&
Excerpt
from the diary of a Christian crusader in the Holy Land while on a mission to
trace the origins of Europeans.
“The Gods are crying! The Gods are angry.
Humanity implores the German people to live in harmony with the rest of the
world. Prosperity belies the fatherland if the children of Deutschland cherish
it without discriminating against those who love this country as much as they
do.”
Words
of an elderly female Gypsy diviner addressed to a group of pro-Nazi women
returning from church service in Munich one winter afternoon.
“These Gypsies don’t deserve to live in the
fatherland. They contaminate our race even more than the Jews.”
One
of the women complained bitterly to her friends.
Not only in Berlin was this reawakened
search for the past glory of the Germanic peoples blossoming, but also in other
areas of Europe where a majority German population lived. To the West, even in
the parts beyond the borders of France, German nationalism was challenging the
status quo, rattling the nerves of the French government in the process. The
resonance of this resurgent nationalism could also be felt across Germany’s
northern frontier in Denmark, as the German minority in the Scandinavian country’s
southern borderland demanded more rights. On the other side of the Alps beyond
Germany’s southern frontiers in what is known as Europe’s highest and most
extensive mountain range, in Austria and the Sudeten region of Czechoslovakia,
vibrant voices of German nationalism decrying the Versailles treaty forbidding
the reunification of these German-speaking lands with Germany (Anschluss)
were making themselves heard. The scattered patches of German communities in
the Balkans were agitating too in their desire to be integrated into the German
world. Meanwhile, further east, in the great Western Slavic and Eastern Slavic
lands harboring more than five million ethnic Germans, the rights and
privileges of the German minority were being curtailed for the sake of
consolidating Polish nationalism and Soviet communism.
Forced
to grapple with the realities of the Great Depression and rising national
consciousness at the close of 1932, the German people sought consolation from
the glorious periods of their past, raised their heads to the heavens for
answers, and preened themselves for the ideologies and political parties
promising to make Germany great again.
However,
one party stood out with a seemingly reassuring program for Germany and ethnic
Germans. It claimed to be above the others in its commitment to the fatherland
and the future of its children within and beyond its borders. The virulent Nazi
party under the leadership of Adolf Hitler promised to lead the German people
in repelling the dictates of the constraining post-World War One Versailles
Treaty that deprived Germans of some of their historic lands, seized Germany’s
colonies, forced it to pay damaging reparations to its former enemies and
limited the size and scope of its military. Adolf Hitler’s pledge to restore
Germany’s honor, bring all ethnic Germans together and cleanse the Aryan race
of its contaminators sounded pleasant to most Germans who felt severely wronged
by the world around them.
The heavens could have been heralding
something malevolent that winter afternoon as the dark clouds swirled over the
city of Berlin, punctuated by lightning and the sound of thunder. However, if
those signs were warnings from nature, Berlin seemed defiant against them.
The
cloud over Groningstrasse appeared darker than elsewhere in the city as if a
force of nature were sucking the energy
out of the neighborhood. It could have been mirroring the election fever
sweeping through Germany, with underlying emotions stirred by the political
campaigns that week or it could have been saying something else altogether.
However, the hatred, blind fanaticism and incomprehension in the air seemed
higher than elsewhere in the German capital, all fueled by the increasing
passion over ideology, religion, race,
and patriotism. No other election had been so divisive. Gangs of Nazi hoodlums
roved the streets, beating Jews and Gentiles alike, and destroying the
properties of their opponents.
Groningstrasse,
with its sizable Jewish population, happened to be Lorenz Ulbricht’s campaign
ground that winter afternoon.
“Germanic
people have always determined the destiny of Europe. Our ancestors were the
Franks, the Saxons, the Lombards, the Alemanis, the Huns, the Burgundians, the
Goths, the Teutons and the Suevis. Those Germanic tribes dominated this land
for ages. The Slavs were the slaves of our ancestors too. We controlled the
lands of Rus not too long ago. We lorded it over the ancestors of today’s
Russians, Ukrainians, and Byelorussians.
Even the Czechs, Slovaks, Sorbs, Bulgars, Poles, Serbs, Slovenes, Macedonians, Croats,
Montenegrins, and Bosnian Muslims were the slaves of our ancestors. The peoples
of Northern and Southern Europe were our subjects at one point in our history.
Where is the glory of the master race; I ask you?”
The
crowd responded in the affirmative with words muttered in high and low pitches,
and with chants that drove Lorenz Ulbricht into a frenzy. He coughed and then continued
in a reinvigorated manner.
“Tell
me, Children of Assyria―the great Assyria that is the progenitor of those great
Germanic powers. Should the master race continue sleeping while its former
slaves dictate its destiny?”
“No…no,
no!” came the thunderous response from the crowd.
“Ten
of the twelve tribes of ancient Israel were our slaves too. Where they are
today, I don’t want to know. Jews are from Judah and Benjamin only―the two Hebrew tribes the ancient Assyrians never bothered to
overpower. Must we continue allowing these Jews to control the world, even
though the children of their ten brothers were the slaves of our progenitors?
Must we allow these scoundrels to stay unpunished, even though they betrayed
the Reich and stabbed it in the back during the Great War? We are Aryans, a
word derived from Assyria. We are the descendants of the great Goths, Alemanis,
Franks and the other Germanic tribes that reigned supreme in this part of the
world. Rediscover yourself, children of the Reich. You were born to rule the
world. The time has come for the master race to put an end to the dictates of
its former slaves. The children of the fatherland must live together. Embrace
your heritage, children of Deutschland. Unite and take back your world.”
“Who
is this fellow?” Hans Wette Heinrich asked a man in the crowd.
“Lorenz
Ulbricht,” the wide-eyed neighbor replied.
“Never
heard of him before.”
“A
rising star in the party. My friend calls him ‘The Mad Enlightener’.”
“Where
does he get all this information from?”
“The
man is a controversial historian and philosopher with a knack for racial
genealogy.”
Hans
did not inquire any further. Instead, he moved away, to the back of the crowd,
dimmed his eyes and listened to the orator.
“Children
of the great Reich, children of the master race! This is the destined moment to
support the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. We need your votes to
bring our great party to power. The Nazi party under the leadership of Adolf
Hitler accepted the colossal divine mission to restore Germany’s greatness. We
need to purify Germany. We need to send the other two tribes of Israel into
oblivion as well. We must eliminate all forms of Jewish influence,” Lorenz
Ulbricht bellowed.
Madness!
Hans
felt a chill run up his spine. He shuddered, realizing for the first time that
he was perspiring in his armpits, brows,
and palms. With a sigh, he pocketed his trembling hands and started walking
away from the crowd.
“Rheinland bastard,” a shout hit him from
behind.
“Nein! Er ist Amerikaner!” came another
sneer from his rear.
“He
is ours,” the first voice insisted.
“No,
the man is not. Scheiss-Ami! It is
hard to find an American who is not a mongrel,” the second voice persisted.
Even
though Hans did not like the bile rising in his throat, he did not stop for a
moment or turn around to look back.
CHAPTER ONE
September
1935 Rastatt,
Baden
What
now, Germany? He thought as he approached his grandmother’s home.
How
he wished all of Germany was like Rastatt, a town spared of the feral
nationalism eating the fabric of German society. Nobody in the town ever
sneered at his Black African heritage or Jewish roots. In this picturesque urban settlement of
Baroque buildings situated in the Upper Rhine Plain on the River Murg, he was
the amiable Hans, the grandson of Alexandra Herlz, grandson of the war hero
David Herlz, and nephew of another war hero and famous football player Matthäus
Herlz. Rastatt filled him with a sense of achievement, a history of belonging
and a purpose in life. However, he wondered whether the corrupting influence of
Nazi laws originating from the chancellery would bypass the town of his birth.
Hans
liked his grandmother’s home for the sense of security it provided. It was a
feeling he nurtured since childhood. Here, he could be a polite rascal and
still be comfortable about it. However, when he arrived at her front door, he
stopped out an impulse and watched her through the window as she busied herself
in the kitchen, concluding shortly after that she was amazingly agile for a
sixty-five-year-old.
Alexandra
Herlz could have carried on for a while without noticing him had the darting
movement of a bird outside not caught her attention, prompting her to turn
around to see the creature that hit the kitchen window and then flew away. She
smiled and raised her hands in welcome the moment she noticed her grandson.
With the corners of his mouth upturned, he opened the door and walked into the
house.
“I
am so fortunate to barge into a winner’s meal. Timely, I should add,” he said
with open arms the moment he stepped into the corridor.
Alexandra
Hertz hugged him, muttered words of joy over his safe return and then bombarded
him with questions that he could barely answer. After satisfying her curiosity
about her daughter’s family back in Berlin, she held him at arm’s length and
smiled again.
“Come
with me into the kitchen. Come, come, come,” she roused, holding his hand and
leading him away.
“What
did you hide in there?”
“You
will find out.”
“You
are making me curious.”
“Oh,
nothing! I missed having you around, that’s all. You won’t believe I worried
about you.”
“You
don’t have to worry about me.”
“I
know you don’t like having a worried grandmother. There are tons of reasons why
I shouldn’t lose some sleep over you.”
“Hmm!
You wouldn’t lose some sleep over your only grandson?”
“What is good agonizing over somebody or something I
have no control over?”
“Why
wouldn’t you torment yourself thinking about me?”
“There
you go again. Uh, uh! You complain I don’t hold you up to the standards of that
man?”
“Who?”
“Didn’t
you say you are capable of scaling all of the
challenges of life, even Mount Everest, like the man who first climbed
it? That is the man I am talking about.”
“I
said that?”
“Uh-huh!
You even boasted that you capable of handling the ups and downs of life on your
own like the survivor in Jack London’s story Love of Life,” she said and made a face.
“Come
on, Oma!” he exclaimed.
“What?”
“Please
don’t say that again. I am still your baby.”
“You
didn’t talk like that while Rosa was here.”
“I
thought you liked her.”
“Don’t
belittle the obvious. Why aren’t you seeing her anymore?”
“It
is a long story.”
“What
do you mean?”
“We
can keep that for another day. By the way, what have you got there for me?”
“Look
around. Did I ever tell you how much of a treasure you are to have around?”
“You
are flattering me again!”
“I
mean it.”
“Hmm!
I felt great about myself until the Austrian made me reconsider my identity.”
“Adolf
Hitler is evil. I thought you knew that.”
“What
was that again?”
“I
said he is evil for all I know.”
Hans
gave forth a feeble laugh. “Let’s be real about this. The man has considerable
support from our folks. A good number of our people think he is a genius.”
“Who
cares about what others think of him! If they think he is Sigmund Freud or
another Napoleon, then, to begin with, he
is nothing but an evil genius.”
Hans
grunted. “Just like you, I was indifferent about him and his crazy ideas when
it all started. The fact is that your daughter was right about it from the very
beginning. Mami saw something sinister about the Nazis even before they maneuvered
their way to power.”
“Listen
to me, Hans! The man fakes a lot. Even so, he is harmless!”
“All
the same, he made me reconsider my
identity.”
