Disciples
of
Fortune
Janvier Chouteu-Chando
&
Janvier Tisi
TISI BOOKS
NEW YORK, RALEIGH, LONDON, AMSTERDAM
Europe before World War I
Germany after World War I
Germany after WWI & WWII
West Germany (FDR) & East
Germany (GDR): 1949-1990
PROLOGUE
The Assyrians were the creation of
the devil. They sowed confusion for posterity after they conquered the northern
breakaway kingdom
of Israel, and then went
on to enslave its people. That era is a curse to historical revelation because
we are yet to unravel the fate of those tribes after the Assyrians emigrated
from their Middle Eastern homeland.
Excerpt from the diary of a Christian crusader in the Holy Land while on a mission to trace the historical
origins of Europeans.
The Alemanis, the Burgundians, the
Franks, the Goths, the Huns, the Lombards, the Saxons, the Teutons and the
Vandals became feeble in their rules after they set their slaves free. These
former slaves went on to settle the rich lands of Europe.
Even so, a slave will never stop acting like a slave, and a slave will always
be inferior in the eyes of the master because the master is supreme. In spite
of the vicissitude of history, the master is destined to lord it over the slave
in perpetuity. His reign is infinite.
Excerpt from the
unpublished work of a controversial eighteenth century German historian and
philosopher.
“History is the key to the unity of a people. Nostalgia of their
glorious days pulls them together, the haunting memories of their past separate
them further, and their success makes them stronger.”
Words from Martin
Paul Samba, just before the German colonial army hanged him.
“The effort it takes to keep a family, a tribe, a people or a country
together is often greater than the effort it took to bring them together,”
Alleged words of
Peter I of Yugoslavia
to his heir regarding the growing dissension among Croatian and Slovenian
nationalists.
“The Gods are crying! The Gods are angry. Humanity implores on the
German people to live in harmony with the rest of the world. Prosperity belies
the fatherland if the children of Deutschland cherish it without discriminating
against those who love this country as much as they do.”
Words addressed to a
group of pro-Nazi women returning from a church service in Munich one winter
afternoon by an old female Gypsy diviner.
“These Gypsies don’t deserve to live in
the fatherland. When it comes to contaminating our race, they are even worse
than the Jews.”
One of the women
complained bitterly to her friends.
Not only in Berlin
was this reawakened search for the past glories of the Germanic peoples
blossoming, but also in other areas of Europe
where a majority German population lived. To the West of Berlin, even in the
parts beyond the borders of France,
the manifestation of German nationalism was challenging the status quo, making
the French government jittery. The spillover of the resurgent nationalism could
also be felt across Germany’s
northern frontier in Denmark, as the German minority in the Scandinavian country’s
southern borderland demanded more rights. Beyond Germany’s
southern frontiers, on the other side of the Alps mountain range in Austria and the Sudeten region of Czechoslovakia, echoes of German nationalism decrying
the Versailles treaty that forbade the
reunification of these German-speaking lands with Germany (Anchlusse) were
also rampant. Even the scattered patches of German communities in the Balkans
were experiencing agitations of their own as they hoped for an opening to make
them once again a full part of the German world. Meanwhile, further east, in
the great Western Slavic and Eastern Slavic lands harboring more than five
million ethnic Germans, the rights and privileges of the German minorities were
being curtailed for the sake of consolidating Polish nationalism and Soviet
communism.
Forced to grapple
with the realities of the Great Depression at the close of 1932 under this
explosive situation of rising national consciousness, the German people sought
comfort in their past glories, raised their heads and looked to the heavens in
hopes of finding answers from the ideologies and political parties promising to
make Germany great again.
However, one party
stood out with a seemingly reassuring program for Germany and ethnic Germans.
It claimed to be above the other political parties in the land in its
commitment to the fatherland and the future of its children within and beyond
its borders. The virulent Nazi party under the leadership of Adolf Hitler
promised to lead the German people in repelling the dictates of the
constraining Versailles
Treaty. It pledged to bring all the ethnic Germans together and cleanse the
Aryan race of its contaminators.
The dark clouds swirling over the city
of Berlin that
winter afternoon, the infrequent darting of lightning in the sky and the sound
of thunder rocking the air every now and then could have been heralding
something malevolent. However, if those signs were a warning from nature, Berlin appeared to be defying
it.
The clouds were
visibly darker over Groningstrasse that day, as if a force of nature was
sucking out energy from the neighborhood, which like the rest of the city, was
gripped by the election fever keeping Germany on its toes. The hatred, blind fanaticism and incomprehension
generated by this increasing passion over ideology, religion, race and
patriotism were now at a level never seen before. In fact, the rising tension
in the society could not be missed by a rational mind and eye. Never before had
Germany
been so divided over an election. Gangs of Nazi hoodlums roved the streets,
beating Jews and Gentiles alike, and breaking the properties of their
opponents.
Groningstrasse, with
its sizable Jewish population, happened to be Lorenz Ulbricht’s campaign ground
that winter afternoon.
“Germanic people
have always determined the destiny of Europe.
Our ancestors were the Franks, the Saxons, the Lombards, the Alemanis, the
Huns, the Burgundians, the Goths, the Teutons and the Suevis. Those Germanic
tribes dominated this land for ages. The Slavs were the slaves of our ancestors
too. We controlled the lands of Rus not too long ago. We lorded it over the
ancestors of today’s Russians, Ukrainians and Byelorussians. Even the Czechs,
Slovaks, Sorbs, Bulgars, Poles, Serbs, Slovenes, Macedonians, Croats,
Montenegrins and the Bosnian Muslims were the slaves of our ancestors. The
peoples of Northern and Southern Europe were
also our subjects at one point in our history. Where is the glory of the master
race, I ask you?”
The crowd responded
in the affirmative with words muttered in high and low pitches, and with chants
that drove Lorenz Ulbricht into a frenzy. He coughed, and then continued in a
reinvigorated manner.
“Tell me, children
of Assyria―the great Assyria that is the
progenitor of those great Germanic powers. Should the master race continue
sleeping while its former slaves dictate its destiny?”
“No…no, no!” came
the thunderous response from the crowd.
“Ten of the twelve tribes of ancient Israel were our
slaves too. Where they are today, I do not want to know. Jews are from Judah
and Benjamin only—the two Hebrew tribes the ancient Assyrians never bothered to
overpower. Must we continue allowing these Jews to control the world, even
though the children of their ten brothers were the slaves of our progenitors?
Must we allow these scoundrels to stay unpunished, even though they betrayed
the Reich and stabbed it in the back during the Great War? We are Aryans, a
word derived from Assyria. We are the
descendants of the great Goths, Alemanis, Franks and the other Germanic tribes
who reigned supreme in this part of the world. Rediscover yourself, children of
the Reich. You were born to rule the world. The time has come for the master
race to put an end to the dictates of its former slaves. The children of the
fatherland must live together. Embrace your heritage, children of Deutschland.
Unite and take back your world.”
“Who is this
fellow?” a man in the crowd asked his neighbor.
