The Colour of Gold (30 page)

What also
worried Bogdan was the pact that he'd been forced to enter into
with Captain Botha and the Security Police. He was totally at their
mercy and now Botha had told him that if Isaiah Zuma asked for more
detonators for his bombs he was to supply him with detonators
provided by the police and not from his own supplier. Why?
Obviously because the detonators would be faulty and the bombs that
they were included in would fail to explode. And when the men from
Umkhonto weSizwe realised that he had supplied them with faulty
detonators they would put two and two together and realise that he
was cheating them or working for the security forces.. And that
would be the end of him. He would be branded a traitor and very
likely assassinated.

So, he
wondered, which was the lesser of the two evils? If he betrayed
Isaiah Zuma and Umkhonto weSizwe he would surely die, but would the
Security Police take him out if he betrayed them and supplied Zuma
with his own detonators and not the faulty ones supplied by Captain
Botha? Probably. Now he began to understand the saying "between a
rock and a hard place". But, what could he do? He couldn't skip the
country. The Security Police had his passport. He shook his head;
exasperated. He was trapped.

Bogdan realised
that he had to make a decision and it had to be soon. Should he
join the freedom fighters who were fighting for their rights to
freedom from oppression, the right to a proper education and an end
to racial discrimination or should he go with the oppressors with
their shameful discriminatory laws that were condemned by the free
world? Who would win in the end? Undoubtedly freedom would prevail.
His conscience told him to go with the former. How would he be able
to face himself if he betrayed them? He felt his hatred for the
white police Captain rise in his chest as he remembered how he'd
been treated in the prison, his humiliation and degradation. He
remembered the total lack of compassion and mercy that the man had
displayed and at no time had the man made any attempt to justify
what he was doing to Bogdan except to claim that he was fighting
for his country. But the truth was that he was fighting for the
shameful ideology of apartheid. He was murdering his fellow
countrymen because they wanted what was rightfully theirs. No,
Bogdan told himself. He had to throw in his lot with the people
fighting for their freedom. Okay, they had blackmailed him, but
could he blame them for that? They were using the hated
discriminatory laws of their enemy to their advantage. What was
wrong with that?

Bogdan turned
onto his side. His mind was made up. If and when Isaiah Zuma
contacted him, he would ask to join their struggle.

CHAPTER
12

Bala Desai
stood in the crowded compartment with his suitcase at his feet as
the dusty brown train moved through the drab metropolis of Soweto.
In the early evening twilight a vast pall of dirty grey smoke, the
result of the thousands of fires that the inhabitants used for
cooking and heating, hung over the sprawling city. The huge
security lights that were scattered over the area were blurred by
the thick smog and in the west the dull orange sun slowly sank
below the horizon and darkness spread over the land. The heavy
smell of unwashed bodies filled the compartment.

When the train
had slid out of Park Station in the Johannesburg city centre, it
had been so crowded that many of the passengers could only find a
place by hanging onto the outside of the carriages or travelling on
the roof. These passengers were known as "staff riders" and just
about every day at least one of them died as a result of being
electrocuted by touching the overhead power lines or being swept
off the train as it passed under the pedestrian bridges and through
the various tunnels under the roadways. Some were also killed by
leaning too far out and being struck by the pylons at the side of
the track that supported the power lines.

But as the
train left the various stations on its journey through Soweto the
congestion in the carriages became less and less until Bala was
able to find a seat on the hard wooden benches that the third class
passengers were provided with. The Lenz station where Bala would
disembark was the first station after the train had passed through
Soweto and by then the train's carriages would be almost empty. At
least, when he travelled to the city in the mornings, he was
assured of a seat as it was only as the train entered Soweto that
it became overcrowded.

No sooner had
Bala sat down with his suitcase of mended and altered clothing in
it than the door between the carriage and the one behind it swung
open and a small group of six black children, ranging in age from
about ten to sixteen sauntered into the compartment. Bala could
sense the fear that these children instilled in the passengers
around him. All conversation stopped abruptly and everyone avoided
eye contact with the children, some staring fixedly out of the
windows and other staring resolutely at the floor in front of
them.