“What
about this! He is evil but harmless.”
“That’s
comforting.”
“How
is my dear daughter doing?” Alexandra asked suddenly with raised eyebrows.
“Great!”
“And
her little girl?”
“Eva,
as usual, is bustling with life. Between us, there is a new fellow in her life,
and I can trust him with my sister’s happiness.”
“Hmm! Berliner?”
“No, Alsatian.”
“Hmm! The French touch. Marriage
material?”
“Uh-huh!”
“What
does he do for a living.”
“They
are both students, Oma! But he
has prospects.”
“And how old is he?”
“Twenty-one.”
Alexandra
was thoughtful for a moment. At length, she rolled her eyes and said in a
half-complaining voice: “Karina did it again. Your mother should have informed
me beforehand that you were on your way.”
“Why?”
Hans asked and picked up a slice of beetroot from a saucer sitting on the
kitchen table.
“It
would have given me enough time to prove that you are my darling.”
“Come
on, Oma! I know you hate having me around.”
“Thanks.”
“Do
you mean it?”
“Uh-huh!
Oh! I guess I never told you about the special knife I put aside to carve you
up the moment you were born.”
“No!
Tell me! What happened to it? I am still alive!”
“I
lost it the day you were born.”
“What
does that tell you? I am made of the Achilles stuff.”
“I
know your soft spot, remember?”
“You
think so?”
“Hmm!”
“Well,
everything about my departure from Berlin was done in a hurry.”
“You
don’t have to defend your mother,” Alexandra Herzl said, feigning reproach.
“Just
trying to protect your daughter, that’s all,” Hans said with a chortle.
“Now,
tell me the truth. How is my dear child actually doing?”
“She
is as lighthearted as a ballerina who is unlucky not to get a big role.”
Alexandra
Herzl laughed. “And my dear little granddaughter is happy with the new person
in her life?”
“Hmm! You still call Eva little when she is
already spotting a moustache?” Hans said with a mischievous smile.
Alexandra
Herzl guffawed. “What about my handsome Prussian son-in-law?” she asked between
gasps of laughter.
“Do
you mean your daughter’s commie? His portly belly contradicts his ideals and
the ideas of Marxist Socialism that he professes.”
She
laughed so much that she had to hold her sides. “I will remember to tell him
that.”
“Well,
between you and me,” Hans lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner, “Your
daughter’s commie lover decided to grow a beard. He tells everyone who cares to
listen that he wants to look like a true Teuton or Hun — a natural front man
for Attila.”
“And
you believed him?”
“Of
course, I don’t!” Hans said with a frown, “He easily gets worked up by the
political developments.”
Alexandra
became serious all of a sudden. “Rudi and his politics again,” she whined and
shook her head, “Is he taking care of my daughter?”
“He
is a marvelous husband, father, and
protector. On a serious note, he is better than any man I can think of.”
“I
am glad you didn’t have us, women, in the equation.”
“Huh!”
“That
would have meant he is better than me too.”
“I
didn’t have you in mind, that’s for sure,” Hans laughed.
A
bemused expression crossed Alexandra Herzl’s face. Then she rolled her eyes and
shook her head. “Huh, smart face. You slipped out of that one. I guess that’s
why you are my boy.”
Hans
grunted and looked away. He had to put his thoughts together. “I don’t think
you are cooking for one today. Are you hosting?”
“Why?”
Alexandra Herzl chuckled.
He
shrugged and plastered her with a quizzical look. “What’s the surprise?”
“I
apologize for not telling you right after you walked in. Helga is joining us
for lunch.”
“Helga?
I don’t remember hearing that name around here.”
“She
fancies you as a product of a fairy tale.”
“What
did you tell her?”
“Nothing!”
“I
still can’t put a face to that name.”
“She
is Prussian, but she is a good friend.”
“Hmm!”
“I
know what you think of them.”
“Who?
Prussians?”
“You
said it before that they are stiff. But she is different. If you ask me; I
think she is the type who missed the essence of life.”
“Then,
how come I haven’t seen her? It is close to two years since I started living
with you!”
“Helga
moved to Essen five years ago, but then wised up and returned home to our
serene Rastatt.”
“Hmm!
There must be strong reasons for her to return.”
“Find
out for yourself what stuff she is made of?”
“You
are up to something, Oma,” he drawled playfully, regarded his
grandmother quizzically for a moment and then smiled.
The
smiling minion woman that Alexander Herzl welcomed into her home that afternoon
was in her late thirties or early forties. She was wearing a bat-like hat that
Hans thought could make a perfect fit for a circus comedian. However, it was
her prominent beak-like nose that struck him the most. It immediately evoked a
memory of a twelfth-century Moorish painting of an old woman that he saw
hanging on the wall of a museum in Dresden, a work of art he thought depicted a
witch when he first saw it as a twelve-year-old. Even the way her grandmother’s
friend walked reminded him of a malnourished greyhound he and his friends used
to mimic a decade ago.
Hans
shook himself out of his mischievous thoughts caused by ennui and tried to
focus on the two women who were shaking hands now. He watched them chat awhile
before Alexandra Herzl beckoned him over. He courteously approached the friends.
“My
lovely baby grandson! I don’t think you two have met,” Alexandra said proudly
and then rested an arm on Hans’s shoulder.
“Good
afternoon, Frau—” Hans greeted, edged closer and shook hands with Helga,
puzzled by the strange glint in her eyes.
“I
am glad you finally met,” Alexandra said.
“I
am glad, too,” Helga echoed.
“I
remember talking to you about him before.”
“Uh-uh!
You did. Several times. He went to school in Berlin, didn’t he?”
“He
did! Is he not cute? I do not recall telling you that he holds a Master’s
Degree in Agricultural Science. You see, he is only twenty-six years old. This
fine young man is my pride! Ha, ha…ha! Helga, he moved in with me two years
ago, and now works here in Rastatt.”
“Oh…oh,
oh!” Helga mumbled. “His complexion is like…like the color of a ripe banana.
He…he is beautiful.”
“Oh,
he is a handsome young man. His father is Kamerunian. I told you that too,
didn’t I?”
“Uh-huh!
You told me he was born here in Rastatt.”
“I
am sure I said a lot of things about him.”
Helga
nodded effusively at nothing in particular. “My grandfather was stationed in
Kamerun back in the day of the Kaiser.”
“That’s
beautiful. I am sure he told you lots of things about the place.”
“No,
he didn’t. It was like his little secret. We found out he left behind some
babies there.”
Alexandra
Herzl shrugged and then raised her hands.
“Now, we have everything ready on the table. Please, let’s make ourselves
comfortable and eat before the dishes get too cold,” she offered heartily.
Hans
whispered into his grandmother’s ear while pulling a chair for her to sit down
in. “Our Mona Lisa is proving to be a good company. I think I am beginning to
fall in love with her.”
Alexandra
Herzl smiled and whispered back into his ears. “She loves bananas.”
Hans ate hungrily that afternoon, outpacing
the conversation at the table. He decided to leave his grandmother and her
friend alone after realizing that the women had so much to talk about without
him interrupting now and then. He pushed his plate aside and then sat in
silence for a moment, watching his grandmother and Helga chat heartily. He
found their gab boring.
“I
will clear the dishes,” he offered.
Hans
did as he promised. He carried the
half-emptied dishes and the dirty plates to the kitchen, separated them,
scraped off the particles of food and then washed them clean. He used a
dishcloth to wipe the plates and then put
them away in the cupboard―a relaxing experience that allowed him to pick up
bits and pieces of the women’s catch-up conversation. However, their chatter
still failed to garner his interest.
He
decided to fix himself a glass of whisky while he figured out what next to do. A
little dose of alcohol makes the mind placid, he thought. He knew the
excuse to drink was flimsy but found
solace in the fact that his maternal grandfather came from a line of heavy
boozers, a trait carried over from his Russian-Jewish heritage.
Hans
did not think of reading until he was halfway through his drink. The thought
sent him ferreting among his grandfather’s priced collection of books on the
shelves in the study. His face alighted with satisfaction when he finally
picked up an encyclopedia on German overseas colonies. He thumbed through the
pages and settled on Kamerun.
The
geography of the land gripped his interest right away, as he familiarized
himself with the names of renowned physical features, towns, ethnic groups, and
strategic locations. He also noted the coastal areas dotted with oil palm,
rubber, tea, and banana plantations on the side map. The commercial farming
communities were mostly concentrated around the popular mountain town of Buea,
located in the southwestern sector under the mandate of the British, following
the post-Great War partition of the
former German colony of Kamerun into British Cameroons and French Cameroun.
Hans
was in a relaxed mood when he made himself another glass of whisky and then returned
to the encyclopedia. His focus this time around was on the eastern half of the
former German Kamerun, currently under the mandate of the French. Like British
Cameroons, it too was having its fair share of large plantations along the
upper course of the Mungo River. He also read about the preponderance of
private plantations in the area and was intrigued to learn that their owners
were cultivating mostly citrus fruits, quinine, cocoa, bananas, oil palm, rubber, and coffee.
Dusk
was on the horizon when he started feeling rising anticipation. Nevertheless,
that did not stop him from devouring more information.
The
Western High Plateau, otherwise called the Western Highlands―the mountainous
grassland in the West of the Kamerun territories whose southern portion is
settled by the Bamileké people, piqued his curiosity. His mother once told him
that his father hailed from the ethnic group
and that they played an invaluable role in the economy of the mandate of more
than three hundred ethnic groups, a situation that prevailed even during the
era of German Kamerun.
Hans
pored over the map of the area, noting the settlements in the densely populated
Bamilekéland. He spotted his father’s ancestral settlement called Banganté,
located in the transitional zone where the tropical high savannah melted into
the Equatorial evergreen forest. He spent the next couple of minutes flipping
through the pages until his eyes fell on Douala and Yaoundé, as well as the
famous towns of Ebolowa and Nkongsamba. He found the information about them
enriching. The North became his next area of interest as he pored over maps of
that part of the country, paying attention to the traditional Moslem Fulani
strongholds of Garoua, Maroua, Yagoua, Mokolo and Ngaounderé. Then he read
about the region too. Not much was written about it, but he found the few pages
informative enough.
Hans
closed the book, yawned, and then gulped empty his glass of drink. When he
returned to the sitting room, he was surprised to find his grandmother resting
on the sofa. Helga was nowhere in sight.
He
decided not to wake her up. Instead, he settled for a visit to Aurora, his
widow lover who always seemed ready to accommodate him with her bed. He brushed
aside the slight feeling of guilt that sometimes threatened to creep in at the
mere thought of their affair. Perhaps it was because he knew his grandmother
would be against it. However, he was doing a good job of not dwelling on it.
Eduard Schmidt, as Aurora’s late husband
was called, happened to have been his late uncle’s close friend and a sweet
soul to Alexandra Herzl. Still, Hans thought he should not blame himself. It
was the beautiful and ageless Aurora who led him to unveil his suppressed
passion for her one evening when he visited her home, and she offered him a
drink and a feel of her hands. Now, he could hardly tell who the pacesetter in
their affair was. However, both lovers conceded that their romance had no
future and needed to stay discreet. Only, both lovers did not want the end to be
soon.
