Power of the Sword - Smith Wilbur - Страница 126
- Предыдущая
- 126/191
- Следующая
At last a bend in the tracks carried him out of sight of her, and as Manfred drew his head back into the carriage he saw that Roelf Stander was watching him quizzically and now grinned and opened his mouth to speak, but Manfred flared at him furiously and guiltily: Hou jou bek! Hold your jaw, man! The Inter-Varsity Championships were held over ten days with five heats in each weight division; thus each contestant would fight every second day.
Manfred was seeded number two in his division, which meant that he would probably meet the holder of the champion's belt in the final round. The reigning champion was an engineering student who had just graduated from the Witwatersrand University. He was unbeaten in his career and had announced his intention of turning professional immediately after the Olympics for which he was considered a certain choice.
The Lion of the Kalahari meets the sternest test of his meteoric career. Can he take the same sort of punishment that he deals out? This is the question everyone is asking, and which Ian Rushmore will answer for us if all goes as expected,wrote the boxing correspondent of the Rand Daily Mail. There does not seem to be any contestant in the division who will be able to prevent De La Rey and Rushmore meeting on Saturday night, 20 December 1935. It will be Rushmore's Right hand, made of granite and gelignite, against De La Rey's swarming battering two-handed style, and your correspondent would not miss the meeting for all the gold that lies beneath the streets of Johannesburg. Manfred won his first two bouts with insulting ease. His opponents, demoralized by his reputation, both dropped in the second round under the barrage of slashing red gloves, and the Wednesday was a rest day for Manfred.
He left the residence on the host university's campus before any of the others were up, missing breakfast to be in time for the early morning train from Johannesburg's Central Station. it was less than an hour's journey across the open grasslands.
He ate a frugal breakfast in the buffet of the Pretoria station and then started out on foot with a leaden reluctance in his gait.
Pretoria Central Prison was an ugly square building and the interior was as forbidding and depressing. Here all executions were carried out, and life imprisonments served.
Manfred went into the visitors entrance, spoke to the unsmiling senior warder at the enquiries desk and filled in an application form.
He hesitated over the question, Relationship to prisoner', then boldly wrote Son.
When he returned the form to the warder, the man read it through slowly and then looked up at him, studying him gravely and impersonally. He has not had a visitor, not one in all these years, he said.
I could not come before. Manfred tried to excuse himself.
There were reasons. They all say that. Then the warder's expression altered subtly. You are the boxer, aren't you? That's right, Manfred nodded, and then on an impulse he gave the secret recognition signal of the OB and the man's eyes flicked with surprise then dropped to the form in front of him.
Very well, then. Have a seat. I'll call you when he is ready, he said, and under cover of the counter top he gave Manfred the counter signal of the Ossewa Brandwag.
Kill the rooinek bastard on Saturday night, he whispered, and turned away. Manfred was amazed but elated to have proof of how widely the brotherhood had spread its arms to gather in the Volk.
Ten minutes later the warder led Manfred through to a green-painted cell with high barred windows, furnished only with a plain deal table and three straight-backed chairs.
There was an old man sitting on one of the chairs, but he was a stranger and Manfred looked beyond him expectantly.
The stranger stood up slowly. He was bowed with age and hard work, his skin wrinkled and folded and spotted by the sun. His hair was thin and white as raw cotton, wisped over a scalp that was speckled like a plover's egg. His thin scraggy neck stuck out of the coarse calico prison uniform like a turtle's from the opening of its carapace, and his eyes were colourless, faded and red-rimmed and swimming with tears that gathered like dew on his lashes.
Papa? Manfred asked with disbelief as he saw the missing arm, and the old man began to weep silently. His shoulders shook and the tears broke over the reddened rims of his eyelids and shmed down his cheeks.
Papa" said Manfred, and outrage rose to choke him. What have they done to you? He rushed forward to embrace his father, trying to hide his face from the warder, trying to protect him, to cover his weakness and tears.
Papa! Papa! he repeated helplessly, patting the thin shoulders under the rough uniform, and he turned his head and looked back at the warder in silent appeal.
I cannot leave you alone. The man understood, but shook his head.
it is the rule, more than my job is worth., Please, Manfred whispered.
Do you give me your word, as a brother, that you will not try to help him escape? My word as a brother! Manfred answered.
Ten minutes, said the warder. I can give you no more. He turned away, locking the green steel door as he left.
4 Papa. Manfred led the trembling old man back to the chair and knelt beside him.
Lothar De La Rey wiped his wet cheeks with his open palm and tried to smile, but it wavered and his voice quivered. Look at me, blubbering like an old woman. It was just the shock of seeing you again. I'm all right now. I'm fine.
Let me look at you, let me just look at you for a moment. He drew back and stared into Manfred's face intently.
What a man you have become, strong and well favoured, just like I was at your age. He traced Manfred's features with his fingertips. His hand was cold and the skin was rough as sharkskin.
I have read about you, my son. They allow us to have the newspapers. I have cut out everything about you and I keep them under my mattress. I'm proud, so proud. We all are, everybody in this place, even the narks. Papa! How are they treating you? Manfred cut him short.
Fine, Manie, just fine. Lothar looked down and his lips sagged with despair. It's just that, for ever is such a long time. So long, Manie, so very long and sometimes I think about the desert, about the horizons that turn to distant smoke and the high blue sky. He broke off and tried to smile. And I think about you, every day, not a day that I don't pray to God "Look after my son." No, Papa, please, Manfred pleaded. Don't! You will have me weeping too. He pushed himself off his knees and pulled the other chair close to his father's. I've thought about you also, Papa, everyday. I wanted to write to you. I spoke to Uncle Tromp, but he said it was best if, Lothar seized his hand to silence him. Ja, Manie, it was best. Tromp Bierman is a wise man; he knows best. He smiled more convincingly. 'How tall you have grown, and the colour of your hair, just like mine used to be. You will be all right, I know. What have you decided to do with your life? Tell me quickly. We have so little time. I am studying law at Stellenbosch. I passed third in the first year. That is wonderful, my son, and afterwards? I am not sure, Papa, but I think I must fight for our nation.
I think I have been called to the fight for justice for our people. Politics? Lothar asked, and when Manfred nodded, A hard road, full of turns and twists. I always preferred the straight road, with a horse under me and a rifle in my hand. Then he chuckled sardonically. And look where that road has led me. I will fight too, Papa. When the time is right, on a battleground of my own choosing., Oh, my son. History is so cruel to our people. Sometimes I think with despair that we are doomed always to be the underdogs. 'You are wrong! Manfred's expression hardened and his voice crackled. 'Our day will come, is already dawning. We will not be the underdogs for much longer. He wanted to tell his father, but then he remembered his blood oath and he was silent.
- Предыдущая
- 126/191
- Следующая
