Steeped in Blood (5 page)

I completed my honours year and became romantically involved with Geraldine Weatherby, who lived on the floor above me. She was about twelve years older than me and unmarried, and we grew to enjoy each other’s company. Geraldine was from an old Kimberly family, and her aunt, Daphne Edmonds, was married to the then chairman of Standard Bank.

Geraldine and I tied the knot, and spent hot, dry Christmas holidays with her family in Kimberley. They were golfing people, and I felt that if I had been an accountant who played golf, I might have been more acceptable to them. Our marriage would not last, unfortunately.

Geraldine and I shared a flat opposite the university, and I taught and demonstrated in the evenings while completing my PhD. She was of immense help to me in this time. I also started giving extra lessons in maths and science, and distributed letters advertising my services.

One of the schools that I contacted was Kingsmead School for Girls. Shortly after receiving my letter, they discovered that their science mistress was pregnant – a completely unacceptable state of affairs at an all-girls school! The pleasures of carnal knowledge could not be so openly displayed, and it was causing great distress at the institution.

The headmistress, Vera Paver, was a tall, austere, angular woman. She approached me to fill the post, but was gravely suspicious of allowing a man into her school. One of her more practical problems
was where would I go if I needed to use the lavatory. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, she was forced to hire me, and I was the only male on the premises – apart from John Male, an Anglican priest who also formed part of the school, but who was considered benign.

I taught in the mornings and worked on my PhD in the afternoons. Paver found it difficult to understand me. The girls in my class worked hard, and I would occasionally take them to The Firs, a shopping centre across the road, for coffee, to reward them. Paver never approved, and was often verbal about it. I did not change my approach, though – rules are there for the guidance of wise men and the observance of fools. Paver did not understand that sentiment or agree with it; she was rigid in her approach, a type of rigidity I had experienced all too often in my own school career. She probably wanted to dismiss me on a number of occasions, but science teachers were scarce, and having me there was less of an embarrassment than having no science teacher at all.

After two years, I left Kingsmead to accept an offer of a full-time post at the Department of Surgery at Wits Medical School. The department was headed by Professor du Plessis, a remarkable man. The students referred to him as ‘God’. What he said had the effect of Holy Writ – no one ever challenged him. He either liked you or he didn’t, and if you were in his good books, you could get away with a lot.

I have always believed that your results are only as good as your equipment. If you abuse your equipment – by not cleaning it properly, for example – the results will be less reliable. I started to buy my own equipment, but some pieces were costly, and I managed to get various items on loan from companies. Eventually, the value of the equipment that I had acquired on loan was substantial, and I was summoned to Du Plessis’ office. Dressed the part, I waited to see him. Once inside, he read me the riot act, stating that any hired or donated equipment had to be organised through the faculty
office. I had fully equipped a little lab where I could do my PhD, so I was in hot water again, but agreed to arrange things via the faculty office in the future.

I was offered a full-time research post in the surgery department at the princely salary of R400 per month, which was a fortune for me. I could focus on my passion – research – and continued to do so until Du Plessis left to take up the position as principal of Wits University and Professor Bert Myburgh took over.

One of the strange rituals in those days was the so-called ‘prefects’ meeting’, which took place once a week at 12.30 p.m. sharp. Du Plessis would come in and we’d sit around a big boardroom table in order of decreasing rank, starting with the professors at the top, followed by the associate professors, and so on, until the bottom end of the table was reached, which was where I sat. At one of these meetings, I was asked to arrange the annual surgeon’s dinner party – a challenge to say the least! In fact, it was more of an order than a request. ‘Klatzow,’ Du Plessis said to me, ‘you have not a lot better to do, so kindly organise the surgery departmental dinner.’

The surgeons were full of demands. They didn’t want chicken; they wanted lamb. They didn’t want cheap wine. No disco; they wanted a live band. And they were not prepared to pay more than five rand a ticket. Venues were expensive, and I was lucky enough to secure the brand-new Bozzoli Pavilion. There were still piles of cement in places, but it was functional, and I was to organise the first event ever to be held there.