“Lorenz Ulbricht. My
friend calls him ‘The Mad Enlightener’. He is a controversial historian and
philosopher with a knack for racial genealogy,” his neighbor replied.
“Children of the
great Reich, children of the master race; this is the destined moment to
support the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. We need your votes to
bring our great party to power. The Nazi party under the leadership of Adolf
Hitler has accepted the colossal divine mission to restore Germany’s greatness.
We need to purify Germany.
We need to send the other two tribes of Israel into oblivion as well. We
must eliminate all forms of Jewish influence,” Lorenz Ulbricht bellowed.
Madness!
Hans Wette Heinrich
felt a chill run up his spine. He shuddered, realizing for the first time that
he was perspiring in his armpits, brows and palms. With a sigh, he pocketed his
trembling hands and started walking away from the crowd.
“Americans! You can
hardly find a single one among them who is not a mongrel,” a sneering remark
hit him from behind.
Hans felt the bile
rising up in his throat and stopped for a moment. However, he did not turn
around to look back before he started moving again, but with hurried steps this
time around.
CHAPTER ONE
Hans was in a sour mood when he walked
home that evening. The week spent with his mother, stepfather and half sister
in Berlin had
been wonderful until an unsettling emotion gripped him that morning right after
he boarded the train. He blamed it on the newspaper reports on talks in Berlin about impending
laws that would settle the definition of a true German. Hitler’s theory of the
master race made no senses at all, a thought he had not been shy sharing with
those who disagreed with the new government in power.
What now, Germany?
He thought as he closed the remaining distance to his grandmother’s home. How
he wished all of Germany
was like Rastatt, a town spared of the feral nationalism that was eating the
fabric of German society. However, he wondered whether the town would be
bypassed by the corrupting influence of Nazi laws originating from the
chancellery.
Hans liked his
grandmother’s home for the sense of security it never failed to provide him
with since his childhood. Here, he could be the polite rascal and still be
comfortable about it.
He decided not to go
inside right away as he approached the front door. Instead, he watched his
grandmother Alexandra Herzl through the window as she busied in the kitchen. He
though her agility was amazing for a sixty five year old.
Alexandra Herlz
could have carried on for a while with her activities in the kitchen without
noticing him had the darting movement of a bird outside not caught her
attention, prompting her to spin around to see the creature that hit the
kitchen window before flying away. That was the moment she noticed her smiling
grandson outside. Hans liked the way she smiled back. With the corners of his
mouth still upturned, he opened the door and walked into the house.
“I am so fortunate
to barge into a winner’s meal. Timely, I should add,” he said with open arms.
Alexandra Hertz gave
him a hug in the corridor, muttered words of joy for his safe return, and then
bombarded him with questions that he could barely answer. After satisfying her
curiosity about her daughter’s family back in Berlin, she held him at arm-length and
smiled again.
“Come with me into
the kitchen. Come, come, come,” she roused, holding his hand and leading him
away.
“What did you hide in there?”
“You will find out.”
“You are making me curious.”
“Oh, nothing! I
missed having you around. And believe it or not, I actually couldn’t help
worrying about you.”
“You don’t have to
worry about me.”
“I know you don’t
like having a worried grandmother. As a matter of fact, there are tons of
reasons why I shouldn’t lose some sleep over you.”
“Hmm! You wouldn’t
lose some sleep over your only grandson?”
“Why torment
myself?”
“Why wouldn’t you
torment yourself thinking about me?”
“There you go again.
How many times have you fussed that I don’t hold you up to the standards of
that man?”
“Who?”
“Didn’t you say you
are capable of scaling all of life’s challenges, even Mount
Everest, like the man who first climbed it? That is the man I am
talking about.”
“I said that?”
“Uh-huh! You even
boasted that you can handle the ups and downs of life alone like the survivor
in Jack London’s story ‘Love of Life’,” she said and made a face.
“Come on, Oma!”
he exclaimed, walking behind her.
“What?”
“Please don’t say
that again. I am still your baby.”
“You didn’t talk
like that while Rosa was here.”
“I thought you liked
her.”
“Don’t belittle the
obvious. Why aren’t you seeing her anymore?”
“It is a long
story.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can keep that
for another day. By the way, what have you got for me?”
“Take a look around.
Did I ever tell you how much of a treasure you are to have around?”
“You are flattering
me again!”
“I mean it.”
“Hmm! I had a great
sense of myself until the Austrian made me to reconsider my true identity.”
“He is evil. I
thought you knew that.”
“What was that
again?”
“I said he is evil
for all I know.”
“Let’s be real about
this. The man has considerable support from our folks, and a good number of
people out there think he is a genius?”
“Who cares about
what others think of him. If they think he is Sigmund Freud or another
Napoleon, then he is nothing but an evil genius to begin with.”
Hans grunted. “I
confess I was indifferent, just like you, when it all started. Speaking quite
candidly, your daughter was right about it from the very beginning. Mami saw
something sinister about the Nazis even before they maneuvered their way to
power.”
“Listen to me, Hans!
The man fakes a lot. Even so, he is harmless.”
“All the same, he
made me to reconsider my identity.”
“What about this! He
is evil but harmless.”
“That’s comforting.”
“How is my dear
daughter doing?”
“Great!”
“And how is her little girl?” she asked,
looking away.
“You can guess. Eva,
as usual, is bustling with life.”
“Karina did it
again. Your mother should have informed me before hand that you were on your
way.”
“Why?” Hans asked
and picked up a slice of beetroot from a saucer sitting on the kitchen table.
“That way, I would
have had enough time to prove to you that you are my darling.”
“Come on, Oma!
I know you hate having me around.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Uh-huh! Oh! I guess
I never told you before about the special knife I put aside to carve you up the
moment you were born.”
“No! Tell me! What happened
to it? I am still alive!”
“I lost it the day
you were born.”
“What does that tell
you? I am made of the Achilles stuff.”
“I know your soft
spot, remember?”
“So you claim. Well,
everything about my departure from Berlin
was done in a hurry.”
“You don’t have to
defend your mother,” Alexandra Herzl said, feigning reproach.
“Just trying to
protect your daughter, that’s all,” Hans said with a chortle.
“Now tell me. How is
my dear child doing?”
“She is as
lighthearted as a ballerina who just lost a big role.”
Alexandra Herzl
laughed. “And my dear little granddaughter?”
“Hmm! You still call Eva little when she
is already spotting a moustache?” Hans said with a mischievous smile.
Alexandra Herzl
guffawed. “What about my handsome Prussian son-in-law?” she asked between gasps
of laughter.
“Do you mean your
daughter’s commie? His portly belly contradicts his ideals and the ideas of
Marxist Socialism that he professes.”
She laughed so much
that she had to hold her sides. “I will remember to tell him that.”
“Well, between you
and me,” Hans lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner, “Your daughter’s
commie lover decided to grow a beard. He tells everyone who cares to listen
that he wants to look like a true Teuton or Hun—a natural front man for
Attila.”
“And you believed
him?”
“Of course I don’t!”
Hans said with a frown, “He looks so worked up by the political developments
going on in the country.”
Alexandra became
serious all of a sudden. “Rudi and his politics again,” she whined and shook
her head, “Is he taking care of my daughter?”
