Scarcely a breath of wind disturbed the stillness of the day, and the long rows of cabbages were bright green in the sunlight. Large white clouds drifted slowly across the deep blue sky. Now and then they obscured the sun and caused a chill on the backs of the prisoners who had to work all day long in the cabbage field.
This trick the clouds were playing with the sun eventually caused one of the prisoners who wore glasses to stop work, straighten up and peer shortsightedly at them. He was a thin little fellow with a hollowed-out chest and comic knobbly knees. He also had a lot of fanciful ideas because he smiled at the clouds.
The prisoner swung round, blinking rapidly, yet at the same time sizing up the enemy. He was a new warder, named Jacobus Stephanus Hannetjie. His eyes were the color of the sky but they were frightening. A simple, primitive, brutal soul gazed out of them.
Up until the arrival of Warder Hannetjie, no warder had dared beat any member of Span One and no warder had lasted more than a week with them. The battle was entirely psychological. Span One was assertive and it was beyond the scope of white warders to handle assertive black men. Thus, Span One had got out of control. They were the best thieves and liars in the camp. They chatted and smoked tobacco. And since they moved, thought and acted as one, they had perfected every technique of group concealment.
“Look ‘ere,” he said, “I don’t take orders from a kaffir. I don’t know what kind of kaffir you tink you are. Why don’t you say Baas. I’m your Baas. Why don’t you say Baas, hey?”
Brille blinked his eyes rapidly but by contrast his voice was strangely calm.
“I’m twenty years older than you,” he said. It was the first thing that came to mind, but the comrades seemed to think it a huge joke. A titter swept up the line. The next thing Warder Hannetjie whipped out a knobkerrie and gave Brille several blows about the head.
“Let’s face it,” he thought ruefully. “I’m only learning right now what it means to be a politician. All this while I’ve been running away from Martha and the kids.”
And the pain in his head brought a hard lump to this throat. That was what the children did to each other daily and Martha wasn’t managing and if Warder Hannetjie had not interrupted him that morning, he would have sent the following message:
“Be good comrades, my children. Cooperate, then life will run smoothly.”
“Prison is an evil life,” Brille continued, apparently discussing some irrelevant matter. “It makes a man contemplate all kinds of evil deeds.”
He held out his hand and closed it.
“You know, comrades,” he said, “I’ve got Hannetjie. I’ll betray him tomorrow.”
“Forget it, brother. You’ll get shot.”
Brille laughed.
“I won’t,” he said. “That is what I mean about evil. I am a father of children, and I saw today that Hannetjie is just a child and stupidly truthful. I’m going to punish him severely because we need a good warder.”
One day, at the close of work warder Hannetjie said:
“Brille, pick up my jacket and carry it back to the camp.”
“But nothing in the regulations says I’m your servant, Hannetjie,” Brille replied coolly.
“I’ve told you not to call me Hannetjie. You must say Baas,” but Warder Hannetjie’s voice lacked conviction. In turn, Brille squinted up at him.
“I’ll tell you something about this Baas business, Hannetjie,” he said. “One of these days we are going to run the country. You are going to clean my car. Now, I have a fifteen-year-old son, and I’d die of shame if you had to tell him that I ever called you Baas.”
Warder Hannetjie went red in the face and picked up his coat.
“It’s not tobacco we want, but you,” he said. “We want you on our side. We want a good warder because without a good warder we won’t be able to manage the long stretch ahead.”
Warder Hannetjie interpreted this request in his own fashion, and his interpretation of what was good and human often left the prisoners of Span One speechless with surprise.