I ran around planning the menu, decor and other details, and all seemed to be on track until the evening of the dinner. I was to fill the role of MC as well. As I was supervising the last arrangements, the caterer switched on the stove and all the lights blew out: the entire building was devoid of electricity.

There was no hope of finding an electrician at 6.30 p.m. on a Saturday evening. After much panic, I found the switch-gear room at the rear of the building, and managed to break the brand-
new door down so that we could get the electricity going again. The caterer had to hold a match while I worked the mechanism, but we managed to fix the problem! I raced home, had a quick bath and was back by 7.10 p.m., with no one any the wiser as to the stress we had gone through. The university tried to charge me for replacing the broken door, but Bert Myburgh, the new head of department, wouldn’t allow it. The evening was a great success.

I completed my PhD amidst many difficulties with the faculty under Bert Myburgh. The heads of departments typically wanted students to work on their topics of choice. Du Plessis was the exception, but he left, shortly after I joined the Department of Surgery, to take up his position as principal of Wits University. When Bert Myburgh took over as head of department, I felt like I was being sabotaged – there seemed to be active resistance to enabling me to do my research.

The main problem was that the department was linked to transplant immunology, and I was working on cancer research. It was my passion, and I had invested many hours in my work. I felt that Myburgh was uncomfortable with my line of work, and he tried to encourage me to stop what I was doing to focus on liver immunology research. I was dead against it. In any event, transplant immunology and tumour immunology are closely linked from a scientific perspective. If you can understand the one, you will be close to understanding the other.

I also encountered unnecessary obstacles from my new supervisor, Koos Smit. One such example was that the technicians produced sterile cottons and pipettes for students to use, yet he objected to my using them – I had to make my own. As a PhD student, I should automatically have had access to these items. It became extremely difficult to work with Smit. I started working in the lab in the early mornings and evenings and spending my days in the library to avoid a confrontation with him, working around eighteen hours a day.

Matters finally came to a head when I arrived in the lab one evening at around 6 p.m. and Myburgh confronted me, asking me where I had been. I told him that I spent my days in the library, and had obtained permission from Koos Smit to do so. He claimed that I didn’t have permission, and fired me there and then.

I immediately went to find Smit and challenged him. He admitted that he had been sabotaging my work, and I told him in a rage that he was to follow me to Myburgh’s house and explain everything, including the fact that I had obtained his permission to work in the library.

We arrived at Myburgh’s house in Sandringham at about 8.30 p.m., just as he was having supper. Smit and I waited for him until he had finished, and we sat down and spoke to him. Myburgh appeared to be very taken aback – I think he knew the truth but feigned astonishment. I was reinstated the next day, and completed my PhD based on work relating to proteins that are elevated in people suffering from cancer. It was interesting work.

The thesis was sent overseas to be marked by two external examiners. One sent back a glowing report; the other damned the thesis. Confused by this, the faculty submitted it to a third external examiner, who passed it with no difficulty. The delay took an extra year.

Researching some literature on the subject the following year, I was astonished to find a paper by the second external examiner (the same one who had held the thesis back) on exactly the same topic I had covered in my research. I am sure he did not plagiarise the material, but it certainly seemed to have been held back to give him a competitive edge. Unfortunately for him, I had already published the work in the
South African Medical Journal
. Such is science.

I met a remarkable man by the name of Gerard Vos in the early stages of my PhD, when I went to visit the Natal Blood Transfusion Service. We started talking, and he was immediately able to see the
importance of the cell surface in a whole range of biological and disease processes.

Gerard had no formal qualifications other than an extraordinary ability to understand and work with blood groups, a field known as serology. He was recruited to South Africa by the Natal Blood Transfusion Service from his adopted home in Perth, Australia. He had been born in Java, Indonesia.