“He is a marvelous
husband, father and protector. On a serious note, he is better than any man I
can think of.”
“I am glad you
didn’t have us, women, in the equation.”
“Huh!”
“That would have
meant he is better than me too.”
“I didn’t have you
in mind, that’s for sure,” Hans laughed.
A bemused expression
crossed Alexandra Herzl’s face as she rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Huh,
smart face. You slipped out of that one. I guess that’s why you are my boy.”
Hans grunted and
looked away. He had to put his thoughts together. “I don’t think you are
cooking for one today. Are you hosting?”
“Why?” Alexandra
Herzl chuckled.
He shrugged and
plastered her with a quizzical look. “What’s the surprise?”
“I apologize for not
telling you right after you walked in. Helga is joining us for lunch.”
“Helga? I don’t
remember hearing that name around here.”
“She fancies you as
a product of a fairy tale.”
“What did you tell
her?”
“Nothing!”
“I still can’t put a
face to that name.”
“She is Prussian,
but she is a good friend.”
“Hmm!”
“I know what you
think of them.”
“Who? Prussians?”
“You said it before
that they are stiff. Nevertheless, I think she is the type who missed the
essence of life.”
“Then, how come I
haven’t seen her? I have lived here with you for close to two years!”
“Helga moved to Essen five years ago, but
had the good sense to return home to our serene Rastatt.”
“Hmm! She must have
had strong reasons to return.”
“Why don’t you find
out for yourself what stuff she is made of?”
“You are up to
something, Oma,” he drawled in a
playful manner, regarded his grandmother quizzically for a moment, and then
smiled.
The smiling minion
woman that Alexander Herzl welcomed into her home that afternoon was in her
late thirties or early forties. She was wearing a bat-like hat that Hans
thought looked like that of a circus comedian. However, what struck Hans the
most was her prominent beak-like nose that reminded him of a twelfth century
Moorish painting of an old woman hanging on the wall of a museum in Dresden,
which when he first saw it as a twelve-year old, thought it depicted a witch. Even
the way her grandmother’s friend walked reminded him of a malnourished
greyhound he and his friends used to mimic when they were pre-adolescents.
Hans shook himself
out of his mischievous thoughts caused by ennui and tried to focus on the two
women who were shaking hands now. They chatted awhile before Alexandra Herzl
beckoned him over. He approached the friends in a courteous manner.
“My lovely baby
grandson! I don’t think you two have met,” Alexandra said proudly, and then
rested an arm on Hans’s shoulder.
“Good afternoon, Frau—”
Hans greeted, edged closer and shook hands with Helga, puzzled by the strange
glint in her eyes.
“I am glad you
finally met,” Alexandra said.
“I am glad, too,”
Helga echoed.
“I remember talking
to you about him a couple of times.”
“Uh-uh! You did.
Several times actually. He went to school in Berlin, didn’t he?”
“He did! Is he not
cute? I do not remember telling you that he holds a Master’s Degree in
Agricultural Science. In fact, he is only twenty-six years old. This fine young
man is my pride. Ha, ha…ha! Helga, he moved in with me two years ago and now
works here in Rastatt.”
“Oh…oh, oh!” Helga
mumbled. “His complexion is like…like the color of a ripe banana. He…he is
beautiful.”
“Oh, he is a
handsome young man. His father is Kamerunian. I told you that before, didn’t
I?”
“Uh-huh! You told me
he was born here in Rastatt.”
“I am sure I said a
lot of things about him.”
Helga nodded
effusively at nothing in particular. “My grandfather was stationed in Kamerun
back in the day of the Kaiser.”
“That’s beautiful. I
am sure he told you lots of things about the place.”
“No, he didn’t. It
was like his little secret. We found out he left behind some babies there.”
Alexandra Herzl
shrugged, and then raised her hands. “Now, we have everything ready on the
table. Please, let’s make ourselves comfortable around it and eat before the
dishes get too cold,” she offered heartily.
Hans whispered into
his grandmother’s ear just as he was pulling a chair for her to sit down in. “Our
Mona Lisa is proving to be good company. I think I am beginning to fall in love
with her.”
Alexandra Herzl
smiled and whispered back into his ears. “She loves bananas.”
Hans ate hungrily that afternoon,
outpacing the conversation at the table. He decided to leave his grandmother
and her friend alone after realizing that the women had so much to talk about
without him interrupting every now and then. He pushed his plate aside, and
then sat in silence for a moment, watching his grandmother and Helga chatting
heartily. He found their idle gab boring.
“I will clear the
dishes,” he offered.
Hans did as
promised. He carried the half-emptied dishes and the dirty plates to the
kitchen, separated them, scraped off the particles of food, and then washed
them clean. He went on to wipe the plates dry, and then put them away in the
cupboard―a relaxing experience that allowed him to pick up bits and pieces of
the women’s catch-up conversation. However, their chatter did not garner his
interest.
He decided to fix
himself a glass of whisky while he figured out what next to do. A little
dose of alcohol makes the mind placid, he thought. He knew the excuse to
drink was flimsy, but found solace in the fact that his maternal grandfather
came from a line of heavy boozers, a trait carried over from his Russian Jewish
lineage.
Hans did not think
of reading until he was halfway through his drink. The thought sent him
ferreting among his grandfather’s priced collection of books on the shelves in
the study. His face alighted with satisfaction when he finally picked up an
encyclopedia on German overseas colonies. He thumbed through the pages and
settled on Kamerun.
The geography of the
land gripped his interest right away, as he familiarized himself with the names
of renowned physical features, towns, ethnic groups and strategic location. He
also noted the coastal areas dotted with oil palm, rubber, tea and banana
plantations on the side map. He noted that the farming communities there were mostly
concentrated around the popular mountain town of Buea. He remembered that Britain and France partitioned the former
German colony after the Great War, and that this southwestern sector was under
the mandate of the British.
Hans was in a
relaxed mood when he made himself another glass of whisky, and then returned to
the encyclopedia. He focused this time around on the eastern half of the former
German Kamerun, currently under the mandate of the French. Like British Cameroons, it too was having its fair share of
large plantations along the upper course of the River Mungo. He also read about
the preponderance of private plantations in the area and was intrigued to learn
that their owners were cultivating mostly citrus fruits, quinine, cocoa,
bananas, oil palm, rubber and coffee.
Dusk was in the
horizon when he started feeling a rising anticipation. Nevertheless, that did
not stop him from devouring more information.
The Western High
Plateau, otherwise called the Western Highlands―the mountainous grassland in the
West of the Kamerun territories whose southern portion is settled by his
father’s ethnic group called Bamileké, piqued his curiosity. His eyes dimmed a
little as he recalled what his mother once told him about the Bamileké people―that
they played an invaluable role in the economy of the mandate of more than three
hundred ethnic groups, a situation that prevailed even during the era of German
Kamerun.
Hans pored over the
map of the area, noting the settlements in the densely populated Bamilekéland.
