The Crooked Path Page 2

  That night they sat on the ground around the big campfire, Klara between Lettie and Christine.

  Annabel crossed over to the other side of the fire. Lettie saw Annabel bend down and say something to De Wet. She saw De Wet laughing up at her and moving over to make room. She saw Annabel squeezing in between De Wet and Braam.

  A dull ache lodged in her throat. The smoke from the fire stung her eyes, so she had to look away.

  All weekend Annabel trailed after De Wet.

  And all weekend De Wet looked like the cat who had got the cream.

  During the last term of the school year, Lettie studied harder than ever. She reread all her assigned literature. She even read the newspapers so she could join in the conversation when Klara and Annabel were discussing politics.

  On the last day of term she was awarded a prize for best achievement in Form IV. But she wasn’t elected a prefect, and neither was Christine. When Klara and Annabel were called to the stage, Christine moved up to sit next to her.

  Klara was appointed head girl, and De Wet, who, as the outgoing head boy, was also on the stage, stepped forward, put his arm around his sister’s shoulders, and congratulated her with a kiss in plain view of the entire school.

  Christine sighed beside Lettie. “What other boy would kiss his sister in front of everyone? Lettie, isn’t he just the most adorable boy in the whole world?”

  Lettie nodded. But her heart swelled inside her body, so that there was hardly any room to breathe.

  In 1938, the friends boarded a train to join in the Great Trek centenary celebrations. They were met at Pretoria station and taken by bus to the campsite where thousands had gathered.

  “My legs are like jelly after the long trip. I’ll stand for a while,” said Annabel when they realized the bus didn’t have enough seats. But when two boys moved to make room for her, she sat down between them.

  And when they arrived and the girls had to carry their luggage to their tents, Annabel made no move, just stood looking around. “I’ll find a few strong men to help us.”

  “I can carry my own case,” Lettie protested.

  “Never!” said Annabel. “You’ll see how keen these gallant young men are to help us.”

  And she was right. Annabel tilted her head slightly, shrugged her shoulders despondently, and gave some boys a poor-me smile. They immediately came over. “Can we help?” one of them asked.

  Annabel looked up in mock surprise. “Really? But . . . these cases are terribly heavy!”

  One boy stepped forward and picked up the biggest of the suitcases. “Oh, this is nothing,” he said.

  “Gosh,” said Annabel, “you must be very strong!”

  The boys fell into step beside Annabel. All the way to their tent Annabel laughed and joked with them. Christine and Klara talked between themselves in low tones. Lettie followed in awkward silence.

  Inside the tent, Annabel turned to her. “See, Lettie,” she said, carelessly tossing her hat onto her blanket roll, “that’s how you treat boys . . . men. They’re a bit like goats. If you stroke their egos, they’ll eat out of your hand.”

  The next day Klara announced a simulated battle between two groups on horseback. Her brothers, De Wet and Boelie, would take part.

  De Wet would be riding his horse. Lettie drew a deep breath.

  After breakfast they walked up the Lyttelton Hill to get a good view of the event.

  “Gosh, we should have brought umbrellas. This sun is vicious,” said Lettie. She could already feel her skin turning crimson.

  “Don’t be such an old lady, Lettie.” Annabel sighed. “A little sun will do you good. You’re as pale as a white mouse.”

  The event Lettie had been looking forward to suddenly seemed less enjoyable.

  At exactly half past nine the order came: “Charge!”

  From all around came the sounds of small arms discharging. The riders advanced, sheltering behind trees and shrubs. There was the deafening sound of exploding bombs. Here and there a rider jumped off his horse, firing as he advanced.

  Christine had both hands pressed to her face. “What if they kill each other?” she asked anxiously.

  “Heavens, Christine,” Annabel said, “do you really think they’d use live ammunition? You’ll believe anything, you know!”

  Then Lettie saw him. De Wet was leaning forward, his tall figure pressed against his horse, the reins tight in both hands, charging straight at the enemy.

  “Look, over there in the clearing!” Klara shouted. “Look at him go!”