CHAPTER TWO
Even
on this Tuesday, with much in the news for the media print, Hans held his
curiosity in check and bypassed two other kiosks on his way home, deciding
instead to uphold the tradition and buy from Klaus Ostolitz.
The
sun was overhead that afternoon as he approached the kiosk. The rumors about
the passing of new laws hammered in Nuremberg occupied his mind to the point
where he almost bumped into their Jewish neighbor walking from the opposite
direction, had the old man not called out his name. Benjamin Hessler was
grim-faced and appeared to be mumbling something in a listless manner.
“Good
day, Herr Hessler,” Hans greeted, stirring the old man alert.
“Afternoon,
Son,” he replied and regarded Hans for a moment with a brooding expression on
his face. “I won’t advise you to buy the papers today.”
“Why?”
Hans asked for no apparent reason.
“Sorry,
Son,” the old man said and shook his head, “I am a Jew after all. The Zionists
are right. A Jew would never be accepted anywhere in the world except in the
land of his ancestors. Our home is the land of Eretz Israel. What a pity
I am realizing this only in my old age. Son, I may leave after all,” he added,
moved a hand in the air in a dejected manner and then started walking away,
looking every inch of a broken man.
The
stunned expression on Hans’s face turned to a cold fury as he watched the old
Jew disappear into the next street. Then he grunted, turned around and headed
for the kiosk.
He
did not like the atmosphere of resigned despondence around the throng of
customers at the newsstand who all appeared to be talking in subdued tones.
There was no reason to blame them. They reflected the mood around Rastatt that
day. He tried to be upbeat as he bought two newspapers, exchanged a few words
with the vendor and then walked into the nearby cafeteria, ordered black coffee,
and then started reading an article while waiting for the drink.
He
did not go to his grandmother’s place right after perusing the contents of the
newspapers. Instead, he asked their neighbor’s ten-year-old son hovering around
to inform his grandmother that he would not be around until late that evening.
He left the cafeteria looking like a professor grappling with a worrying phenomenon and then walked to the home of his
forty-year-old widow lover a quarter of a mile away like someone in a hurry.
**************
“Your
virility seems to have ebbed,” Aurora cooed, moving her tongue over his torso,
from his chest, then down, towards the navel.
“I
don’t know,” Hans mumbled.
He
was familiar with the result of the feel of her tongue on his chest. It never
failed before to arouse him into a passionate drive that always ended with him
panting like a cheetah at the end of a challenging hunt. He was glad she didn’t
feel offended when her tongue failed to work its magic on him. He was even surprised
by his lack of enthusiasm.
“Tell
me about your worries,” Aurora purred.
Hans
moved his gaze away from the ceiling and regarded the naked body of his lover
with a lost look on his face. He shut his eyes for a moment, opened them again
and then peered at her with an intensity that made her shield her breasts
instinctively with both hands as if it was only then that she became aware of
her nakedness. She quickly realized the absurdity of her action and moved her
hands away, resting them on the back of her head instead.
Hans
continued regarding her closely, sweeping over her enticing nipples gorged with
blood, descending to the mound of hair between her thighs and then further
down, before moving up to her face again.
“What
is it? You are beginning to make me nervous.”
“Are
you serious?”
Her
response was a laugh with a twinge of timidity in her voice that he found
alluring.
“You
are as beautiful as ever,” he said.
“Then
make me feel worthy of my beauty,” she implored, running a hand over his thigh.
“Did
you read the papers today?” he asked, fighting back the overpowering sensation
of her touch.
“Hmm,
hmm…hmm!” she purred. “Politics does not interest me anymore. Not since the
Nazis took control of the Chancellery and the Austrian began his political
gimmick.”
Hans
chortled and looked away. He did not like the overwhelming feeling of
helplessness sweeping over him or the growing wistfulness of his eyes.
“We
are being bombarded by new laws,” he said and sat up.
“What
laws?”
“Yes,
my dear woman! They came up with new laws redefining citizenship. Jesus Christ,
woman!”
“What
have I done now?”
“The
laws are the talk of Rastatt and Germany, and you lie here indifferent about
everything?”
“Update
me,” she said and nipped his left ear.
“You
told me you aren’t fully German,” Hans quivered.
“Something
I am proud of. My mother is Italian, the descendant of a proud duke of
Lombardia,” she said, probing his ear with her tongue.
Hans
plastered her with a serious look. “My dear woman! You amaze me. Aren’t you
worried about all the breathtaking changes affecting our society?”
“Uh-uh!”
“The
tides maneuvered by the insane are threatening everybody.”
“So?”
“When
you lie here looking and sounding completely unperturbed, you frighten me.”
“Why
should I lose my hair over something I can’t control?”
“Interesting!”
“I
don’t want to concern myself with something ordinary citizens like us have no
control over.”
“Woman,
new laws have been discussed in Nuremberg. I am talking about Nazi-promulgated
laws that should be a source of concern for anyone with a tint of foreign
blood.”
“What
type of laws are you talking about?” she asked, her eyes lighting up finally.
“There
are so many. All sorts,” Han said with a sigh, “Henceforth, mixed marriages are
against the law for ethnic Germans. Certain utilities, occupations and
positions have been placed beyond the procurement of certain categories of
non-Germans.”
“And
what has that got to do with me?”
Hans
smiled, shook his head, and reached out for her nose. She did not move a muscle
as he held it affectionately. “You may have to revise your commitment to a
fatherland that has been hijacked by those xenophobic bastards.”
“Huh!
You made it sound like xenophobes are not bad enough,”
she muttered and frowned.
“Thief
of My Heart, the point I am trying to make here is that I have already revised
mine.”
“And
what is that?” she asked, propped herself up on her elbows and fixed her eyes
on him.
Hans
bit his lip, ruffling his hair as he did so. “Can’t you see? I am Kamerunian
after all. Hell, I am partly Jewish.”
“You
know you didn’t answer my question,” she said and sighed, turning her face away
momentarily before looking at him again.
Hans
looked away and fixed his gaze on the ceiling instead, staring at nothing in
particular. “I have come to an unsettling conclusion,” he said with a sigh. “On
the one hand, I have a father in Kamerun who is ready to welcome a son he never
had the opportunity to love. On the other hand, here I am feeling dejected and
uncertain in the land of my birth that is now rejecting its own seeds. Tell me,
Thief of My Heart! Which of the two must I choose?”
Aurora
coughed uneasily, held his head, and then looked him in the eyes in a
conspiratorial manner. “Which of the two must you choose? What about me? I have
two birthright options that do not meet my expectations as a liberated woman.
There is Nazism in Germany and there is Fascism in Italy. Still, I must live. I
want to live like a free soul.”
“I
like that expression — live like a free soul!”
“Uh-huh!
That is why I am on the verge of packing my bags and leaving sophisticated
Germany with my daughter. That is life, Lover Boy. Life is a rare fantasy that
can be made a reality by being objective.”
“You
never talked to me about such a plan,” Hans said with wariness in his voice
that she picked up in an instant.
Her
face lit up again, but with a mischievous smile, leaving him wondering what
could be going through her mind as she leaned forward and plastered him with a
kiss.
“I
want Lover Boy to know that he wouldn’t be my partner for life. We should be
objective about it. You are still young and smart with an unexplored future
ahead of you. Moreover, I am a sinning woman with a conscience. I don’t want to
be held responsible for tying you down, Lover Boy. Make good of your potential
out of Nazi Germany.”
Hans
grunted and then smiled in an authentic
manner that illuminated her face even further. “I take it that you are advising
me to accept my father’s offer of a place in French Cameroun?”
“What
better option?” she asked and nipped his ear again.
He
nodded with a grimace. “That’s encouraging. French Cameroun is the best option
for me. I am glad you are with me on this one,” he declared and kissed her
warmly on her hair.
“That’s
not good enough. Make me feel special for the reassuring advice,” she implored
with an allure in her voice that made him feel proud of himself.
Hans
licked his lips as he smiled. He went on to grant her wish, doing his best to
be grateful. He was so vigorous that she called out his name in the process as
if urging a special agent from Venus.
CHAPTER THREE
An
anxiety of a different sort gripped him the moment he thought of his
grandmother. Without even thinking about it, he increased his pace and clenched
his fist as if anticipating something threatening at home. The distress made
him perspire despite the cold, to the
point where he was still tense when he arrived home, turned the knob of the
front door and pushed it open.
Alexandra
Herzl saw Hans the moment he stepped inside
and looked at him with a puzzled expression on her face.
“Hans!
What is it?” she asked, sitting up on the
sofa, dimming her eyes in that manner of hers that said she was expecting bad
news.
Hans
almost chuckled. “Nothing! Or not much, Oma!” he replied, wondering why
his hands were trembling.
“Then
why are you walking around as if you have just been exiled to hell.”
He
stopped pacing about, looked at her for a moment and then shrugged. “My Dear Oma is always in the dark over
everything that goes on beyond this house. We are heading into hell already.”
“What
are you talking about?”
“The
man who calls himself Der Führer of our fatherland has promulgated new
laws, Oma! They are discriminatory and they make me want to cry for
Germany,” Hans said with a note of exasperation in his voice.
“Sit
down.”
“What?”
“Please,
sit down.”
He
hesitated for a moment and then sat down on the arm of the sofa, instead of the
spot by her side that she indicated with a series of taps.
“What
is it, Hans?” she repeated, dimming her eyes.
He
rubbed his forehead with both hands, before uttering a tired sigh. He felt like
crying. “A lot is going on, Oma,” he muttered in a barely audible tone.
“What
about that stench of beer on your breath?” Alexandra Herzl said with a note of
reproach in her voice.
He
tried to smile, but the expression on his face stayed rueful. “Where else can
we find happiness for a day other than from something that can offer momentary
relief, something like the booze? A form of solace, isn’t it?”
Alexandra
Herzl put aside her thread and knitting pins on the sofa, all the while
regarding her grandson with unutterable concern. “You allowed things to get to
you, huh?”
“My
Dear Oma, I was upset. I left work today to buy the papers, and guess
what I found? This trash, which confirms my worst fears,” he said and put the
papers beside her.
Alexandra
Herzl fidgeted with her hair for a moment, never taking her eyes off the
newspapers. Finally, she looked at Hans with a furrowed brow before bringing
her eyes back to the papers. Her lips twitched a little when she picked one up,
which she read briefly before tossing it away. He was wondering what was going
through her mind when she grabbed another
paper and flipped through the pages nervously. At length, she sighed and darted
a nervous look at him.
“This
paper calls them the Nuremberg laws,” she said finally.
“Yes,
Oma! Adolf Hitler is now legally in power. And he is beginning to
implement his crazy plans for the German people. I never believed Lorenz
Ulbricht before the elections even after
he said all those crazy things during his campaigns in Berlin,” Hans said with
a sigh, pushed the knitting pins aside, reclined on the sofa and then nodded
wearily.