He spotted his father’s ancestral settlement called Banganté, located in the
transitional zone where the tropical high savannah melted into the Equatorial
evergreen forest. He spent the next couple of minutes flipping through the pages
until his eyes fell on Douala
and Yaoundé, as well as the famous towns of Ebolowa and Nkongsamba. He found
the information about them enriching. The North became his next area of
interest as he pored over the map, paying attention to the traditional Moslem
Fulani strongholds of Garoua, Maroua, Yagoua, Mokolo and Ngaounderé. Then he
read about the region too, finding the few pages informative enough.
Hans closed the
book, yawned, and then gulped empty his glass of drink. When he returned to the
sitting room, he was surprised to find his grandmother resting on the sofa.
Helga was nowhere in sight.
He decided not to
wake her up. Instead, he settled for a visit to Aurora, his widow lover who
always seemed ready to accommodate him with her bed. He brushed aside the
slight feeling of guilt that sometimes threatened to creep in at the mere
thought of their affair. Perhaps it was because he knew his grandmother would
be against it, a fact in itself that made him uneasy whenever he thought about
it. However, he was doing a good job not dwelling on it. Eduard Schmidt, as Aurora’s late husband was
called, happened to have been his late uncle’s close friend and a sweet soul to
Alexandra Herzl. Still, Hans thought he should not blame himself. It was the
beautiful and ageless Aurora who led him to unveil his suppressed passion for
her one evening when he visited her home and she offered him a drink and a feel
of her hands. Now, he could hardly tell who the pacesetter in their affair
was. However, both lovers conceded that their romance had no future and needed
to stay discreet. Only, both lovers did not want the end to be soon.
CHAPTER TWO
Hans bought his newspapers every
Tuesday from Klaus Ostolitz. The journal vendor owned a kiosk near the
neighborhood’s kindergarten, not far from his grandmother’s house. He enjoyed
discussing sensational subjects with his customers and provided wisecracks to
give different angles to the hot issues of the day.
Even on this
Tuesday, with much in the news for the media print, Hans held his curiosity in
check and bypassed two other kiosks on his way home, deciding instead to uphold
the tradition and buy from Klaus Ostolitz.
The sun was overhead
that afternoon as he approached the kiosk. The rumors about the passing of new
laws hammered in Nuremberg
occupied his mind to the point where he almost bumped into their Jewish
neighbor walking from the opposite direction, had the old man not called out
his name. Benjamin Hessler was grim-faced and appeared to be mumbling something
in a listless manner.
“Good day, Herr
Hessler,” Hans greeted, stirring the old man alert.
“Afternoon, Son,” he
replied and regarded Hans for a moment with a brooding expression on his face.
“I won’t advise you to buy the papers today.”
“Why?” Hans asked
for no apparent reason.
“Sorry, Son,” the
old man said and shook his head, “I am a Jew after all. The Zionists are right.
A Jew would never be accepted anywhere in the world except in the land of his
ancestors. Our home is the land of Eretz Israel. What a pity I am realizing
this only in my old age. Son, I might have to leave after all,” he added, moved
a hand in the air in a dejected manner, and then started walking away, looking
every inch of a broken man.
The stunned
expression on Hans’s face turned to a cold fury as he watched the old Jew
disappear into the next street. Then he grunted, turned around and headed for
the kiosk.
He did not like the
atmosphere of resigned despondence around the throng of customers at the
newsstand who all appeared to be talking in subdued tones. There was no reason
to blame them. They reflected the mood around Rastatt that day. He tried to be
upbeat as he bought two newspapers, exchanged a few words with the vendor, and
then walked into the nearby cafeteria, ordered black coffee, and then started
reading an article while waiting for the drink.
He did not go to his
grandmother’s place right after perusing the contents of the newspapers.
Instead, he asked their neighbor’s ten-year-old son hovering around to inform
his grandmother that he would not be around until late that evening. He left
the cafeteria looking like a professor grappling with a worrying phenomenon and
walked to the home of his forty-year-old widow lover a quarter of a mile away
like someone in a hurry.
**************
“Your virility seems
to have ebbed,” Aurora
cooed, moving her tongue over his torso, from his chest, then down, towards the
navel.
“I don’t know,” Hans
mumbled.
He was familiar with
the result of the feel of her tongue on his chest. It never failed before to
arouse him into a passionate drive that always ended with him panting like a
cheetah at the end of a challenging hunt. This time around, her tongue failed
to work its magic on him. He was even surprised by his own lack of enthusiasm.
“Tell me about your
worries,” Aurora
purred.
Hans moved his gaze
away from the ceiling and regarded the naked body of his lover with a lost look
on his face. He shut his eyes for a moment, opened them again, and then peered
at her with an intensity that made her shield hers breasts instinctively with
both hands as if she just became aware of her nakedness. She quickly realized
the absurdity of her action and moved her hands away, resting them on the back
of her head this time around.
Hans continued
regarding her closely, sweeping over her enticing nipples gorged with blood,
descending to the mound of hair between her thighs, and then further down,
before moving up to her face again.
“What is it? You are
beginning to make me nervous.”
“Are you serious?”
Her response was a
laugh with a twinge of timidity in her voice that he found very alluring.
“You are as
beautiful as ever,” he said.
“Then make me feel
worthy of my beauty,” she implored, running a hand over his thigh.
“Did you read the
papers today?” he asked, fighting back the overpowering sensation of her touch.
“Hmm, hmm…hmm!” she
purred. “Politics does not interest me anymore. Not since the Nazis took
control of the chancellery and the Austrian began his political gimmick.”
Hans chortled and
looked away. He did not like the overwhelming feeling of helplessness sweeping
over him, or the growing wistfulness of his eyes.
“We are being
bombarded by new laws,” he said and sat up.
“What laws?”
“Yes, my dear woman!
They came up with new laws redefining citizenship. Jesus Christ, woman!”
“What have I done
now?”
“The laws are the
talk of Rastatt and Germany
and you lie here indifferent about everything?”
“Update me,” she
said and nipped his left ear.
“You told me you
aren’t fully German.”
“Something I am
proud of. My mother is Italian, the descendant of a proud duke of Lombardia,”
she said, groping his ear this time around.
Hans plastered her
with a serious look. “My dear woman! You amaze me. Aren’t you worried about all
about the breathtaking changes affecting our society?”
“Uh-uh!”
“The tides
maneuvered by the insane are threatening everybody.”
“So?”
“When you lie here
looking and sounding completely unperturbed, you frighten me.”
“Why should I lose
my hair over something I can’t control? I don’t want to concern myself with
something ordinary citizens like us have no control over.”
“Woman, new laws
have been discussed in Nuremberg.
I am talking about Nazi-promulgated laws that should be a source of concern for
anyone with a tint of foreign blood.”
“What type of laws
are you talking about?” she asked, her eyes lighting up finally.
“There are so many.
All sorts, actually,” Han said with a sigh, “Henceforth, mix marriages are
against the law for ethnic Germans. Certain utilities, occupations and
positions have been placed beyond the procurement of certain category of
non-Germans.”
“And what has that
got to do with me?”
Hans smiled, shook
his head and reached out for her nose. She did not move a muscle as he held it
in an affectionate manner “You may
have to revise your commitment to a fatherland that has been hijacked by those
xenophobic bastards.”
