I wouldn't die for paradise

Jaco Fouche

She mentions war quite casually
Remembering the upheaval of her childhood
"When was it? First September 1939?
Come on. You should know."

I nod, but to acknowledge the compliment with which she exaggerates the extent
Of my general knowledge,
Rather than to confirm the date.

"There's a poem called 1 September, 1939.
I know that. But don't ask me who the poet was. I don't know"

My knowledge of war is scant.
Despite the obligatory two years in boots hardly anybody seems to remember,
And what I know of the Second World War is limited to anecdotes, popular movies
And a book by, I think, Leo Kessler.

"I remember sitting down by candlelight,
The windows were draped closed and there was a curfew
Somebody had a radio we shouldn't have been listening to
I remember that".

She says all this while holding the umpteenth cup of coffee
She drinks strong stuff. (Somebody grinds it for her),
It's going off the market, she has heard.
She plans to make use of the opportunity to switch to a lighter brand.

We're in the kitchen where we always are when I visit.
Food is brewing on the stove and filling the house with fresh, clean smells.
There's nothing we haven't talked about in the last twenty years.
These people saw me grow up, start work,
Stop work, move away, move around.

Now, once more at a loose end,
I've travelled to the old hometown,
Taking walks on the rantjie behind the churchyard,
Staring across the veld,
Strolling through the streets and thinking I should try the rustic side of life again
And at dinner-time sitting down to drinks and chicken pie,
Talking of years I never knew
But whose progress I politely regret.

"Dad used to drive a truck to Beaufort-West when he was very young
He'd stop over in Klaarstroom
Where his elderly aunt lived
She lost her husband in the First War
They called that the Great War, did you know that?
Terrible! Worse than anything they could come up with since
Well, except the atom bomb
That was bad, I hear"

It is good listening to her
I remember a hundred different things
Coming into the house to have a thorn removed from my foot,
Helping her son carry a cart we made long ago past the back door,
Stacking wood in a braai drum,
Drinking home-made lemonade,
Watching action movies no one's ever heard of from the Video Cave
In Kerk street.

"Did you see that movie on the invasion of Normandy?"

Oh, the one made by - (I try to contribute, conscious of my supposed general knowledge) -

"I don't care who made it,
I no longer care who makes things.
Let them make their things
I am living my life, which is my own …
My own pride and joy!
All I'm saying is it was a good movie
A very good movie...
That is what it must have been like
The blood in the water
Soldiers running
The barbed wire
Who wants to die like that?
Who wants to die?
Who cares about a country to die for
When you're actually there
Facing the blood and the wire and the bullets?
I wouldn't.
No country can mean that much to me
I don't care if it's -
What is that place? Eldorado?
I wouldn't die for all the ostrich feathers in Oudtshoorn
I wouldn't die for Paradise
I won't die for heaven"

LitNet: 07 April 2005

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