“I
too never take people like him seriously?”
“Oma,
he talked of taking the German people through a purification process.”
“What
is this nonsense about a purification process? And this talk of the German
people? We are all German people.”
“Nein,
Oma. His notion of the German people or the master race is different from
what you and I think. To people like them, a true German must be full-blooded.
Except for the few xenophobes, nobody believed him back then. Now, everything
seems―”
“Things
will change for the better. Trust me on this one,” she stuttered, picked up her
thread and pins and started knitting again with trembling hands.
“Tell
me, Oma!”
She
looked at him but did not utter a word.
“What
do you think is going to happen after this?”
“What
do you mean?”
“You
told me you read Adolf Hitler’s book, Mein
Kampf.”
“Yes,
I did.”
“And
you didn’t take it seriously?”
“The
points he made there are ridiculous.”
“The
man outlined his program for the fatherland in that book in a clear manner.
Some patriotic Germans would stop regarding Germany as home the moment he
starts implementing his warped ideas. Do you foresee disaster for the German
people if you, I, everyone in this country and the rest of the world fail to
stop him now? Tell me. Perhaps I am exaggerating my fears.”
Alexandra
Herzl sighed and dropped back on the sofa. “The German people have a path to
their destiny. It is their problem to decide whether to walk it with the
Austrian or not.”
“But,
Oma!” Hans called, paused, and then continued, “I have this disturbing
worry deep in my heart that you can help me put to rest. Perhaps your wisdom
can help me clarify a few things.”
Alexander
Herzl dropped her knitting gears again, took a deep breath and then looked at
Hans. “What is it?”
Hans
rose and pocketed his hands as if that would calm his agitated nerves. He was
on the verge of saying something when he thought about it and started pacing
the room instead. His grandmother watched him in silence. At length, he
stopped, regarded her, and then sat down quietly on the arm of the sofa.
“It
concerns my grandfather,” he blurted out.
Alexander
Herzl nodded. “Go ahead,” she mumbled barely above a whisper.
“Tell
me! What feelings had he deep in his heart for Germany? Mami told me he was a
colonel in the army of the Kaiser until 1916. That was the year he died from an
untimely explosion in an ammunition depot.”
“Yes,
that’s what happened.”
“His
feelings, his feeling…his feelings,” Hans continued, articulating the words as
if hoping to get the best meaning out of them.
An
expression of deep concern suddenly appeared on Alexander Herzl’s face. “Yes,
his feelings. What about them?”
“Oma,
did he ever worry that the Germany he was prepared to die for could one day be
against his people? Did it even cross his mind that the Germany he was so proud
of could one day choose a demagogue like that Austrian to lead it?”
Alexandra
Herzl closed her eyes and sighed. “Come and sit here,” he beckoned Hans over,
tapping the left half of the sofa.
Hans
said nothing as he moved over to her side. She too did not utter a word for a
moment as if she knew very well that he was worried and that he felt unwanted.
She placed her left hand on his shoulder out of an impulse and was glad that he
relaxed a little. “You don’t have to tell me how upset you are."
“Ja,
Oma! I am upset. I am sad. My spirit has been battered.”
“Don’t
say that!”
“You
know, Mami took me to the Jewish cemetery in Stuttgart. I was ten years old at
the time. She showed me Opa’s grave.”
“He
was a brave man. I chose him over several suitors because of his deep heart,
wide intelligence, and indefatigable
spirit.”
“She
told me about Uncle Matthäus too. He was not buried there because he was a Messianic
Jew. He accepted Jesus Christ, his identity as a Jew and the words of the
Talmud.”
Alexandra
Herzl nodded. “He had his father’s heart and his mother’s mind.”
“You
hardly ever talked about your son.”
“Those
are all pains of the past, hurtful memories I dread recalling.”
“My
point, Oma, is that the people in power don’t want to acknowledge the
twelve thousand Jewish soldiers who died fighting for Germany and the Kaiser. I
am a product of that legacy.”
“I
don’t think I ever told your mother about this. But the fact is, my maternal
grandmother was Jewish. She abandoned her faith after she married my maternal
grandfather.”
Hans
was silent for a moment. “Going by halakha, you are Jewish.”
She
nodded. “So, I share your concerns and want you to share my optimism.”
“It
is hard to.”
“Don’t
allow yourself to be worked up by some of Hitler’s exaggerations. I strongly
believe there is a future for your grandfather’s people here. There is a place
for them everywhere because they are a unique people, created for a purpose in
this crazy world. I think Hitler wants to work out something new for the Jews.
Germany can’t do without them.”
Hans
was at the point of laughing but realized
instantly that it was not funny. He could not muster the spirit. His
grandmother was blind in her faith in the German people. She too was like most of
the people of Rastatt who were shielding themselves from the reality of the
changing Germany. He heaved a sigh, moved his head to the side and stared at
the wall with brooding eyes.
“I
love your generous sentiments. Believe me, Oma! I want to put my faith
in your optimism, but I can’t,” he muttered, turned around and rested a hand on
his grandmother’s shoulder.
“Thank
you,” she responded, wondering what else to say.
“Oma,
do you know something?”
“Tell
me,” she said, feigning enthusiasm.
Hans
looked at her and tried to smile. “I am your grandson, and I know how you feel
about this, But Germany isn’t the right place for me. Yes, Oma! It is
not for me, not anymore. I shall go to Kamerun. I discussed this the other day
with Mami and Herr Heinrich, and they were objective about it.”
“What
do you mean they are objective?”
“They
too aren’t against the idea of moving out of Germany if the situation in the
country gets to a crisis point for a certain
category of people. It is bad, Oma. Believe me! I have every reason to
think it is time for me to look for that safe haven before the situation
deteriorates even further.”
Alexandra
Herzl nodded. “I see! You didn’t trust the way I would take it until now?” she
said, dimming her eyes.
“I
knew how you would feel.”
Alexandra
Herzl wiped a suppressed tear. “I will miss you. Of course, I will miss you,”
she whimpered with a sigh.
“I
am sorry, Oma.”
“There
is no reason for you to be afraid. We Germans are a civilized people.”
Hans
reflected for a moment and then shook his
head in disapproval. “Times are changing. Events are moving against people like
us. I must act now. It took a lot of prudent thinking for me to make this
decision to go to Kamerun. It is the best option for me. I have a father there
who is enthusiastic about having his son with him.”
A
faint smile suddenly appeared on Alexandra Herzl’s lips, making them quiver. It
also lit up her eyes in a sweet moment of reminiscence. “Josef is a good and
intelligent man,” she said.
“You
mean my father?” Hans mumbled in a barely audible voice.
“Yes,
your father. Take it from me that he is a wonderful man. No decent person can
afford to regret knowing such a wonderful soul. You should be proud of him.”
Hans
nodded as he fought back the mist developing in his eyes and the conflicting
emotions and thoughts racing through his heart and mind. “You are the person I
will miss the most not returning home to every day.”
“Oh,
Hans,” she muttered and took him in her arms. Hans had not expected his
grandmother to turn around all of a sudden and embrace him. His conception that
Germans were not so effusively emotional was deep-seated, which is why he had
not expected her to be so demonstrative in her sentimentality. But then, he
responded to her deep, affectionate, and unexpected embrace, all the same, wrapping his arms around her in an upsurge
of emotion he never imagined he could muster. He did so without even thinking
about it.
“Oma!”
he mumbled.
“I
will miss you too,” she said. “But missing you would be a lot easier to handle
than the thought of losing you,” she added.
With
soothing words muttered, mutual promises exchanged, and emotions suppressed and
expressed, Hans felt relieved. However, he did something strange to his nature
as he went down on his knees, took his grandmother’s right hand, and kissed it
reverently, surprising her in the process.
“You
have been too dear to me, Oma. Our separation is not going to last
forever. Nazism wouldn’t survive us,” he said.
Alexandra Herzl found it difficult to fall
asleep that night. She read the letter from her daughter in Berlin three times
and committed the contents to memory before putting it away in her chest. The
half glass of brandy she had intended to be her only for the night led her to
the second and then to another, to the point where her head was swirling when
the clock in the sitting room struck 02:00 hours. Yet the urge to continue
drinking would not go away. Perhaps another drink would help, she
thought.
The
sound of an early morning bird squeaking outside interrupted her thoughts. She
even thought the sound was fanciful and wondered for a moment what species the
bird could be. But she did not dwell on it as she poured herself the fourth
glass of whisky, indifferent to the effect it could have on the sedative she
had just taken. She gulped down the drink, slipped under the bedcovers and
reflected on the contents of the letter.
The
trend of events in Germany was making Karina apprehensive. She stated she was
getting worried beyond the endurance of her nerves because she was half-Jewish,
and her husband was a big shot in the Communist party. And now, she would have
to contend with the pressing issue of her grandson’s future in the country as
well. Her daughter barely mentioned Hans in the letter, probably because she
did not want to share some useful information with her. She closed her eyes and
wondered whether the letter contained any hint that Karina too was thinking of
leaving the country.
Alexandra
Herzl got up from bed for the umpteenth time, placed the glass on the stool and
walked to the mirror. She looked at her reflection and concluded that the
person staring back at her did not look fortunate at all. Her husband and her
only son had sacrificed their lives in a purposeless war that ended with the
German people defeated and consumed by a festering sense of vengeance that was
becoming frightening. She no longer found comfort in her long-held perception
of Germans as rational people. The quest for vengeance was blinding her people,
threatening to throw them all into another abyss, perhaps a far worse one than
the ordeal they went through during and after the Great War.
And
now, even her beloved grandson was fleeing the land of his birth, the land his
ancestors had fought and died for. Worrying thoughts haunted her mind until the
quietness of the morning sent her staggering back to her bed where she fell
asleep minutes after she closed her eyes.
Hans also had a hard time falling asleep
that night. He drank a glass of whisky, ate cucumbers, and even thought a glass
of milk would help to soothe the feeling of unease that he was having a hard
time dispelling. However, when he realized the futility of his efforts in
overcoming his restlessness, he went for the encyclopedia again, hoping to get
more information about Kamerun. He started with the territory’s history.
Events
that took place in the landmass before colonization turned out to be a lot more
interesting. He learned that the territory was at the crossroads of the north-to-south
and the east-to-west migrations throughout the history of the African
continent, making it the only entity with related peoples to all the four major
language groups in Africa. He mused over the fact that Carthaginian sailors and
adventurers visited its coast, and he was amazed that the northern half of the
land became the base from where Ousman Dan Fodio undertook the most
far-reaching spread of Islam in Sub-Saharan Africa before contemporary European
powers grappled with one another to stake their claims on the continent from
its coast. However, when he read that in 1884, Britain lost to Germany by a
fraction of a week’s delay in its quest to make the African territory its
colony, he understood why the British crown never stopped having an interest in
the land.
The
history of German colonial rule was even more explicit. Hans learned that
Kamerun became a German colony in 1884, following its annexation by the German
envoy Dr. Gustav Nachtigal. He found out
that the other major colonial powers recognized Germany’s claim to the
territory during the Berlin conference of that same year, and that German
Kamerun took the shape of a territorial entity after 1884 through the great expeditions
and explorations carried out by prominent figures in the history of the colony.