“Huh!” she muttered
and frowned.
“Thief of My Heart,
the point I am trying to make is that I have already revised mine.”
“And what is that?”
she asked, propped herself up on her elbows and fixed her eyes on him.
Hans bit his lip,
ruffling his hair as he did so. “Can’t you see? I am Kamerunian after all.
Hell, I am partly Jewish.”
“You know you didn’t
answer my question,” she said and sighed, turning her face away momentarily
before looking at him again.
Hans looked away and
fixed his gaze on the ceiling, staring at nothing in particular. “I have come
to an unsettling conclusion,” he said with a sigh. “On the one hand, I have a
father in Kamerun who is ready to welcome a son he never had the opportunity to
love. On the other hand, here I am feeling dejected and uncertain in the land
of my birth that is now rejecting its own seeds. Tell me, Thief of My Heart! Which
of the two must I choose?”
Aurora coughed
uneasily, held his head, and then looked into his eyes in a conspiratorial
manner. “Which of the two must you choose? What about me? Actually, I have two
birthright options that do not meet my expectations as a liberated woman. There
is Nazism in Germany and
there is Fascism in Italy.
Still, I must live. I want to live like a free soul.”
“I like that
expression—live like a free soul.”
“Uh-huh! That is why
I am on the verge of packing my bags and leaving sophisticated Germany
with my daughter. That is life, Lover Boy. Life is a rare fantasy that can be
made a reality by being objective.”
“You never talked to me about such a plan,”
Hans said with wariness in his voice that she picked up in an instant.
Her face lit up
again, but with a mischievous smile this time around, leaving him wondering
what could be going through her mind as she leaned forward and plastered him
with a kiss.
“I want Lover Boy to
know that he isn’t going to be my partner for life. We should be objective
about it. You are still young and smart with an unexplored future ahead of you.
Moreover, I am a sinning woman with a conscience. I do not want to be held responsible
for tying you down, Lover Boy. Make good of your potentials out of Nazi
Germany.”
Hans grunted, and
then smiled in an authentic manner that illuminated her face even further. “I
take it that you are advising me to accept my father’s offer of a place in
French Cameroun?”
“What better
option?” she asked and nipped his ear again.
He nodded with a
grimace. “That’s encouraging. French Cameroun is the best option for me. I am
glad you are with me on this one,” he declared and kissed her warmly on her
hair.
“That’s not good
enough. Make me feel special for the reassuring advice,” she implored with an
allure in her voice that made him feel proud of himself.
Hans licked his lips
as he smiled, and then went on to grant her wish, doing his best to be
grateful. He was so vigorous that she called out his name in the process like
she was urging a special agent from Venus.
CHAPTER THREE
Hans walked home from work that evening
with a slight sneer on his face that gave him the appearance of a man unhappy
with his situation. And truly, he was miserable. The state of affairs in the
country was his concern, if not worry. Recent developments in Germany were not only threatening,
they were pointing to an unpredictable trend, especially with all the
restrictions the Nazis were instituting every day. Still, he was determined not
to allow the fear spreading around, especially among the minorities in Germany, to
paralyze him.
An anxiety of a
different sort gripped him the moment he thought of his grandmother. Without
even thinking about it, he increased his pace and clenched his fist as if
anticipating something threatening at home. The distress made him to perspire
despite the cold. He was still tense when he arrived home, pressed down the
knob of the front door and pushed it open, wondering why his hands were
trembling.
Alexandra Herzl saw
Hans the moment he stepped inside, and looked at him with a puzzled expression
on her face.
“Hans! What is it?”
she asked, sitting up in the sofa, dimming her eyes in that manner of hers that
said she was expecting bad news.
Hans almost chuckled.
“Nothing! Or not much, Oma!”
“Then why are you
walking around as if you have just been exiled to hell.”
He stopped pacing
about, looked at her for a moment, and then shrugged. “My Dear Oma is always in
the dark over everything that goes on beyond this house. We are heading into
hell already.”
“What are you
talking about?”
“The man who calls
himself Der Führer of our fatherland has promulgated new laws, Oma.
They are discriminatory and they make me want to cry for Germany,” Hans said with a note of
exasperation in his voice.
“Sit down.”
“What?”
“Please, sit down.”
He hesitated for a
moment, and then sat down on the arm of the sofa, instead of the spot by her
side that she indicated with a series of taps.
“What is it, Hans?”
she repeated, dimming her eyes this time around.
He rubbed his
forehead with both hands, before uttering a tired sigh. He felt like crying. “A
lot is going on, Oma,” he muttered in a barely audible tone.
“What about that
stench of beer in your breath?” Alexandra Herzl said with a note of reproach in
her voice.
He made an effort to
smile, but the expression on his face stayed rueful. “Where else can we find
happiness for a day other than from something that can only offer momentary
relief, something like the booze? A form of solace, isn’t it?”
Alexandra Herzl put
aside her thread and knitting pins on the sofa, all the while regarding her
grandson with unutterable concern. “You allowed things to get to you, huh?”
“My Dear Oma, I was
upset. I left work today to buy the papers, and guess what I found? This trash
confirming my worst fears,” he said and put the papers beside her.
Alexandra Herzl
fidgeted with her hair for a moment, never taking her eyes off the newspapers.
Finally, she looked at Hans with a furrowed brow before bringing her eyes back
to the papers. Her lips twitched a little when she picked one up, which she read
it briefly before tossing it away. He was wondering what was going through her
mind when she grabbed a second paper and flipped through the pages in a nervous
manner. At length, she sighed and darted a nervous look at him.
“This paper calls
them the Nuremberg
laws,” she said finally.
“Yes, Oma! Adolf Hitler is now legally in
power. It is obvious he is beginning to implement his crazy plans for the
German people. I never believed Lorenz Ulbricht after I heard him campaign just
before the elections, when he said all those crazy things in Berlin,” Hans said with a sigh, pushed the
knitting pins aside, reclined in the sofa, and then nodded wearily.
“I too never take
people like him seriously?”
“Oma, he
talked of taking the German people through a purification process.”
“What is this
nonsense about a purification process? And this talk of the German people? We
are all German people.”
“Nein, Oma.
His notion of the German people or the master race is different from what you
and I think. To people like them, a true German has to be full-blooded. With
the exception of the few xenophobes, nobody believed him back then. Now,
everything seems―”
“Things will change
for the better. Trust me on this one,” she stuttered, picked up her thread and
pins and started knitting again with trembling hands.
“Tell me, Oma!”
She looked at him
but did not utter a word.
“What do you think
is going to happen after this?”
“What do you mean?”
“You told me you
read Adolf Hitler’s book Mein Kampf.”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you didn’t take
it seriously?”
“The points he made
there are ridiculous.”
“The man outlined
his program for the fatherland in that book in a clear manner. Some patriotic
Germans would stop regarding Germany
as home the moment he starts implementing his warped ideas. Do you foresee
disaster for the German people if you, I, everyone in this country and the rest
of the world fail to stop him now? Tell me. Perhaps I am exaggerating my
fears.”