"Tsotsis!" the
man sitting next to Bala whispered. "Don't look at them. They're
killers. If you make eye contact with them you'll attract their
attention and they'll very likely confront you and possibly stab
you to death with their knives."

Bala stared at
the paper-littered floor in front of him, frightened by what he had
just heard. In his periphery vision he could just make out the
dirty running shoes of the young thugs as they stood presumably
contemplating which of the passengers to harass. Then, to his
horror, Bala saw the shoes of the leader move towards where he was
sitting and stop directly in front of him.

"What's in the
suitcase, Indian?" he heard the boy ask.

The other
children began to snigger and move closer to where Bala sat. He
continued to stare at the carriage floor, too terrified to respond
and desperately wishing that something would happen to make the
young thugs go away. Nothing happened and Bala saw the young thug's
foot move forward and kick the suitcase with his toe.

"I asked you
what's in the suitcase, Indian." the boy asked. "You'd better
answer me. I don't like being ignored and if you continue to do so
I may have to hurt you."

The other
children giggled and sniggered and Bala saw them move still closer.
Without looking up Bala cleared his throat nervously and
swallowed.

"Clothes that
I've repaired and altered for my customers." he said, his voice
shaking with terror.

"Clothes!" the
boy exclaimed. "Did you hear that, guys? This Indian's got a whole
suitcase full of nice clothes! Just what we're looking for! Is
there anything in the suitcase that will fit us children,
Indian?"

"No." Bala
replied. "They're all clothes for adults."

"I don't
believe you, Indian." the boy said. "Open the suitcase and show us
what clothes you've got."

"Please leave
me alone!" Bala pleaded in desperation. "There's nothing in there
that will fit any of you. Please believe me!"

Bala saw the
boy reach down and grab the handle of the suitcase. Instinctively
he tried to push the hand away.

"How dare you
touch me, you filthy Indian!" the boy shouted and Bala saw the boys
hand release the handle of the suitcase and disappear. Above the
sound of the train moving over the rails he heard a distinctive
metallic click and as he looked up at the thug standing in front of
him he eyes fell on the wicked switchblade knife in the boy's hand.
The child waved the shiny blade slowly back and forth in front of
him. The other children moved even closer, giggling and sniggering
loudly.

"Kill him,
Frances." one of them said. "Kill the filthy Indian."

Bala sat rigid
with fear, mesmerised by the wicked steel blade in front of him.
Even though he tried not to, he looked up at the deadly unemotional
eyes of the boy killer. With his foot he pushed the suitcase
towards his adversary.

"Take whatever
you want!" he said in desperation. "Just please leave me alone!
I've done you no harm!"

"But you have!"
the boy replied. "You fucking Indians came to our country and stole
the work that my people should be doing! You have harmed us! You've
stolen from us!"

Without
thinking, and overwhelmed with fear, Bala stood up from where he'd
been sitting, his only thought being to get away from the horror
that confronted him. The black boy must have thought that Bala was
about to attack him. He lunged forward and drove the slim steel
blade into Bala's stomach and then quickly withdrew it. A woman
screamed as Bala clutched his stomach, pain radiating out from the
wound. More women began screaming and some men began shouting for
help. Through the mist of his pain Bala saw the boy fold the knife
closed, pocket it, and turn away.

"Let's get out
of here, guys." he heard the boy say. "The bastard Indian will be
dead soon. We're coming into a station. Let's go!"

Dimly Bala saw
the gang of thugs turn and leave the compartment through the
interconnecting door. Slowly he sank back onto his seat, the pain
in his stomach excruciating. His vision blurred as he saw people
begin to gather around him.