The outsized figure of Dr. Zintgraff
towered above the others in staking Germany’s claim to the territory.
Hans
also read about the great battles the German Colonial Army called the Schutztruppe
(Protection Force) fought with less subservient ethnic groups, tribes, and clans of the land, notably the
Bafut people. He reserved a great deal of admiration for the hardy explorers
who penetrated the territory's inhospitable eastern forest regions to open vast
areas up as far as the Kadei and Boumba rivers. He was equally amazed by the
speed with which the German colonial administration opened up the territory, a
land they referred to as Germany’s “African Pearl”.
Even
so, Hans acknowledged the high price Kamerunians paid for the progress made
under German colonial rule. The forced labor policies,
forced requisition of land and the harsh reprisal against native opposition
decimated villages, caused the deaths of thousands and moved populations to
“alien parts.” of the land. His curiosity spiked further when he started
reading about Martin Paul Samba and Rudolf Duala Manga Bell — two outstanding
Kamerunians who distinguished themselves at the onset of the Great War. While
Martin Paul Samba was a former top-ranking soldier in the German Colonial Army,
Rudolf Duala Manga Bell was the son of a Duala chief who signed the treaty
recognizing the German annexation of Kamerun. He found it intriguing that the
two former allies of the German colonial government studied in Germany. When he
read about their execution in 1914 for conspiring with the foes of Germany, he
concluded that their deaths marked the biggest scar Germany created on its
former colony.
The
encyclopedia said little about the war itself, except for a brief mention of
its early stages in German Kamerun.
Hans
yawned as he tried to make sense of the last year of German rule in the
territory. The German colonial administration had just eliminated Kamerunian
leaders over differences that could have been resolved, leaving the land devoid
of leading political figures after the Great War. He was convinced Martin Paul
Samba and Rudolf Duala Manga Bell appreciated German values. Now, he understood
why the victorious Allied powers faced no serious opposition from Kamerunians
when they partitioned German Kamerun into French Cameroun and British Cameroons
in Versailles during the post-war peace conference held there. Even his father
was out of Kamerun at the time France and Britain carved up the land.
Hans
sighed, closed the book, put it aside and shut his eyes, willing himself into a
slumber that would stay unbroken for the next six hours.
CHAPTER FOUR
The
gruesomeness of the process did not prevent Hans from expressing his happiness
with the final results. The passageway to French Cameroun would relieve him of
depressing emotions or so he thought. But he never forgot the bitter
experience.
It
happened to be an unusually warm day that late January as if a spell were
hovering over the city of Berlin, lulling both the sinister and benevolent
forces trying to shape its destiny. The tranquillizing feeling stirred such
warm emotions in Hans's bosom that he thought it would be a good idea to share
it with Karl Mittenzer, his friend from high school. He sensed Karl’s
nervousness the moment his friend opened the door for him to get in. Karl
received him into his parent’s home in a cordial manner all the same and then asked him to settle into a
Victorian seat.
“Arrangements
for me to leave Germany have been finalized,” Hans said, half an hour after he got in.
Karl
coughed uneasily and moved in his seat. “Oh, my friend, I don’t know whether I
should be happy for you or be worried about Germany! It is sad, especially with
all our good citizens that have left or the increasing number that are in the
process of leaving. We cannot pretend that this development is not draining
Germany of some of its valuable brains. It is an exodus.”
“Did
you just say exodus?”
“Uh-huh!
I think most of the people leaving are convinced Germany doesn’t want them.”
Hans
nodded and scratched his chin. “Did my plans surprise you?”
Hans
barely noticed the split of a second smile that crossed Karl’s face, but he
processed it all the same. “Rosa told me you want to go to Africa. What is
there in Kamerun for you?”
Hans
nodded again, fighting off his suspicions. Rosa Niessen was his girlfriend for
two years until she found out that he cheated on her with a blonde Sorb and
decided to call off their relationship. He was still determined to get her
back, if not, then reconcile with her before leaving for French Cameroun. That
notwithstanding, Rosa could be vindictive in a self-punitive way.
“My
sister told me she has been away from Berlin for more than a month now.”
Karl
nodded. “She is still in Dortmund with an uncle. Speaking from what I heard on
the grapevine, she got herself a good and befitting job over there. She is
lucky.”
“It
appears the Nazis are providing jobs for their kinds only.”
Karl
shrugged, avoiding his friend’s eyes. “Der Führer promised jobs before
the elections. He is a great leader except that―,” he said and emitted a cough
of discomfort.
“Except
what?” Hans asked, never taking his eyes off his friend’s face.
“Well!”
Karl winced and shifted uneasily in his seat. “Sometimes, it is okay to turn a
blind eye to the few faults if the aim is for the greater good. Don’t you agree
with me on this one?”
“What
are you talking about?”
“You
know what I am talking about,” Karl said with a note of exasperation in his
voice. “Do I have to scream it out that his policies against the Jews are
somehow disturbing?”
“It
is unbelievable, Karl! I think you were about to justify his actions.”
Karl
groaned. “Why don’t we skip this topic? I don’t think anything good is going to
come out of it.”
“I
can’t believe it, Kumpel!” Hans stuttered, “You sounded a while ago like
someone who is indifferent to the problem. Those men at the top are insane,
Karl! Ethnic Germans are not the only ones behind all the good things that
happened or that are happening in Germany. This country was built by all its
citizens.”
“Had
unpatriotic non-Germans not been living within our borders, we wouldn’t have
lost the Great War.”
An
expression of shock and disbelief settled on Hans’s face to the point where he
bit his left thumb without intending to. “You are harboring a discomforting
view,” he said finally in a labored voice.
“I
have been thinking too.”
“Phew!”
Hans gasped. “What now? That Germany was stabbed in the back during the Great
War as Der Führer claims?”
“Not
exactly!"
“That
Jews, Communists, Socialists and other alien elements are responsible for our
defeat; that the loss of Alsace, Lorraine and the lands of Holy Prussia are
their faults too?”
“That’s
not exactly how I look at things.”
Then
Hans chortled. He did not want to, but he could not dispel the conflicting
thoughts racing through his mind. “So, tell me, my dear friend. Who caused the
defeat of our Germany?”
“It is so obvious. We were cursed with
renegades, the selfish and the cowardly. And the truth is that they came from
several camps.”
“Be
candid, my friend. Why don’t you scream it out to my face that you think
renegade, selfish and cowardly non-Germans betrayed Germany? That the Jews are
precisely the traitors you have in mind.”
“You
are putting words into my mouth.”
“Oh,
common! Why don’t you face it; why don’t you admit it?”
“I
still think we should avoid arguing about subjects you and I cannot influence.
Trust me, Hans; nothing good will come out of our different views on this
sensitive topic.”
“A
man’s dreams, plans, and works should be
open for self-analysis. Do not let others be the judge on something you are
better placed to explain.”
“I
am getting another drink. Do you want a refill?” Karl asked, indicating the
whisky bottle.
Hans
shook his head no. “I am fine.”
Karl
nodded to show that he understood. Then he poured himself half a glass, took a
sip, savored it for a while and then sat down again.
“Der
Führer has great plans for this country,” he said at length and then cleared
his throat, “Yes, his plans are far-reaching and colossal. They need men to
coordinate those plans. As a matter of fact, the security service approached me
for a job. Hell, I have been a lawyer without a job for months.”
“Don’t
get yourself mixed up with them.”
Karl
shrugged and took a slug of the whisky. “I appreciate your concerns, Kumpel.
Unfortunately, words alone do not help. I need to apply my intelligence for the
good of this country. Can’t you see? I too must contribute to the growing
strength of the Reich.”
“Not
by becoming a member of a security force whose allegiance is to the Nazi
party.”
“You
are wrong!” Karl cried all of a sudden.
“Wrong?”
Hans retorted in a slightly elevated voice. “Whom or what do you think you
would be serving? It certainly won’t be the Germany our grandfathers and
parents fought to defend! You will end up serving an idea, my dear friend.
Look! They are going to mess up our people’s conscience.”
“I
have a mind of my own.”
“Tell
me something,” Hans said with steel in his voice, “My mother is partly Jewish.
Can you refuse orders that would deprive people like her of certain rights as
Germans?”
“I
said I have a mind of my own. That mind considers her as a German with all the
rights that come with being a proud child of the fatherland.”
“And
what about the others―someone like Alex, our mutual friend?”
“Come
on Hans, let’s talk about something else?”
“And
what about someone like me, the son of a Negro and a half-Jewish woman?”
“You
are upset, Kumpel.”
In
the moment of eerie quietness that ensued, the friends avoided each other’s
eyes. Even their faces betrayed their uneasiness as they grappled with their
thoughts.
Hans
blushed finally. “I can see growing insanity all around us, Karl. It is eating
deeper and deeper into our beloved Germany. I wonder if something can be done
about it. It is as if it must reach its logical conclusion,” he said in a
brooding voice.
“I
see no insanity.”
“Yes,
there is a whole lot of it. It is becoming incurable. Rational people are
almost helpless in the face of this growing madness. That is what I want you to
look at. There is hardly anything you can do to fight it.”
“Don’t
underestimate me.”
“Why
don’t you relocate to Austria or Switzerland before this whole madness consumes
you too? You have relatives across our southern borders.”
Karl’s
face turned crimson all of a sudden. That was the moment Hans realized his
friend was a soul in conflict. He watched Karl take a deep breath and then put
his drink down on the side stool.
“You
know I love Germany. I am from Wurttemberg. Germany is my home. Yes, Hans!
Germany’s greatness ought to be restored.”
“My
father has a growing business. We can work for him and enjoy the fun of life
out there in that frontier world,” Hans said desperately, “We have German-owned
plantations in both French Cameroun and British Cameroons. And they are
expanding. There are jobs there for us. Why don’t we move to Africa and stake
it out there until this madness is over?”
Karl
shook his head in what Hans supposed was feigned rue. “What you are saying
sounds ridiculous. This is my home. I must stay here. Things will improve. Der
Führer’s actions do not constitute policies. They are just temporary
measures to stabilize things and get Germany on its feet again,” he said in a
sudden frenzy that surprised Hans.
Hans
sat back in his seat and plastered his friend with a quizzical look. Then it
finally dawned on him. Why did he doubt their mutual friend Humfried Schwarz
when he expressed his grave misgivings about Karl? His friend could be flirting
with Nazism after all. Humfried had even floated his suspicions that Karl and
Rosa were involved. Why had he dismissed Humfried’s words three months ago, as
if it never crossed his mind that Karl thought of him as a rival at one point
in their long friendship? Now, he was convinced that his friend was developing
a dangerous streak.
Hans’s
thoughts raced to a conclusion, pitting rationality against instincts. Despite
Karl’s cordial smiles, he too possessed the unscrupulous ambition luring some
ethnic Germans to the ideology of the Nazis. He wondered why he failed all
along to discern the perilous nature of his friend’s ambitions.