Alexandra Herzl
sighed and dropped back in the sofa. “The German people have a path to their
destiny. It is their problem to decide whether to walk it with the Austrian or
not.”
“But, Oma!”
Hans called, paused, and then continued, “I have this disturbing worry deep in
my heart that you can help me put to rest. Perhaps your wisdom can help me
clarify a few things.”
Alexander Herzl
dropped her knitting gears again, took a deep breath, and then looked at Hans.
“What is it?”
Hans rose and
pocketed his hands as if that would calm his agitated nerves. He was on the verge
of saying something when he thought about it and started pacing the room
instead. His grandmother watched him in silence. At length, he stopped,
regarded her, and then sat down quietly on the arm of the sofa.
“It concerns my grandfather,”
he blurted out.
Alexander Herzl
nodded. “Go ahead,” she mumbled barely above a whisper.
“Tell me! What
feelings had he deep in his heart for Germany? Mami told me he was a
colonel in the army of the Kaiser until 1916. That was the year he died from an
untimely explosion in an ammunition depot.”
“Yes, that’s what
happened.”
“His feelings, his
feeling…his feelings,” Hans continued, articulating the words as if hoping to
get the best meaning out of them.
An expression of
deep concern suddenly appeared on Alexander Herzl’s face. “Yes, his feelings.
What about them?”
“Oma, did he
ever worry that the Germany
he was prepared to die for could one day be against his people? Did it even
cross his mind that the Germany
he was so proud of could one day choose a demagogue like that Austrian to lead
it?”
Alexandra Herzl
closed her eyes and sighed. “Come and sit here,” he beckoned Hans over, tapping
the left half of the sofa.
Hans said nothing as
he moved over to her side. She too did not utter a word for a moment as if she
knew very well that he was worried and that he felt unwanted. She placed her
left hand on his shoulder out of an impulse and was glad that he relaxed a
little. “You don’t have to tell me how upset you are at the moment.’
“Ja, Oma! I am upset. I am sad. My
spirit has been battered.”
“Why?”
“You know, Mami took
me to the Jewish cemetery in Stuttgart.
I was ten years old at the time. She showed me Opa’s grave.”
“He was a brave man.
I chose him over several suitors because of his deep heart, wide intelligence
and indefatigable spirit.”
“She told me about
Uncle Matthäus too. He was not buried there because he was a messianic Jew. He
accepted Jesus Christ, his identity as a Jew and the words of the Talmud.”
Alexandra Herzl
nodded. “He had his father’s heart and his mother’s mind.”
“You hardly ever
talked about your son.”
“Those are all pains
of the past, hurtful memories I dread recalling.”
“My point, Oma,
is that the people in power don’t want to acknowledge the twelve thousand
Jewish soldiers who died fighting for Germany and the Kaiser. I am a
product of that legacy.”
“You shouldn’t allow
yourself to be worked up by some of Hitler’s exaggerations. I strongly believe
there is a future for your grandfather’s people here. There is a place for them
everywhere because they are a unique people, created for a purpose in this
crazy world. I think Hitler wants to work out something new for the Jews. Germany
can’t do without them.”
Hans was at the point
of laughing, but realized instantly that it was not funny. He could not muster
the spirit. His grandmother was blind in her faith in the German people. She
too was like the majority of the people of Rastatt who were shielding
themselves from the reality of the changing Germany. He heaved a sigh, moved
his head to the side and stared at the wall with brooding eyes.
“I love your
generous sentiments. Believe me, Oma! I want to put my faith in your
optimism, but I can’t,” he muttered, turned around and rested a hand on his
grandmother’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” she
responded, wondering what else to say.
“Oma, do you
know something?”
“Tell me,” she said,
feigning enthusiasm.
Hans looked at her
and made an effort to smile. “I am your grandson, and I know how you feel about
this, But Germany isn’t the right place for me. Yes, Oma! It is not for
me, not anymore. I shall go to Kamerun. I discussed this the other day with
Mami and Herr Heinrich, and they were objective about it.”
“What do you mean
they are objective?”
“They too aren’t
against the idea of moving out of Germany if the situation in the
country gets to a crisis point for certain category of people. It is bad, Oma.
Believe me! I have every reason to think it is time for me to look for that
safe haven before the situation deteriorates even further.”
Alexandra Herzl nodded. “I see! You didn’t trust the way I
would take it until now?” she said, dimming her eyes.
“I knew how you
would feel.”
Alexandra Herzl
wiped a suppressed tear. “I will miss you. Of course I will miss you,” she
whimpered with a sigh.
“I am sorry, Oma.”
“Personally, I think
there is no reason for you to be afraid. We Germans are a civilized people.”
Hans reflected for a
moment, and then shook his head in disapproval. “Times are changing. Events are
moving against people like us. I must act now. It took a lot of prudent
thinking for me to make this decision to go to Kamerun. It is the best option
for me. I have a father there who is enthusiastic about having his son with
him.”
A faint smile
suddenly appeared on Alexandra Herzl’s lips, making them to quiver. It also lit
up her eyes in a sweet moment of reminiscence. “Josef is a good and intelligent
man,” she said.
“You mean my
father?” Hans mumbled in a barely audible voice.
“Yes, your father.
Take it from me that he is a wonderful man. No decent person can afford to
regret knowing such a wonderful soul. You should be proud of him.”
Hans nodded as he
fought back the mist developing in his eyes and the conflicting emotions and
thoughts racing through his heart and mind. “You are the person I will miss the
most not returning home to every day.”
“Oh, Hans,” she
muttered and took him in her arms.
Hans had not
expected his grandmother to turn around all of a sudden and embrace him. He had
never imagined Germans could be so effusively emotional, and had not expected
her to be so demonstrative in her sentimentality. But then, he responded to her
deep, affectionate and unexpected embrace all the same, wrapping his arms
around her in an upsurge of emotion he had not imagined he could muster. He did
so without even thinking about it.
“Oma!” he
mumbled.
“I will miss you
too,” she said. “But missing you would be a lot easier to handle than the
thought of losing you,” she added.
With soothing words muttered,
mutual promises exchanged and emotions suppressed and expressed, Hans felt
relieved. However, he did something strange to his nature as he went down on
his knees, took his grandmother’s right hand and kissed it almost reverently,
surprising her in the process.
“You have been too
dear to me, Oma. Our separation is not going to be forever. Nazism
wouldn’t survive us,” he said.
Alexandra Herzl had difficulties
falling asleep that night. She read the letter from her daughter in Berlin three times and
committed the contents to memory before putting it away in her chest. The half
glass of brandy she had intended to be her only for the night led her to the
second, and then to another, to the point where her head was swirling when the
clock in the sitting room struck 02:00 hours. Yet the urge to continue drinking
would not go away. Perhaps another drink would help, she thought.
The sound of an
early morning bird squeaking outside interrupted her thoughts. She even thought
she liked the noise it made and wondered for a moment what species it could be.
But she did not dwell on it as she poured herself the fourth glass of whisky,
indifferent to the effect it could have on the sedative she had just taken. She
gulped down the drink, slipped under the bedcovers and reflected on the
contents of the letter.
