrikaner troops to confront their defiant brothers, keeping the English section of the nation out of the fight. And when the rebellion began to fizzle, he did not exult. He simply maintained one pressure after another, and in the end, found himself victorious on every front: the German invading force from South-West Africa was beaten back; the Germans in Tanganyika were immobilized; and within the country only Paulus de Groot and Christoffel Steyn held out against him, pinned down, as in 1902, in a wee corner of the Transvaal.

'We must fight to the death,' De Groot told his men, and if any showed an inclination to despair, young firebrands like Piet Krause disciplined them, saying, 'In Europe, Germany is winning everywhere. Victory will still be ours.'

But then they were crushed by the most devastating blow of all. One night in November 1914, after a tiring ride across the highveld, General de Groot said to Jakob and Detleef, who had ridden with him, 'I feel tired.' A bed was made for the old man, the first he had slept in for the past ten days, and he began to breathe heavily. He said a most curious thing: 'I would like to see my Basuto.' So the little horse was brought to where he lay. Sixteen, eighteen, fifty . . . how many of these wonderful beasts had he ridden and out of how many traps? He tried to pat the munching animal, but fell back, too exhausted to complete the effort.

'Take him away,' Jakob told his son, but the old man protested: 'Leave him with me.' Toward midnight he rallied somewhat and told Christoffel, 'Lead the men toward Waterval-Boven. We always fought well there.' In some bewilderment he looked at Jakob and could not remember who he was, but then he saw Detleef, who had been so kind: 'Are you Detleef with the new name?'

'I am.' The old man tried to speak, fell back, and died. Born in 1832, he had witnessed eight decades of fire and hope, defeat and victory.

With his death, the last commando more or less dissolved. Christoffel Steyn made a valiant effort to hold the men together, and Piet Krause threatened to shoot any who deserted, but finally, even men like Jakob and Detleef drifted away, for as Van Doorn told his son-in-law, 'Piet, it's time to get back to the farm.'

'No!' the young schoolteacher pleaded. 'One more battle, just one big victory, and the Germans will come storming up from Mozambique to save us.'

'There are no Germans in Mozambique,' Jakob said, but Krause was so determined to pursue this logic that he maneuvered the men into a position from which they could not escape without giving battle, and in this fight Jakob van Doorn caught a burst of .303 bullets right between the eyes. Little of his head was left to be buried with the shattered trunk, and after prayers were said at his improvised graveside, Detleef said, 'Piet, I think we'd better go home.'

It was fortunate they did, for the very next day government troops surrounded the remnants of the commando and arrested Christoffel Steyn.

Then began the worst agony of this abortive affair, for Jan Christian s.m.u.ts discovered that Christoffel, in the years of peace following the end of the Boer War, had accepted a position in the South African army which he had never resigned. Technically he was a traitor, and while hundreds of other rebels had been dealt with leniently, s.m.u.ts was determined to prosecute charges against this officer. On an awful day in December 1914 a court-martial condemned Steyn to be executed. From the Afrikaner community, including many who had not supported the rebellion, came a cry of protest, voicing respect and admiration for this brave man who had conducted himself with such integrity during the forays of the Carolina Commando. But s.m.u.ts would not listen.

Piet Krause led a delegation of schoolteachers to Pretoria to plead for Christoffel's life, and Reverend Brongersma preached four tremendous sermons, two in Johannesburg, begging the government to show clemency, but to no avail. Only a few days before Christmas, Steyn was taken before a firing squad in Pretoria Central Prison, where he sang an old Dutch hymn: 'When we enter the Valley of Death we leave our friends behind us.' As the soldiers took up firing positions he refused a blindfold and continued singing until the bullets silenced him.

Detleef was torn apart by this tragic culmination of the rebellion: De Groot dead on the battlefield; Jakob buried in strange soil; Christoffel, of them all the most chivalrous, executed on a summer's morning; his own life shattered. That night he wrote to Maria, the rebel's daughter: I fought alongside your father. I saw him at his n.o.blest and his memory will always abide with me. He was executed most unfairly, and if I ever see that Slim Jan Christian s.m.u.ts, I will put a bullet through his brain, if he has one, which I doubt.

She, being a prudent young woman, showed the letter to no one, for she realized that if it were seen by the police, the young man she loved might be in serious trouble. She folded it carefully and placed it with mementos of her father: a handkerchief worn at Spion Kop, his cartridge belt, a book of Psalms in Old Dutch that he had carried with him in all his Boer War battles.

Christoffel Steyn was dead, but his memory would be kept alive not only by his daughter but also by a whole people longing for heroes. Slim Jannie s.m.u.ts had created a martyr out of this little commando and left a burning wound in the soul of Afrikanerdom. It would flame alongside the charred memories of Slagter's Nek, Blaauwkrantz and Chrissiesmeera bitter legacy upon which the sacred history of a nation would be built.

Detleef would surely have married Maria Steyn not long afterward, except that Reverend Brongersma came to the farm with news that carried him off to wholly new adventures in education: 'I have the most exciting development to discuss with you, Detleef. Some time ago I wrote to a group of professors at Stellenbosch, telling them two things: that you were good at studies and unusually good at rugby. They want you to come there to pursue your studies.'

'What studies?'

'I would say philosophy and the sciences. And it would please me greatly if you found it in your heart to enter the ministry. You have a strong character, Detleef, and I think you could be of notable service to the Lord.'

'But who will tend the farm?'

'Piet Krause and Johanna. I've spoken to them.'

'He can't live here and teach in Venloo.'

'Recent events have spoiled him, Detleef. He no longer wants to be a teacher.'

'He won't be very good at farming.'

'No, but he'll look after the place till you get back. And then we'll see what happens.' He paused and rubbed his chin. 'You know, Piet is a remarkable man. He could move in any direction if G.o.d ever shows him the right one.' He laughed. 'You have found your path.'

'And what is it?'

'To get an education. To serve G.o.d and your society.'

It was a long journey in miles from Vrymeer to Stellenbosch, a much greater one in mental and moral significance, for this quiet town with tall trees and white buildings had become a beautiful and seductive educational center like Cambridge in England, or Siena in Italy, or Princeton in America, a town set apart to remind citizens of how splendid colleges and libraries and museums could be. It was an Afrikaans-speaking place, heavily tinged with religious fervor, but also imbued with an intense speculation about the nature of politics in South Africa, and its professors were some of the most astute men in the nation.

At first Detleef was merely a big, b.u.mbling oaf from the country, forced to compete with the sharper minds of lads who had matured in places like Pretoria, Bloemfontein and Cape Town, but when he settled down in the home of a clergyman's widow and navigated his first term of advanced trigonometry, beginning philosophy and the history of Holland in the golden century, all of which he fumbled rather badly, he found his sea legs, as it were, and proceeded firmly into his second set of courses, in which he began to display the solid learning he had mastered in the good school at Venloo.