  Lettie kept watching until he disappeared behind a clump of trees.

  Then she exhaled slowly. Surely no other man on earth could be that perfect.

  “Where’s Annabel?” Christine asked when they were sitting by the fire later that week.

  “Oh, she’s around somewhere,” Klara said.

  “Shouldn’t we go look for her?” asked Christine.

  “No, leave her,” said Klara.

  Someone played a few chords on an accordion and they began to sing the well-known trek songs: “Die sweep het geklap en die wawiele rol . . .”

  Lettie’s eyes kept searching for De Wet.

  The concertina joined in. “Aanstap, rooies, die pad is lank en swaar . . .”

  There were too many people around the campfire. She couldn’t spot him among the others.

  In time a delicious languor took hold of Lettie. “I’m sleepy. I think I’m going to turn in,” she told the other two.

  “We won’t be long,” said Klara. “Tomorrow it’s the main event and we don’t want to be tired.”

  Slowly Lettie found her way between the tents. She heard the voices lagging behind the accordion: “Liewe maan, jy seil so langsaam . . .” In front of her the hill rose undisturbed, firmly embedded in its age-old rock foundation. Overhead the stars were bright in the firmament.

  She was filled with happiness, with a joy too deep for words. It was a wonderful, wonderful camp, after all. She leaned against a tree, felt the hard, rough bark under her fingers. She belonged to the best people on earth. She was proud to be an Afrikaner.

  She closed her eyes. Her heart was filled with warmth. She was in love, and it was . . . marvelous.

  She carried on, making her way between the tents in the bright moonlight.

  Then she saw them. The girl was in the man’s arms. The man’s hands were sliding over her back, pressing her against his body. His head was lowered, his lips locked over hers.

  The girl was tall, the man even taller.

  It was Annabel.

  And De Wet.

  Time stopped. The moment froze.

  Quietly Lettie turned and chose a roundabout way back to her tent.

  Her heart was cold as ice and heavy as lead. She put on her nightdress and spread out her blankets.

  The ice around her heart began to melt. She curled into a ball and pressed her face into her pillow.

  She lay without moving, pain like a solid crust around her heart. She told herself not to cry, begged herself not to cry.

  She missed her mom.

  Shortly afterward she heard Christine and Klara enter.

  Christine whispered, “Klara, he was kissing her. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t mean anything,” Klara whispered back. “A boy will kiss any girl who throws herself at him. And you know what Annabel is like . . .”

  But De Wet wasn’t like other boys, was he? Lettie’s heart, her entire being, cried out.

  She lay motionless on her small island of blankets while her two friends quietly spread their own blankets and shook out their pillows.

  She thought of Christine.

  She knew Christine was also in love with De Wet. The icy hand around her aching heart gripped a little harder. Pretty little Christine was also in love. And she was also in pain tonight, feeling the same agony.

  After a while she heard Klara breathe deeply and evenly.

  Much later, when Annabel came in noisily and prepared t
o go to bed, Lettie was still awake. “Are you asleep?” Annabel asked as she unrolled her blankets next to Lettie.

  Lettie ignored her. She didn’t want to talk about the truth, which was that Annabel was Annabel, and she was Lettie Louw, and a man like De Wet Fourie would never be hers.

  chapter

  TWO

  I want to be a journalist. I’ve made up my mind,” Annabel announced one morning before school as the four friends walked to their classroom. “I’m going to Tukkies next year.”

  “A journalist?” Christine asked uncertainly.

  “Yes, Christine, someone who writes in the papers, you know?” Annabel replied, rolling her eyes. She turned to Lettie and asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “Study medicine,” Lettie answered without hesitation. “At Wits, I suppose, where my dad was also a student.”

  “Wits! An English university!” Annabel exclaimed. “And medicine! I’m not sure it’s a suitable career for a woman. It’s so . . . masculine.” She shrugged. “But I suppose it’s okay for you.”