“I
can see you have already made up your mind,” Hans muttered.
Karl
nodded. “It has been carefully thought over. Candidly speaking, you are
exceptional from the lot Der Führer is against. I understand your
decision to leave Germany. It is regrettable, but I want you to know that
Germany needs people like you more than it needs me.”
“Your
thought?”
“Yes,
I think so.”
Hans
chortled and looked at his friend with an incredulous expression on his face.
“What are you talking about?”
“I
know irrational people are in our midst. They are incapable of distinguishing
the good from the bad.”
Hans
smiled wryly. “Ah! You mean the good from the bad! That too has become a basis for distinguishing people from one another or
precisely one group from another. I always thought the bad are the criminals
and those less enthusiastic about the welfare of Germany.”
Karl
gulped empty his glass of drink, his demeanor overbearing. “Let’s put it this
way. I hold you, Alex and Humfried in high esteem. I shall always be available
to safeguard your interests. That is, if
the need arises and if it is within my powers.”
Hans
shook his head in disbelief. “Within your powers, you said?”
“Within
my powers,” Karl reiterated.
“You
are getting yourself into a group, my dear friend. Most of us have an idea of
how they operate. Henceforth, do not be surprised when people start judging you
based on the activities of the group you associate with. People will start
judging you as a Nazi, irrespective of the extent of your involvement with that
party. Once you get in, you are in, Kumpel. Never forget that.”
“Perhaps
you are right. Who knows?” Karl said with a shrug. “I bear no malice against
you and your people. But I have Germany in my heart.”
Hans
got up and regarded his friend fixedly for a moment. “I’m leaving now,” he said
and started for the door.
Karl
got up too and went after him. “Hans!” he called, stopping him just as he put
his hand on the knob.
Hans
turned around and regarded his friend with brooding eyes. “Yes, Karl.”
“I
know there are moments when I might even be viewed as a difficult person to
understand. I even wonder what I truly stand for. But what else can we hold
onto to ensure our sanity besides our
love for something beyond ourselves―our love for our families, our love for our
fatherland?”
“Don’t
fool yourself, Kumpel. Our love for our country is worth nothing if it
deprives us of our sense of humanity if
it destroys positive consensus. Do we have any form of consensus in Germany
today? No, no! We do not. Rationalism isn’t cheap anymore.”
Karl
laughed uncomfortably and ruffled his hair. “Come on, Kumpel! You have
your olde freund hier. I am the same buddy you will find tomorrow.”
Hans
turned around and looked Karl in the eye, forcing him to look away. “I hope
so,” he said with a note of sadness in his voice.
“Do
you want to leave now?”
Hans
nodded.
“In
that case, greet your family for me.”
“When
do you plan to visit us? My mother asked about you.”
“I
don’t know. We are facing uncertain times.”
“I
look forward to seeing you again before I board the ship,” Hans said and patted
Karl on the shoulder in an awkward manner.
Karl
nodded and leaned on the door. “Also, I don’t think I can go that far.”
“That
far? What do you mean?”
“I
cannot go that far in seeing you off.”
“Why?”
Hans asked, dimming his eyes in the momentary haze of incomprehension that glutted
his mind.
“There
is someone,” Karl said, took a deep breath and then continued, “I am expecting
someone any moment from now. He is important. Commitments you know,” he stuttered and then shrugged apologetically.
Hans
looked at his friend deeply for a moment and understood. “You don’t need to
explain anything to me,” he said with a faint smile, “I understand,” he added,
opened the door, and walked out. He did not even greet his friend goodbye or
goodnight.
He
was still furious when he took the second bend from the Mittenzer home. Karl
was undergoing a lot of transformation like someone searching for a new role
for himself in the new regime in Germany. Humfried was right. Why did he doubt
the effusive Prussian only for it to dawn on him today that Karl was embracing
Nazism with open arms? He was sure his
friend’s apology not to see him off was a polite excuse not to be seen with
him. Hans bit his lip and trudged on.
It
was only nine o’clock, but the night carried an eerie quietness with it as if
the neighborhood were bracing for a disaster. Even the streets looked slightly
deserted too. True they were usually scanty at that hour of the season. Or perhaps there is a reason, he
thought. He had been away from the capital for two years, so he could not
dismiss the possibility of changes so easily. It was a chilly night too,
forcing Hans to pocket his hands and quicken his pace. He kept walking for a
couple of minutes preoccupied with his thoughts and paying little attention to
the things and people around him. The only time he slowed down a little was
when he was just yards away from the intersection to the next street. In fact,
he heard voices with a worrying ring in them
but failed to dwell on them. However, someone called his name, forcing him to
snap out of his thoughts and raise his head.
That
was the moment he first saw them. There were five men altogether, and they were
in their late twenties or early thirties. He immediately deduced from the men’s
facial expressions, tall statures, slightly muscular frames, hardened looks and
outfits that they were involved with the paramilitary. He heaved his shoulders
and kept on walking despite the chill that ran up his spine.
“Black
Jew, Hans Heinrich,” one of the men called out, distinguished himself from the
group and approached Hans in a half-running manner.
Hans
realized it was too late to turn around and make a run for his life. But,
why run? He thought. Now, the men were less than eight yards away, and they
looked too malicious for his liking. The fact that one of them recognized me
can be helpful, he thought. Hans kept on walking in a slightly hesitant
manner until they closed in on him.
“Halt!
We want to talk to you,” one of the brown-shirted men barked.
Hans
put up a dignified air as he stopped. But he did not turn around. “What do you
want?” he asked in a calm voice that was surprising even to his own ears.
“What
is it we want?” the second man quipped.
“The
creep lives with that communist?” the tallest and meanest looking, said, his
chevron moustache aligned funnily.
“Ja!”
Another growled. “His father is an African monkey. And worst still, his mother
is a Jew married to a Communist.”
Hans
fought back his rising infuriation. “Verzeihen Sie bitte, Meine
Herren. I am trying to get back home after visiting my friend. I
suppose you don’t mind that.”
“You
will get home all right; but not until after we are done with you,” the third
man said with a burst of mocking laughter that had an insane ring in it.
“Tell
us the name of the ape your Jewish mother fell in love with to conceive you.”
Hans
did not respond. Instead, he turned around and looked at the man who threw the
insult. At that moment, he saw the silhouette of an approaching figure down the
street. He could not discern the face, but the profile looked so much like
Karl’s that he was about to shout out his name. Then the figure stopped,
hesitated for a moment, and then turned around and hurried away.
“I
see what you are doing. You are defying us by not answering our questions.
Huh?” the fourth man said and edged closer.
“He
must answer this one or else―,” the fifth man said.
“What
is the question?” one of the men asked.
“Was
the kike who raped your grandmother circumcised?”
Hans
did not utter a word. He knew that the fifth man knew something about his
lineage too.”
“Answer
us, black kike,” the first man ordered.
Hans
maintained his tranquility and sucked his mouth, wondering whether it was Karl
backing away after observing the thugs harassing him or if it was someone else.
“Say
something,” one of the men shouted with a slight plea in his voice.
Hans
looked them in the eyes, moving from one person to the other. Then he settled
on the last fellow with a look of discomfort on his face, the man who had tried
to engage him in eye contact. He was about to say something to the fellow when
the others pounced on him — punching his head, stomach,
and back. They rained him with kicks and shoves that knocked him off his feet
and brought him crashing down by the roadside. Hans tried to fight back, but
they quickly overwhelmed him. However, he managed to shield his face with both
hands and curled to avoid the kicks and blows raining on his body. The men
pounded and cursed him, laughed at him, and mocked him, spat on him, and
promised him hell to the point where he thought he was about to die. Then they
dragged him up the street and abandoned him on the curb. He lay there all
bloodied and battered for about five minutes before he tried to get up again.
The first effort saw him tumbling back. In the end, he managed to crawl onto
the pavement.
“Kamerun,
Kamerun…Kamerun,” Hans mumbled, as he tried to make use of his legs.
Eva was reading a novel in the sitting room
when she heard the noise outside. She dropped the book on the sofa and dragged
her feet to the door, gripped by curiosity, fear,
and apprehension. She opened the door with a yawn
and then peered outside. The sight of his half-conscious brother bent
over with his buttocks on the cobblestones forced a scream out of her mouth.
Hans was bloody and dirty, with a big cut on his forehead. With his eyelids and
lips so swollen, he was barely recognizable. She continued screaming and even
shut the door before opening it again.
“Eva!”
he gasped and fell on her feet.
“Mami…Mami,
Mami—” she continued screaming haltingly, unable to control her rising
hysteria.
Karina
failed to retain her usual calm when she ran to the door and found Eva
struggling to get Hans on his feet. She too uttered a loud, sharp, and piercing
cry as if she had to complement her daughter in her distress. As the women
tried to give some support to his wobbling legs, weeping on his body as they
did so, Rudolph Heinrich reached the scene mouth agape, his shirt unbuttoned
and his zip down. He managed to calm the women down. Then he made Hans rest his
weight on his body. Assisted by Karin and Eva; he carried Hans into his room.
The
family helped him undress. Then they helped him take a bath before they cleaned
his wounds.
“Kamerun!”
was the last word from Hans’s lips that night before he passed out into a
tranquilizing sleep.
The freighter Hans boarded left the Kiel harbor
for the voyage to Africa on a wet Thursday morning. He left behind a country
that was about to give birth to a new order, fearful that it risked pitting
Germany again against the rest of the world. Hardly did he imagine even in his
wildest dreams that the new order could affect his German family. It had
already sucked in Karl Mittenzer a week ago, when he became a member of the Waffen
SS, otherwise known as the Schutz Stoffel (SS)―the Nazi paramilitary
that would become Hitler’s Praetorian Guard. He thought his friend just made a
pact with the devil to get a job.
Like
all determined prospectors, Hans left Europe behind him, convinced that destiny
was taking him away from a land devoid of hope, to a land holding a better
future for him, and perhaps for his future descendants too. He thought he would
find his new haven in a land whose coastal mountain ranges were described by
Carthaginian adventurers as ‘The Chariots of the Gods’ when they observed it
spewing lava some two thousand years ago.
Hans
fell asleep that night without an iota of doubt that staking his future in the
alluring land often referred to as ‘Africa in Miniature’ was the right thing to
do. His new homeland would be the land Portuguese sailors called Rio dos
Camaros, meaning “River of Shrimps”
when they visited its shores four centuries ago and then moved up the Wouri
Estuary and discovered that the river was rich with prawns.
CHAPTER FIVE
“The
bastard,” he had cursed.
Even
so, he only attained the height of his irritation after he stepped into his
office. Hardly had he settled behind his desk when the door burst open and one
of his employees ushered himself in beaming with smiles.
“Tapang
has a letter. I am sorry, no. Tapang has a telegram got here from Douala
last Friday,” Franz Tchakounteu had announced, using his name of respect.
He
had grunted, bemused by Tchakounteu’s beaming smile. “Where is it now?”