The trend of events
in Germany was making Karina apprehensive. She was getting worried beyond the
endurance of her nerves over the facts that she was half-Jewish and her husband
was a big shot in the Communist party. And now, she would also have to contend
with the pressing issue of her grandson’s future in the country. Her daughter
barely mentioned Hans in the letter, probably because she did not want to share
some useful information with her. She wondered whether the letter contained any
hint that she too was thinking of leaving the country.
Alexandra Herzl got
up from bed for the umpteenth time, placed the glass on the stool and walked to
the mirror. She looked at her reflection and concluded that the person staring
back at her did not look fortunate at all. Her husband and her only son had
sacrificed their lives in a purposeless war that ended with the German people
in defeat and consumed by a festering sense of vengeance that was becoming
frightening. She no longer found comfort in her long-held perception of Germans
as a rational people. The quest for vengeance was blinding her people,
threatening to throw them all into another abyss, perhaps one that could be far
worse than the ordeal they went through during and after the Great War.
And now, even her
beloved grandson was fleeing the land of his birth, the land his ancestors had
fought and died for. Worrying thoughts haunted her mind until the quietness of
the morning sent her staggering back to her bed where she fell asleep minutes
after she closed her eyes.
Hans also had a hard time falling
asleep that night. He drank a glass of whisky, ate cucumbers and even thought a
glass of milk would help to soothe the feeling of unease that he was having a
hard time dispelling. However, when he realized the futility of his efforts in
overcoming his restlessness, he went for the encyclopedia again, hoping to get
more information on Kamerun. He started with the territory’s history this time
around.
Events that took
place in the landmass before colonization turned out to be a lot more
interesting. He learned that the territory was at the crossroads of north to
south and east to west migrations throughout the history of the African
continent, making it the only entity with related peoples to all the four major
language groups in Africa. He mused over the
fact that Carthaginian sailors and adventurers visited its coast, and was
amazed that the northern half of the land became the base from where Ousman Dan
Fodio undertook the most far-reaching spread of Islam in Sub-Saharan Africa
before contemporary European powers grappled with one another to stake their
claims on the continent from its coast. However, when he read that in 1884, Britain lost to Germany by a fraction of a week’s
delay in its quest to make the African territory its colony, he understood why
the British crown never stopped having an interest in the land.
The history in the
times of the Germans was more explicit. Hans learned that Kamerun became a
German colony in 1884, following its annexation by the German envoy Dr. Gustav
Nachtigal. He found out that the other major colonial powers recognized Germany’s claim to the territory during the Berlin conference of
that same year, and that German Kamerun took the shape of a territorial entity
after 1884 through the great expeditions and explorations carried out by
prominent figures in the history of the colony. The outsized figure of Dr.
Zintgraff towered above the others in staking Germany’s claim to the territory.
Hans also read about
the great battles the German Colonial Army fought with less subservient ethnic
groups, tribes and clans of the land, notably the Bafut people. He reserved a
great deal of admiration for the hardy explorers who penetrated the territory's
inhospitable eastern forest regions to open up vast areas as far as the Kadei
and Boumba rivers. He was equally amazed by the speed with which the German
colonial administration opened up the territory, a land they referred to as Germany’s
“African Pearl”.
Even so, Hans
acknowledged the high price Kamerunians paid for the progress made under German
colonial rule. The forced labor policies, forced requisition of land and the
harsh reprisal against native opposition decimated villages, caused the deaths
of thousands and moved populations to “alien parts.” of the land. His curiosity
spiked further when he started reading about Martin Paul Samba and Rudolf Duala
Manga Bell—two outstanding native Kamerunians who distinguished themselves at
the onset of the Great War. While Martin Paul Samba was a former top ranking
soldier in the German colonial army, Rudolf Duala Manga Bell was the son of a Duala chief who signed the treaty recognizing German annexation
of Kamerun. He found it intriguing that the two former allies of the German
colonial government studied in Germany.
When he read about their execution in 1914 for conspiring with the foes of Germany, he concluded that their deaths marked
the biggest scar Germany
created on its former colony.
The encyclopedia
said little about the war itself, except for a brief mention of its early
stages in German Kamerun.
Hans yawned as he
tried to make sense of the last year of German rule in the territory. The German
colonial administration had just eliminated Kamerunian leaders over differences
that could have been resolved, leaving the land devoid of leading political
figures after the Great War. He was convinced Martin Paul Samba and Rudolf
Duala Manga Bell appreciated German values. Now, he understood why the
victorious Allied powers faced no serious opposition from Kamerunians when they
partitioned German Kamerun into French Cameroun and British Cameroons in Versailles during the
post-war peace conference held there. Even his father was out of Kamerun at the
time France and Britain
carved up the land.
Hans sighed, closed
the book, put it aside and shut his eyes, willing himself into a slumber that
would stay unbroken for the next six hours.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hans felt a heavy sense of relief when
the French embassy in Berlin
finally granted him a visa to travel to French Cameroun. This nerve-stretching
test to his resolve began right from the application process, with an initial
refusal from the French authorities to formalize his ties to the land, even
though his father happened to be a native-born Kamerunian. The ethnic Breton
ambassador maintained that he was German by birth, and that he was bearing the
distinctive last name Heinrich, which among other unstated reasons, failed to
qualify him as a Kamerunian. Even so, the final results left Hans happy. The
passageway to French Cameroun would relieve him of depressing emotions, or so
he thought. But he never forgot the bitter experience.
It happened to be an
unusually warm day that late January, as if a spell was hovering over the city
of Berlin, lulling both the sinister and benevolent forces trying to shape its
destiny. The tranquillizing feeling stirred such warm emotions in Hans's bosom
that he thought it would be a good idea to share it with Karl Mittenzer, his
friend from high school. He sensed Karl’s nervousness the moment his friend
opened the door for him to get in. Karl received him in a cordial manner all
the same, and then asked him to settle into a Victorian seat.
“The arrangements
for me to leave Germany
have been finalized,” Hans said, half an hour into his visit.
Karl coughed
uneasily and moved in his seat. “Oh, my friend, I don’t know whether I should
be happy for you or be worried for Germany! It is sad, especially with
all our good citizens that have left or the increasing numbers that are in the
process of leaving. We cannot pretend that the process is not draining Germany
of some of its valuable brains. It is an exodus.”
“Did you just say
exodus?”
“Uh-huh! I think
most of those leaving are convinced Germany doesn’t want them.”
Hans nodded and
scratched his chin. “Did my plans surprise you?”
A split of a second
smile that Hans barely noticed crossed Karl’s face. “Rosa told me you want to
go to Africa. What is there in Kamerun for
you?”
Hans nodded again,
fighting his suspicions. Rosa Niessen was his girlfriend for two years until
she found out that he cheated on her with a blonde Sorb and decided to call off
their relationship. He was still determined to get her back, if not, then
reconcile with her before leaving for French Cameroun. That notwithstanding, Rosa could be vindictive in a self-punitive way.
“My sister told me
she has been away from Berlin
for more than a month now.”