  “I think Lettie will be a wonderful doctor,” Klara said. “She’s certainly clever enough, and she’ll be good to her patients.”

  Annabel raised her eyebrows skeptically and turned to Christine. “And you, Christine, what are you going to study?”

  “I don’t know.” Christine was quiet for a moment. “Actually, I’d like to work with sick people too, help them, you know?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Annabel said. “You couldn’t even pass the Voortrekkers’ first-aid course!”

  Lettie noticed Klara’s hand resting briefly on Christine’s shoulder. For a fleeting moment she wished that Klara could also be her best friend. She also wished she could attend Pretoria University because . . . well, because De Wet was there. But her dad believed that Wits had the best medical school, and Lettie believed her dad knew best.

  Throughout 1940, World War II was eclipsed by Lettie’s new surroundings: the big city of Johannesburg, university, her life at the women’s residence, the English lifestyle and viewpoints all around her. Lettie felt ill at ease, completely out of her comfort zone.

  Her classes were interesting and stimulating, and she coped with her studies easily. “But we’ve learned nothing that’s directly applicable to medicine,” Lettie told her dad at Easter, the first time she went home.

  “Just you wait,” her dad said, laughing.

  “Have you worn the evening gown we bought before you left?” her mom asked.

  Lettie fished for an excuse. “No, Mom, first-years don’t attend functions.”

  The wireless had plenty of news about the war, as did the papers, the lampposts, even the cinemas. In the corridors at the dormitory and between classes there were heated discussions about the war—almost everyone at Wits had a father or brother or boyfriend fighting up in North Africa.

  “There must be twice as many girls as guys at varsity,” said Lettie’s roommate. “I don’t know where we’re supposed to find partners for the spring ball.”

  Lettie wished there were no such thing.

  But that night she dreamed De Wet came to fetch her for the spring ball. In a daze she floated across the dance floor in her sleek new gown. In the small hours of the morning, the dream dissolved.

  Lettie spent the night of the ball in her room, studying. The elegant dress her mom had bought for her at Miss Pronk’s shop at the beginning of the year hung unworn in her wardrobe.

  During the October vacation, Lettie met Henk when Klara brought him home from varsity.

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Lettie asked when she and Klara got a moment alone in the Fouries’ kitchen. Annabel—no coffee maker—had remained on the veranda with Henk, Christine, and De Wet.

  “Well, yes, I suppose so,” Klara said vaguely.

  “But . . . are you in love with him?” Lettie asked. Henk wore spectacles and had a captivating Cape accent.

  “I don’t know,” Klara answered, pouring boiling water over the coffee grounds in the bag. “Lettie, I don’t really know what it feels like to be in love.”

  “Are there butterflies in your stomach every time you see him?” Lettie asked. Despite the passage of time, the butterflies still appeared every time De Wet spoke to her.

  “Butterflies?” Klara thought for a moment. “No, not really. I just get a kind of . . . warm feeling, in my heart.”

  “Oh, well,” Lettie said hesitantly, placing coffee cups on a tray, “that might work too.”

  They joined the others for a game of cards around the big dining table covered with Klara’s mom’s starched white tablecloth. After drawing lots, Lettie and Henk and De Wet were placed on the same team.

  “We’ll take you down in the first round!” Annabel exclaimed.

  De Wet laughed easily. “You’re welcome to try, Miss Big Mouth. But Lettie is on our team, and none of you girls can hold a candle to her.” His green eyes were dancing with mirth.

  “I’m no good at cards,” Christine said anxiously. Klara squeezed her hand.

  “We’re going to munch you like a corncob.” De Wet boosted his team’s ego. “Lettie, you’re our captain. Play the first card!”

  The further they drew ahead, the more elated De Wet grew, winking at Lettie when she made a clever move and whistling through his teeth when he trumped the other team. The better they played, the more miffed Annabel became. Finally Klara doused the threatening inferno her brother had ignited and surrendered.

  “That’s enough, you win,” she said. “Our team will see to the coffee. You three pick out some music.”