I learnt from other people at the time – Gerard seldom spoke of his own achievements – that he had an OBE for his work on blood groups, particularly the blood groups relating to haemolytic diseases of the newborn. He made singular and distinguished contributions to this vital field of serology. Despite his lack of formal undergraduate qualifications, the University of Natal was happy for him to complete his PhD on the work he was doing, which was of an extremely high standard. He then obtained a higher doctorate, receiving two of the highest qualifications that the university could offer.

Gerard regarded me more as a son than as a colleague, and we became very firm friends. We worked together on a number of issues and published several papers together, including an article in the serology journal
Vox Sanguinus
(the voice of blood).

It was Gerard’s support during the difficult time in the surgery department at Wits, when there was severe pressure on me to abandon my chosen field of research, that saved me. His support and, above all, his belief in me were invaluable during those difficult days. Later, when I moved to Durban for a period of time, our friendship was cemented. He was a man as generous in spirit as he was erudite in the field of his choice.

In August 1977, I attended a cancer conference in Cape Town, where I met Arthur Hawtrey. Arthur was originally from Salisbury, Rhodesia. He told me that the University of Durban-Westville – which today is part of the University of KwaZulu-Natal – was looking for a lecturer in biochemistry, and I decided to apply for the position. It was a university for Indian students, forming part
of the apartheid structure of separate education for separate races. At the end of 1978, I left Johannesburg, the Wits Medical School, and my wife, and moved to Durban to take up my new position in the academic world.

I rapidly discovered that the ethnic universities were a sham. The theory was that these universities should be ‘separate but equal’. It was certainly separate, but definitely not equal. Many people who taught there were so lacking in ability that they could not have taught anywhere else. Some were excellent, though: Arthur Hawtrey, the head of biochemistry, for example, was probably one of the finest chemists this country has ever seen.

The university was riddled with politics, and tear gas was frequently used by the police on the campus. The students were unhappy, the staff members were unhappy, and the whole place was fraught with tension. The research facilities were very elementary, and the bureaucracy stifling.

It was as if I was starting out yet again when I moved to Durban. I had left my marriage with very little – a few rugs, a desk and my books. I had nothing else – no stove, bed, linen, fridge, or even pots and pans. One morning I went to a local furniture store and furnished my flat, using my credit card to pay. I woke up late that night in a cold sweat, realising that I had no way of paying back the enormous debt that I had just incurred.

At about 1 a.m., I took a pair of scissors and cut up my credit card, then applied my mind to making extra money. Durban has the highest median age of people living in South Africa, and women outlive men, so I concluded that there must be many elderly women who needed help with basic handyman chores. I took my last twenty rand and used this to have a sign made, which read ‘Handyman. No job too small’ with my telephone number. I approached a hardware store in Musgrave Centre and agreed to buy all my materials from them if they displayed my sign in their window. My phone didn’t stop ringing, and I was in business!

I was lecturing during the day, and in the evenings and over
weekends I would return messages, give quotes and carry out the handyman work. It was all work that I was capable of – fixing windows, hanging doors and other minor repair work.

One day I received a call to quote on fitting out a poodle parlour. The business premises were brand new and, on arrival, I realised that this was way beyond my elementary carpentry talents. I provided an outrageous quote, hoping never to hear from the owners again, but an hour later my phone rang. The chap who came to quote after me had been as drunk as a skunk, and they wanted me to do the job!

There were some men working at the university building on a new addition, and I approached the foreman to ask him if there was a carpenter on his team looking for after-hours work. Jerry Sewnarain came to work for me, and for the next two years we ran around Durban doing a wide range of handyman work. It was the only time in my life that I actually had cash in my pocket.

There was a constant demand for wooden window frames to be replaced in Durban, as the humidity meant that they used to rot quite quickly. One day we were called in to do some work at a house of a very snooty woman, whose husband was a senior anaesthetist in the city. When we arrived at her house, she served us tea in a jam tin and had the maid keep an eye on us in case we stole the spoons!