"Tell the
conductor to hold the train while we get him off!" he heard someone
shout. He felt strong hands grip his arms and lift him from his
seat. He felt himself being carried to the door of the carriage and
carefully lifted down onto the platform.

"Please bring
my suitcase!" he pleaded, his voice tight with pain and fear.

"Don't worry."
a man's voice said. "Your suitcase is right here but we must get
you to Baragwanath Hospital quickly."

In a haze of
pain Bala felt himself being carried across the platform and out of
the station premises through the gateway in the security fence that
surrounded the station.

"How are we
going to get him to Bara?" someone asked.

"There's a taxi
over there." another man replied. "Ask the driver to help us."

Bala felt
himself being carried towards the stationary taxi.

"You must help
this man!" one of the men carrying Bala appealed to the taxi
driver. "He's been stabbed in the stomach and if he doesn't get
medical treatment soon he'll die. We must get him to Baragwanath as
quickly as possible!"

Bala saw the
taxi driver turn towards the passengers already inside his vehicle
but before he could say anything they began climbing out of the
vehicle.

"Take the man
to Bara." one of the passengers said. "We'll find another way to
get home."

"But what about
the fares that you've already paid me?" the taxi driver asked. "Can
you wait until tomorrow for me to give you your money back?"

"Of course."
the passengers replied. "Just get the man to hospital as quickly as
possible."

Bala felt
himself being lifted into the empty vehicle, a feeling of immense
gratitude overcoming him as he realised that these people were
putting their own lives in danger for him. By walking home in the
dark they risked being murdered by the gangs of child psychopaths
that roamed the streets of Soweto at night, killing anything that
moved.

Bala began to
shiver uncontrollably as the shock of what had happened to him
filtered into his mind. He saw a man take off his coat and drape it
over him.

"He's going
into shock." the man said. "We must get him to hospital
quickly."

Bala heard the
taxi driver start the vehicle's engine and the two men who had
accompanied him from the station climbed in beside him. The side
door slammed closed and the vehicle drove away along the rutted
dirt road.

The pain in
Bala's stomach was now so intense that he had trouble coping with
it. He whimpered and clutched at the wound, feeling his blood
trickling out of the injury. He felt someone take hold of his arms
and pull his hands away. He tried to talk to the men sitting beside
him; to tell them how to get hold of Fatima and Salona, but the
effort was too much for him. He drifted in and out of
consciousness, the pain throbbing through his whole body.

The taxi
bounced and rocked over the uneven surface of the road, its
headlights exposing the tiny dark houses that it passed. Bala
continued to think about his beloved Fatima and Salona and grew
more and more desperate and frustrated at his inability to speak.
But the pain was too great and the effort exhausted him. He knew
how worried they would be when he failed to arrive home at his
usual time.

"Do you have
family?" one of the men in the taxi asked.

Bala
nodded.

"Do they live
in Lenasia?"

Again Bala
nodded.

"We'll get
their details when we get to the hospital and then we'll try to
contact them." the man said. "There's nothing that we can do now,
so just relax. I can see how worried you are. Our first priority is
to get medical help for you."

For Bala, the
trip to Baragwanath Hospital seemed to go on forever and every time
the taxi lurched into a deep rut or bounced over a hump the pain
was so intense that he couldn't help crying out in protest.
Eventually he felt the taxi leave the rutted uneven road and begin
to drive along what must be a tarred road.

"Hang in there,
my man." the man next to him said. "We're almost there. Just relax.
You're going to be okay."

Bala felt a
deep sense of depression come over him. Was he going to die? What
would happen to Fatima and Salona if he did? How could they
possibly cope without him? And what if he survived but was
incapable of providing for them? He couldn't bear the thought of
being permanently dependent on others. He shuddered to think of
himself as being a burden to his beloved family. And if he did get
better, how would he be able to recover from the setback that he
was now going through? How would he be able to make up the
financial loss that he was bound to suffer? He shook his head
slowly, trying to dispel the images of him being incapacitated and
having to rely on others for the rest of his life.