  At the end of the vacation, Lettie took three things back to Johannesburg: a huge tin of biscuits (despite her firm resolve to go on a hunger strike), another new ball gown (despite having told her mom she had never worn the previous one), and the memory of one of the most wonderful nights of her life.

  Because, although she told herself over and over again that De Wet had simply been friendly, that his flirtatious behavior was all part of the game, her fluttering heart refused to pay heed.

  During the Christmas vacation of Lettie’s second year at Wits, she visited Klara at the Fourie farmhouse. As she boiled water for coffee, Klara told her that Christine had enlisted and joined the troops in Cairo.

  “Why? What was she thinking?” Lettie asked, placing rusks on a plate.

  “I made her promise to write to you. Perhaps she’ll explain.” Klara shook her head. “Christmas is a sad affair this year.”

  Lettie sensed Klara’s loneliness for her best friend. “Will Henk join your family?”

  “Yes.” Her tone lacked enthusiasm, and her eyes darted to the servants’ quarters off of the kitchen, where a young Italian prisoner of war was lodging with them.

  “What’s he like, the Italian?” Lettie asked.

  Klara blinked. “Who? Antonio?”

  “Antonio Romanelli!” Lettie sang the name. “It’s melodious, don’t you think? I heard him singing earlier. What a voice. And handsome too.”

  “He’s the enemy, Lettie.” But Klara blushed.

  “Yes, it’s too bad he’s not one of our own people.” She placed coffee cups on a tray. “Why is he here?”

  “He’s been assigned to help Boelie build a dam on the Pontenilo. Or maybe it’s a bridge. I don’t ask. Papa is of two minds about his presence.” She waved away the topic while her cheeks were still pink.

  “How’s De Wet?” Lettie asked as casually as possible.

  “Fine,” Klara said. “He’s busy on the farm, but he’s nowhere near as handy as Boelie. We see a movie now and again. Annabel usually goes along. I’ll let you know the next time we go. It would be nice if you could come too.”

  Of course, Annabel. That night Lettie was sucked into a deep, dark vortex. By morning, her perspiring body was tangled in the sheets. She knew De Wet wouldn’t spare her a second glance after all these years. And yet she fell prey to his charm every time she saw him—the natural charm he turned on everyone he encountered.
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  Lettie rose and poured out her heart to her mom while they drank coffee together.

  “De Wet is a wonderful man, sweetheart,” her mom agreed, “but there are many other wonderful young men your own age, thousands of them, in fact. Maybe not all of them are as tall and well built and handsome as De Wet, but the right man will show up, you’ll see. Sometimes life takes strange turns, but in the end every pot finds its lid.”

  It seemed she would have to set her sights on Mr. Personality, Lettie thought. Even if he did turn out to be as short and chubby as a pot.

  WAAF Camp

  Cairo

  24 December 1941

  Dear Lettie,

  It’s Christmas Eve and strange to be so far from home. But apart from being homesick, I’m perfectly fine, really.

  Lettie, you’re nearly a doctor, so there’s something I want to ask you. Actually on behalf of a friend. She doesn’t have anyone to ask, so I offered to write to you.

  My friend’s boyfriend is a soldier over here. She doesn’t work with me, but I sometimes see her at meals. She wants to know how one gets pregnant. I suppose you find it strange that we should be asking a question like this, but your dad always told you things and you’re studying to be a doctor and everything, so you probably know the answer.

  Lettie lowered the letter. It was quite incredible, she thought, that two young women, both of age, living in the midst of a world war, could be so ignorant of the most basic facts of life.

  She picked up the letter and read on:

  My friend also wants to know something else. If a girl is pregnant, is there a way not to be pregnant anymore? Or is the baby already alive? She doesn’t mean she wants to kill the baby if it’s already alive, she’s just wondering at what point the baby becomes a real person in one’s tummy.

  You probably find these questions absurd, Lettie, but my friend is really anxious to know. I think she might be asking on behalf of another friend of hers, someone I don’t know in person. We didn’t know who to ask, so we’re asking you.