He
remembered Tchakounteu coughing nervously as he looked away as if he just found
something interesting at the window. “Eboua should be having it. In fact, he
promised to give it to you without delay. I bet his wife did it again with her
bickering. That woman has a way of making my friend forget to use his brains. I
can swear she is the reason he failed to get the telegram to you.”
“Where
is he?” Nana Njike had asked in a flat voice.
The
nervous-looking Tchakounteu had scratched his head before responding. “He came
to work quite early today but left a
short while ago for your home. He told me he wanted to catch you there and give
you the telegram before you leave for office. I don’t think he expected you
here this early.”
“For
God’s sake, how long have you been working with me? Don’t I always start my
Mondays earlier than the other days? Now, get out of here and make sure I get
the telegram before, before—” he had half-screamed and motioned Tchakounteu out
with an angry wave of his hand.
That
was how his bad morning got exacerbated that January, leaving him in a state of
heightened emotion that he deplored. How could his day start so badly? The
discomfiture he had encountered enroute to work should have been soothed by a
promising office day. It was as if his employees were mocking him, giving him
the impression that they too were out to add more misery to his day. He felt
particularly disheartened because Jacob Eboua and Franz Tchakounteu were his
two most trusted employees. How could they not understand the importance of a
telegram in their part of the world, a rare dispatch for that matter? He was
convinced it concerned him and his businesses, something their livelihood also
depended on.
To
keep somebody’s telegram for a day, let alone for three days was ludicrous, a
development that he could only attribute to the falling values of the land. His employees were failing him in
that regard.
With
a contemplative expression on his face, he walked to the window, opened it, and
viewed his coffee plantation outside. His intuition was at play again,
indicating something unusual. He wondered what that could be. His cluelessness
exasperated him even further. Despite that, he resolved to trust his intuition.
It rarely failed him.
Even
as Nana Njike thought about it, he knew something momentous was about to
happen. Could it be the French administration again or could it be his family
back home in Banganté? The worry forced a sigh out of his lips.
His
heart skipped in his chest as he leaned on the windowpane and thought about the
telegram again. He would have been able to dispel the nagging worry at the back
of his mind had he seen it right away.
Nana
Njike scratched his wrist from an itch and then looked at his hands wet with
perspiration and sighed. The furrow on his forehead appeared more accentuated
when he left the window and slumped in his seat behind his office desk.
Just
then, an agitated Eboua knocked and entered. Nana Njike glared at him for a moment and then leaned forward with his elbows
on his desk.
“Good
morning, Tapang. I brought the letter,” Jacob Eboua stuttered.
Nana
Njike did not respond. Instead, he shut his eyes and shook his head repeatedly,
surprised that he was not as angry as he was moments ago. He opened his eyes
again and fixed them on Eboua for a moment, only to realize that the man looked
hung over.
“Do
you have any idea what is in there?” he asked in a level voice.
Eboua
turned the telegram over in his hands, looked at it and then looked away. “Yes,
Tapang,” he said in a faint voice.
“Do
we receive telegrams in French Cameroun that often?”
“No,
Tapang!”
“Do
you think it is important?”
“I
believe it is important, Tapang.”
“Important!”
Nana Njike exclaimed and threw his hands in the air in a comical manner.
“Yes,
Tapang! That’s what I think! Something tells me it is bearing a very
important message.”
“But
you kept it for three days before bringing it to me,” Nana Njike said in a calm
voice.
“I
am sorry, Tapang. I was so preoccupied with worthless issues to the
point where I forgot to bring it to you, to your home, as I had intended
originally.”
“Occupied
doing what?” Nana Njike snapped and then shook his head and sighed.
“I
am sorry, Tapang.”
Nana
Njike spoke again in a voice devoid of any irritation. “But you were at Talla’s
funeral last Saturday and got yourself sluggishly drunk. You spent most of your
day yesterday at Mami Wanji’s drinking spot, depleting her stock of palm wine.
What is wrong with you, Eboua?”
“Huh,
Tapang! How did you know about that one?”
“I
am informed, Eboua, even by people who care about your welfare.”
“I
am sorry, Tapang.”
“Tell
me.”
“Hmm!
You see, Tapang!”
“What
is wrong with you?” Nana Njike repeated.
Eboua
bit his lip, opened his mouth to say something, apparently thought about it and
then shook his head instead. “It is a long story that involves my wife and her
family,” he said finally.
“Your
wife and her family, you said,” Nana Njike beamed encouragingly and nodded.
“Yes,
Tapang! The ciphers have been too demanding of me. To be candid with you, they
have been bothering me beyond the endurance of my patient nerves. Tchakounteu
can attest to everything I say here. My home is always full of my in-laws, yet
they had the guts to demand that I contribute the equivalent of a month’s
salary for the preparation of her late brother’s memorial.”
“Hah!
Your patient nerves, you said.”
“They
are too demanding as if I am blessed with all the wealth in this world.”
“That
shouldn’t push you to drink that much to the point where you thought your
mother-in-law was your wife and ordered her to bring your food to the table,”
Nana Njike said, rubbing his cheeks.
“A
weakness, Tapang.”
“Did
you say a weakness?”
“Yes,
Tapang! A weakness aggravated by other pressures.”
“Have
you complied with the demands made by your in-laws?”
“No,
Tapang,” Eboua replied with a vehemence in his voice that surprised Nana
Njike.
“No?”
“Yes,
Tapang. I said no, never. I am sick and tired of their endless demands. Let
them go to hell and ask the devil himself to make me change my mind. Only, they
would be surprised to find that I am the devil.”
Nana
Njike chuckled. He laughed so much that he thought he was about to choke. Eboua
was funny, always funny, and so funny in an unintentional way. His effort to
terminate the laughter ended with a series of coughs that left him with misty
eyes. The sudden relief from the brief laughter amazed him. Eboua had altered
his mood. Nana Njike regarded him for a moment with a thoughtful expression on
his face.
“Put
the telegram on the table,” he said finally and pursed his lips in an effort
not to laugh anymore.
Eboua
did. “Thanks, Tapang!”
“I
want you to remind me about this. We shall double your salary for this month. I
suggest you contribute half of it to the memorial service or Cry Die.”
“Thank
you, Tapang. I don’t know what else to say.”
“Oh!
I don’t expect you to say anything. Just in case I forget, please remind me to
make my contribution before the celebrations. You can pick it up at my home.”
“Thank
you, Tapang!” Eboua repeated and held his hands together in gratitude.
“You
haven’t shown any inclination to visit my home of late. We can always find a
day to have dinner with your wife and kids. Don’t you think it is a good idea?”
“The
idea is good, Tapang,” Eboua said effusively, “And thank you very much
for the invitation and all the other help you have given me in life. You saved
me again. Please, understand why I don’t want to alter the happy mood that
always prevails in your home with the worries of my conjugal home. I am even
planning to build a wooden divide on our bed that would separate my wife from
me. Why would anybody expect me to sleep soundly when it is no secret that I
have a wife by my side who is plotting constantly with her family to leave me
without a sou, or without a penny, as my cousin in British Cameroons
would say?”
“Come
on, Eboua. She is a good woman, and you know that. You married a Bamileké woman
knowing how attached the Bamileké people are to the dead. Besides, she is the
oldest daughter of her parents and the first grandchild of both sets of her
grandparents.”
“I
understand, Tapang! Still, it is a tough job getting involved in all
those funerals, memorial services, and Cry
Dies.”
“That’s
part of the baggage that comes with her statute. She is trying to live up to
expectations and prove to her people that she is married to a man worthy of his
salt, a man who can be relied upon to sustain the good name of his in-law’s
family. Don’t tell me you aren’t such a man.”
“If
the price is an empty pocket all the time, then I don’t want to be such a man.”
“Ha-ha,
ha-ha…ha-ha!” Nana Njike laughed. “You may not believe this, but I thought you
did the wise thing by marrying a Bamileké woman from a small family. Believe
me, Eboua! You should count yourself lucky for failing to marry Agatha Kwinkeu
who had your head between her legs.”
“Huh,
Tapang! Why did you go there again?”
“To
make you understand you are not having it bad with your wife after all!”
“You
are right. I loved Agatha. Perhaps I still love her. The only thing is that she
still frightens me. Hmm! How can a woman go about hurting the person she loves
by hurting herself?”
“Nobody
can answer that.”
“I
still can’t.”
“I
brought Agatha’s name up to make a point, that’s all! Agatha Kwinkeu is the
daughter of the old Bana King’s first son. The king has tens of wives and
hundreds of children. Had you married her as she wanted, attending funerals and
memorials would have been your second job,” Nana Njike said and reclined in his
seat, feeling relaxed for the first time since he stepped into his office that morning.
Eboua
shrugged, “Hmm, Tapang! Thank you again. I think I should leave now so that you can go ahead and read the
telegram and then begin your day.”
Nana
Njike waved him quiet to show that he did not appreciate the incessant show of
gratitude. “We are together. That’s something you should always remember,
Eboua. Always bear that in mind. Any time you have a problem, you come to me
rather than get yourself soaked up in alcohol. You wouldn’t find a solution to
your problems from the booze.”
“I
will remember that.”
“You
have my ears and heart at your disposal.”
“Thank
you again, Tapang!”
“I
hope you plan to make a difference and be
practical about it.”
“Yes,
Tapang!” Eboua said. “I promise I
will be sober, henceforth!”
“Okay!”
Nana Njike muttered but did not say
anything anymore, indicating that Eboua could leave.
“I
think I should go back to the work I was doing,” Eboua offered, “Also, I hope Tapang
has forgiven me.”
Nana
Njike nodded and smiled to show that he did not mind. He was still having an
amused look on his face when Eboua walked out.
Alone
in his office room, Nana Njike sat up in his seat and took out his pipe. He
filled it with tobacco, lit it, inhaled a couple of times, and then puffed out
smoke. He could feel soothing tranquility that was both comforting and
oblivious. It made his mind reel a
little, to the day he had his first cigarette back in Berlin.
Nana
Njike willed his mind not to dwell on that past. Instead, he leaned back in his
seat, regarded his spacious office and grinned. The interior design was almost
the carbon copy of the office of Otto Zammer, his principal in secondary school
back in Germany. He always insisted on having the office thoroughly cleaned
every day, a sense of tidiness that continues to awe most of his employees.
He
smiled as he recalled a comment his driver Paul Nkepseu made to another
employee. “Our Tapang makes me wonder whether he isn’t a white man with
black skin,” Nkepseu had said, not knowing that his boss was in the next room.
Nana
Njike’s children were very fond of Nkepseu. He too
was also amazed by the young driver’s insight.
He
stifled a laugh as he recalled another. “Si―The Supreme God wasn’t
paying attention when he allowed Tapang to be born a black man with our
Bamileké blood. I don’t think he can manage Banganté with its red soil. Don’t
you think that’s why he keeps his family there while he resides in Nkongsamba?”
He
overheard that comment one hot Saturday afternoon, when he walked into his
office after a hectic day working on his plantation, only to find that it had
not been cleaned. He had subjected Jonas Kwankam, the cleaner, to the better
side of his temper that day. The fellow then went on to grumble to another
employee, not knowing that he was within hearing distance.
