Parts Unknown. Zirk van den Berg
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seen the stars like this, so clear. It must be the dry air. It’s as if you’re among them.’
‘It makes me feel so small,’ she admitted.
‘Some of us have less need of that reminder than others.’
She realised he was referring to his physical stature, saying something at his own expense, helping to bridge the clear gap in status between them. She may have changed her clothes, but her speech betrayed her background. ‘I meant in the greater scheme of things,’ she explained.
‘I know.’ He brushed back his hair and put his cap on. ‘We were never properly introduced. I’m Siegfried Bock.’
‘Lisbeth Löwenstein.’ She could have left it at that, but, not having talked to anyone about the thing that had gnawed at her mind for so long, she had to say it. ‘For the time being.’
He glanced at her askance. ‘How do you mean?’
‘In two days, I’ll have a different name. I’m getting married.’
‘Congratulations.’
It felt surprisingly comfortable talking to this stranger in the dark, something separate from everyday life. It helped that they could not see each other’s faces clearly. ‘I’m afraid I may have sold my soul.’
‘For some people, that’s the only thing they have to trade.’
‘What I’m getting for it is not something I want.’
The soldier took out his pocket watch, angling it to whatever light he could find. ‘My guard duty only starts at midnight … Your companions?’
She turned around. The road behind her was silent and empty. ‘Perhaps they’ve turned around.’
‘Well, then it seems we have time for you to tell me how come you’ve sold your soul for something you don’t want.’
‘I thought you wanted to be alone.’
‘Something more appealing came up. Why don’t we find a place to sit?’ He pointed to two large stones by the roadside, about two steps apart.
‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’
‘Think of it as the first of Thousand and One African Nights.’
She smoothed her nightdress at the back, sat down on the stone and shifted until she felt comfortable. She had both feet on the ground, ankle to ankle, her hands on her knees. ‘The story goes like this: In a village in Saxony – Grossenhain, near Dresden – there lived a poor shoemaker and his wife and two children. Lisbeth was the oldest. One day, a letter came from a faraway country … I don’t think I can keep this up, pretending that my life is a fairy tale.’
‘Carry on. Who was the letter from?’
‘The letter was from Fritz Kamke, a man who had been the farrier in their village. He had left years before, going to German South-West Africa as a soldier. After he had completed his service in the schutztruppe, he bought a farm and wanted to settle down. He remembered me … He remembered Lisbeth, and asked her father for her hand in marriage. After an exchange of three more letters, he cabled the money for her passage, plus extra to compensate the family for their loss … And here we are.’
She had read and reread Herr Kamke’s letters, trying to build a picture of the man who would be hers to have and hold until death did them part. She remembered little of him, just that he smelled of horse and wore a leather apron. She must have been fifteen years old when he left the village. She hadn’t thought of him at all in the intervening years. Evidently, he had remembered her.
‘Why did you agree to it?’
‘It helps my parents.’
‘Doing that, at least, is something you want. So, when you’re with this man, remember your parents, remember that you’re helping them,’ the soldier said. ‘You’re being very noble.’
She had never thought of herself as noble, or having any such high-minded quality. There was something else that figured in her decision to accept Herr Kamke’s proposal, but this she would not share with anyone. Since her early teens, rich and powerful men had sometimes taken a liking to her, but it was not the kind of interest that survived beyond sunrise. Herr Kamke, by contrast, offered respectability – she would be a married woman. That, at least, was better than what she had before.
‘It’s nothing like I had imagined my wedding to be. My mother and father won’t be there,’ she said. ‘I don’t even know who’s going to walk me down the aisle. One of his friends, I suppose. We’re not even married yet, and I’m already at his mercy.’ She repositioned the shawl over her shoulders, and strained to lighten her tone. ‘That’s the way it is.’
Her voice floated on the wind, and was lost in the darkness.
There was a scraping of gravel as the soldier moved his feet. ‘I would do it if I could … escort you … Then at least it would be someone you knew from before, if only for a little while.’
She looked at this little man sitting there in his oversize uniform, holding a blood-stained handkerchief as if it were a posy, offering her his support. ‘I’d like that,’ she said.
It was too dark for them to see each other smile.
* * *
They steamed into Windhoek from the north, coming from Okahandja, the sun already lowering on their right. The train rounded a hill and there it was – not a town like the ones Lisbeth had known, just a smattering of spaced-out buildings in a wide, uneven bowl between higher hills. The nearest hillside was dotted with brown, domed huts. Further away, the colonial buildings were whitewashed and angular. The train engineer let off a few blasts of the whistle. Technology had made crossing the Namib easier, but it was still cause for celebration.
A throng of people awaited their arrival, standing with their hands shading their eyes, as if in salute. There were uniformed railwaymen in front of the long, low station building, poorly dressed porters with two-wheeled trolleys, a handful of soldiers and a few civilians. A man in a black waistcoat held out a flag that was apparently powerful enough to stop a train.
Once they had come to a standstill, Lisbeth smelled burning coal. One of the soldiers who had been sitting close to her opened the door and jumped out, then held out his hands for her to follow, taking her by the hips and setting her down. She thanked him, and he thanked her right back, having just become a hero in his comrades’ eyes. She had tried to share with Reiter Bock again, but he was right at the back, surrounded by baggage, sleeping after the night’s guard duty.
The soldiers were called to the front of the train and thronged past her where she stood, her valise at her feet. She didn’t know where to go. She had hoped there would be someone waiting to meet her. As the only woman on the train, she wouldn’t be hard to spot. Should she wait there or should she go inside to find a restroom? She didn’t want to miss Herr Kamke or his envoy if there was one. She was on a strange continent, with no friends and only a tiny amount of money. If nobody came for her, what would she do? A night in a hotel and then what? The night she had spent in Karibib revealed that all the scullery maids were black. Perhaps she could be a governess to a rich family, but she didn’t have education, just some reading and writing. Then charge the men who would love her till sunrise? That possibility had always been there, throughout her life. One could make men pay for what they sometimes took anyway, but she wasn’t ready for that step, not one so irrevocable. Herr Kamke had better come.
‘Fraulein Löwenstein?’ He stood by her shoulder, hat in hand, his gaunt face lined and sunburnt, his yellow and brown hair plastered to his head, smiling with one half of his mouth.
‘Herr Kamke?’
He nodded, looked at her valise. ‘Is this all?’
‘There is a trunk.’ She pointed to the back of the train.
He picked up her bag. ‘Let’s go get it.’
‘Herr