Nana
Njike puffed out smoke and inhaled several times before he emptied the pipe
into the wastepaper basket. Satisfied with the sense of relief it brought, he
reached out for the telegram on the table, humming Mozart’s Piano Concerto No.
21 as he did so.
“Ngenjeu,
Ngenjeu…Ngenjeu!” Nana Njike called repeatedly for his friend and assistant in
an excited voice.
The
burly Benjamin Ngenjeu hurried into the office moments after with an astonished
look on his face. “What is it, Tapang?” he asked, wondering why his
friend was so agitated.
Nana
Njike got up abruptly from his seat, took quick steps towards his friend, and
then stopped abruptly inches away from him. He said nothing for a while as he
rubbed his hands together. At length, he held Ngenjeu’s shoulder and gasped for
breath. “It is my son. He is coming.” he stuttered.
“Your
son? Which son are you talking about? Aren’t they all in Banganté?”
“Tambou,
my son is coming home to me at last,” he repeated, using Ngenjeu’s name of
respect.
“Your
son? Home? Is that what you just said?” Ngenjeu offered, too lost for more
words.
“Yes,
Tambou. Indeed, he is coming home at last. He is supposed to arrive in
Douala in three days. It is real, my friend and brother. Can you believe that?”
Ngenjeu
observed his friend’s excessive exaltation without batting an eye, thought
about it for a moment and then walked up to the office cupboard by the window
and picked up two crystal glasses and a bottle of gin. He poured three-quarters
of a glass full and gave it to Nana Njike and then made half a glass for himself before rejoining his friend. They
drank quietly.
“Thanks!”
Nana Njike said after a good dose of the booze.
Ngenjeu
flashed him a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to thank me because I used the
opportunity to have some for myself,” he said and laughed.
Nana
Njike laughed too. “Ah! And the drink is even mine.”
“You
needed it. Your nerves seem to be rusty. Calm them down before telling me the
thing that got you into such a state of delight.”
Nana
Njike shook his head in disbelief. “It is my son in Germany. It is Hans Wette.
I thought I talked to you about him before.”
“I
don’t remember you telling me anything about him,” Ngenjeu said, shaking his
head no.
“Ah,
I never,” Nana Njike admitted with a sigh, “The grief of the dispossession was
too much for me to handle. You can’t blame me for not sharing his existence
with anybody, can you?”
Ngenjeu
shook his head, no, not knowing what else
to say.
“I
wanted Hans Wette to grow up under my watchful eyes, directing words and
reassuring gestures. I wanted him to cherish me as his father, but his
grandfather stood between us even before he was born. Ah, Ngenjeu, he came into
the world before I returned home from Germany. The whole thing was so
depressing. It was hard for me not to be around him as a dad.”
“You
are right about that because you did a good job of keeping quiet about it.”
“Yes,
I rarely mentioned his existence. But my wife and the king know about him.”
“You
said he is coming here?” Ngenjeu asked in a calm voice.
Nana
Njike nodded and gulped his drink. “Yes, he is coming home to Kamerun,” he said
and nodded effusively, “That was a request I made five years ago.”
“But,
but…but! But, why now, Tapang?”
Nana
Njike sat back in his chair and explained to his friend. He began from the time
he first met Karina, to the advent of Nazism in Germany. He even talked about
the Nuremberg laws and his fears of what it could mean for Germany and its
relationship with the rest of the world.
“Germany
rejected its own seed. Even Herr Solomon Eichmann, a soul I respected
greatly for raising me and for working so hard for Germany, wouldn’t be appreciated,
and welcomed in that country today.”
“I
understand, Tapang! Things have changed in Germany since Hitler came to
power in almost the same way as our old ways have been affronted since the
French took over this land from the Kaiser.”
“Hmm!
What a comparison! All the same, I am proud to say that my son has a home here,
one that is always ready to accommodate him. The first seed of my life wouldn’t
be dishonored when he has a place to call the natural abode of his spirit or
soul or whatever appellation you choose to give to the things that make him
fully human,” Nana Njike said, clenching his fist.
“He
is Banganté after all. We have our pride, our dignity,” Ngenjeu offered with
gusto.
Nana
Njike nodded, his face grave all of a sudden. Ngenjeu watched him quietly for a
moment until he startled him by getting
up abruptly from his seat. Mouth agape, Nana Njike fixed his puzzled eyes on
his friend and then started pacing about
as if a new thought was bothering him. When he stopped and turned to Ngenjeu
again, he was radiating his usual authority and force.
“Tambou,
you are a brother from the heart,” he began, “I would feel honored if you help
me welcome my son home.”
“I
would consider it an honor to do that. How do you want me to do it?”
“Could
you help me by going down to Douala tomorrow to prepare things there for Hans
Wette’s arrival? Your presence there shall serve a dual purpose. I mean for the
cooperation, and us. Please go there, be my face and get Hans adequately
accommodated in Njiah’s hotel. I shall join you two next Thursday.”
“It
is okay, Tapang. I think I can handle that.”
“You
might need a photograph to identify him.”
Ngenjeu
nodded. “Do you have one here with you?”
“Yes,
I do. Give me a moment, and I will get it for you,” Nana Njike said, pulled the
top drawer of his desk and ferreted among the things there.
“Perhaps
you have it at home,” Ngenjeu offered.
“No,
I have it here,” Nana Njike replied, banged the top drawer, and then grabbed
the handle of the middle drawer. He found the photograph in a book. “Here is
the photo of Hans, my first son. He is unlikely to look much different from the
way he looks here.”
Ngenjeu
took the photograph, regarded it for a moment and then nodded. “He is big. He
looks like a man already. I see much of you in him.”
Nana
Njike nodded and then smiled warmly as he
rubbed his chin. “He is twenty-six and a graduate of the Humboldt, just like
me. Only, he went two years further.”
Ngenjeu
nodded too. “That means his presence here could also serve as a major asset to
the business. I bet he knows a lot about modern agriculture and business.”
Nana
Njike nodded. “He is smart.”
“I
shall cherish his knowledge, Tapang.”
“That
is one of the aspects of his coming that I find rosy. Well, my dear friend and
brother, tell the director of that bastard agency to wait for me next Friday
for negotiations. Don’t respond to any of the demands or proposals he puts
forward. He is a whirlwind of a man whose every move should be anticipated.
They shouldn’t know our position before the real talks.”
“The
man is rude and obnoxious. His last proposal was crazy,” Ngenjeu complained
bitterly.
Nana
Njike laughed in a raucous voice, never taking his eyes off his friend’s
puzzled face. At length, he sighed and shook his head. “I sometimes wonder if
it is true the things they say about the French — that they are sleazy as
businessmen, crazy as politicians, and
that they go about life like born usurpers. Wouldn’t I be stereotyping too if I
hold on to those preconceptions, just like others have been stereotyping our
people?”
“If
I could have my way, I wouldn’t deal with them at all.”
Nana
Njike smiled at his friend. “Remember that
developments over the years have bonded us together in an inseparable
tango. We are destined to either find a way to enjoy our dance together or be
doomed for perpetuity. That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be held accountable for
failing to base our relationship on realism.”
“True
we are bound to deal with one another for life. But all I am asking for is a mutually
beneficial relationship.”
“It
is what most Kamerunians want.”
A
thoughtful expression appeared on Ngenjeu’s face for a moment. Then he shrugged
and smiled faintly at his friend. He had no interest in philosophy and made it
a point of perceiving business relationships in the simplest terms possible.
“You
might be right after all. I guess you know them better.”
Nana
Njike shrugged too and smiled. “That’s business. The players always want an
edge over their counterparts, even if they share a common interest. Only, in
our case, the French are both players and arbitrators.”
Ngenjeu
rose and pocketed his hand. “Don’t you think it is about time I return to the task I was trying to accomplish before
you made a song out of my name?”
“Ha,
ha, ha…ha, ha!” Nana Njike laughed. “Thanks for offering me a shoulder to lean
on.”
“It
is okay Tapang! I will leave now and try to put everything in order
before I go home and pack a few things for the trip tomorrow.”
“Again!”
Nana Njike said, scratching his forehead uneasily. “Since you are going to use
the train, I may require the vehicle you are driving.”
“No
problem,” Ngenjeu offered.
Nana
Njike nodded and then took out his wallet from his jacket pocket and counted
out a thousand francs. “This is to take care of the enormous cost you shall
incur and for any other inevitability, that is,
before I join you two. I hope it is sufficient.”
“Ah,
Tapang! Believe me! Our son will be in the hands of a second father.”
Nana
Njike smiled in appreciation. “Treat him well. He is the first life that came
out of my loins.”
“I
have never declined in my affection for your children. You have always made me
proud with the privileged position you set aside for me in your family,”
Ngenjeu said, paused and then added. “Your children mean more to me than you
can imagine. They are my other family; they are like my own.”
“I
understand. You have constantly reassured me without even saying it,” Nana
Njike acknowledged with a smile and then rose too, “My dear brother, you can
put my mind at rest if you go down to Douala a day before the ship anchors and
take care of his lodging, food and whatever he fancies before I join you. You
know, it is his first voyage to Africa.”
“I
shall be there earlier than you can imagine.”
Nana
Njike patted his friend on the back. “You have this knack for getting things
done the way they should be. It is amazing. Yes, Tambou! You are an
exceptional man. How you managed to retain most of your values far away from
our homeland, I don’t know. You are truly Bamileké. You understand the
seriousness of affairs and the value of money.”
Ngenjeu
shook Nana Njike’s hand and smiled. “I am from Banganté. Yes, I am Bamileké
after all.”
Little
was said after that before Ngenjeu turned
around and left the office.
Nana
Njike watched the door for a moment and thought about Ngenjeu’s mild smile. He
knew the money was too much. But his action was deliberate. Few men would have
accepted the task of bridging the relationship between
an adult son and his father who had never talked to one another before.
Back
in his office, Nana Njike perused the telegram again and realized the
coincidence. His son would be arriving on January 15, the same date that he set
foot on German soil with Solomon Eichmann. He wondered whether that turning
point in his life could herald a similar phase in his son’s life. As his mind
wandered back to his childhood, he doubted if that time of the northern winter
or the tropical dry season affected their destiny in any way.
Nana
Njike shook himself out of his reverie and edged towards the window with a
pensive look on his face. His mind grappled with several thoughts for a moment
before he narrowed things down to a final decision. He would go to Banganté
immediately and prepare a place for Hans. He was convinced his native land
would be the best place to integrate his son into the realities of life in
French Cameroun.
Nana
Njike left his office late that afternoon, got behind the steering wheel of the
company pickup truck Ngenjeu was using and then drove to his six-bedroom
mansion overlooking the Manengouba Mountain. But it wasn’t until three hours
after he got there that he started the drive home to his family, to the bigger-than-life
town called Banganté, which is located in the Southeastern borderland of the
traditional Bamileké kingdom of the same name.
No comments:
Post a Comment