Karl nodded. “She is
still in Dortmund
with an uncle. Speaking from what I heard on grapevine, she got herself a good
and befitting job over there. She is lucky.”
“It appears the
Nazis are providing jobs for their kinds only.”
Karl shrugged,
avoiding his friend’s eyes. “Der Führer promised jobs before the
elections. He is a great leader except that―,” he said and emitted a cough of
discomfort.
“Except what?” Hans
asked, never taking his eyes off his friend’s face.
“Well!” Karl winced
and shifted uneasily in his seat. “Sometimes, it is okay to turn a blind eye to
the few faults if the aim is for a greater good. Don’t you agree with me on
this one?”
“What are you
talking about?”
“You know what I am
talking about,” Karl said with a note of exasperation in his voice. “Do I have
to scream it out that his policies against the Jews are somehow disturbing?”
“It is unbelievable,
Karl! I think you were about to justify his actions.”
Karl groaned. “Why
don’t we skip this topic? I don’t think anything good is going to come out of
it.”
“I can’t believe it,
Kumpel!” Hans stuttered, “Based on the way you sounded, I was beginning
to get the feeling that you are indifferent to the problem. Those men at the
top are insane. Ethnic Germans are not the only ones who are behind all the
good things that happened or that are happening in Germany. This country was built by
all its citizens.”
“There is no way we
could have lost the war had it not been the unpatriotic non-Germans living
within our borders.”
An expression of
shock and disbelief settled on Hans’s face to the point where he bit his left
thumb without intending to. “You are harboring a discomforting view,” he said
in a labored voice.
“I have been
thinking too.”
“Phew!” Hans gasped.
“What now? That Germany
was stabbed in the back during the Great War as Der Führer claims?”
“Not exactly!"
“That Jews,
communists, socialists and other alien elements are responsible for our defeat;
that the loss of Alsace, Lorraine and the lands of Holy Prussia are
their faults too?”
“That’s not exactly
how I look at things.”
Then Hans chortled. He did not want to, but he could not dispel
the somber feeling. “So, tell me, my dear friend. Who caused the defeat of our Germany?”
“It is very obvious. We were cursed with
renegades, the selfish and the cowardly. And the truth is that they came from
varying camps.”
“Be candid, my
friend. Why don’t you scream it out to my face that you think renegade, selfish
and cowardly non-Germans betrayed Germany? That the Jews are
precisely the traitors you have in mind.”
“You are putting
words into my mouth.”
“Oh, common! Why
don’t you face it; why don’t you admit it?”
“I still don’t think
we should argue about subjects we are incapable of influencing. Trust me, Hans,
nothing good will come out of our different views on this sensitive subject.”
“A man’s dreams,
plans and works should be open for self-analysis. Do not let others be the
judge for you on something you are better placed to explain.”
“I am getting
another drink. Do you want a refill?” Karl asked, indicating the whisky bottle.
Hans shook his head
no. “I am fine.”
Karl nodded to show
that he understood. Then he poured himself half a glass, took a sip, savored it
for a while, and then sat down again.
“Der Führer has
great plans for this country,” he said at length, and then cleared his throat,
“Yes, his plans are far-reaching and colossal. They need men to coordinate
those plans. In fact, the security service approached me for a job. Hell, I
have been a lawyer without a job for months.”
“Don’t get yourself
mixed up with them.”
Karl shrugged and
took a slug of the whisky. “I appreciate your concerns, Kumpel.
Unfortunately, words alone do not help. I need to apply my intelligence for the
good of this country. Can’t you see? I too must contribute to the growing
strength of the Reich.”
“Not by becoming a
member of a security force whose allegiance is to the Nazi party.”
“You are wrong!”
Karl cried all of a sudden.
“Wrong?” Hans
retorted in a slightly elevated voice. “Who or what do you think you would be
serving? Certainly not the Germany
our grandfathers and parents fought to defend! You will end up serving an idea,
my dear friend. Look! They are going to mess up our people’s conscience.”
“I have a mind of my
own.”
“Tell me something,”
Hans said with steel in his voice, “My mother is partly Jewish. Can you refuse
orders that would deprive people like her of certain rights as Germans?”
“I said I have a
mind of my own. That mind considers her as a German with all the rights that come
with being a proud child of the fatherland.”
“And what about the
others―someone like Alex, our mutual friend?”
“Come on Hans, let’s
talk about something else?”
“And what about
someone like me, who is the son of a Negro man and a half-Jewish woman?”
“You are upset,
Kumpel.”
A moment of eerie
quietness settled between the friends as they grappled with their thoughts and
avoided each other’s eyes. Even their faces betrayed their uneasiness.
Hans blushed finally.
“I can see a growing insanity all around us, Karl. It is eating deeper and
deeper into our beloved Germany.
I wonder if anybody can do anything about it. It is as if it must reach its
logical conclusion,” he said in a brooding voice.
“I see no insanity.”
“Yes, there is a
whole lot of it. It is becoming incurable. Rational people are almost helpless
in the face of this growing madness. That is what I want you to look at. There
is hardly anything you can do to fight it.”
“Don’t underestimate
me.”
“It would be a good
idea for you to relocate to Austria
or Switzerland
before this whole madness consumes you too? You have relatives across our
southern borders.”
Karl’s face turned
crimson. It was at that moment that Hans realized his friend’s soul was in
conflict. He watched Karl take a deep breath, and then put his drink down on
the side stool.
“You know I love Germany.
I am from Wurttemberg.
Germany
is my home. Yes, Hans! Germany’s
greatness ought to be restored.”
“My father has a
growing business. We can work for him and enjoy the fun of life out there in
that frontier world,” Hans said desperately, “We have German-owned plantations
in both French Cameroun and British Cameroons.
And they are expanding. They are going to have jobs for us. Why don’t we move
to Africa and stake it out there until this
madness is over?”
Karl shook his head
in what Hans supposed was feigned rue. “That sounds ridiculous. This is my
home. I have to stay here. Things will definitely improve. Der Führer’s
actions do not constitute policies. They are just temporary measures to
stabilize things and get Germany
on its feet again,” he said in a sudden frenzy that surprised Hans.
Hans sat back in his
seat and plastered his friend with a quizzical look. Then it finally dawned on
him. Humfried Schwarz, their mutual friend could have been right about Karl
after all. His friend could be flirting with Nazism. He had even floated his
suspicions that Karl and Rosa were involved. Why had he dismissed Humfried’s
words three months ago as if it never crossed his mind that Karl thought of him
as a rival at one point in their long friendship? Now, he was convinced that
his friend was developing a dangerous streak.
Hans’ thoughts raced
to a conclusion, pitting rationality against instincts. Despite Karl’s cordial
smiles, he too possessed the unscrupulous ambition luring some ethnic Germans
to the ideology of the Nazis. Why did he fail all along to discern that
perilous nature of his friend’s ambitions?
“I can see you have
already made up your mind,” Hans muttered.
Karl nodded. “It has
been carefully thought over. Candidly speaking, you are exceptional from the
lot Der Führer is against. I understand your decision to leave Germany.
It is regrettable, but I want you to know that I think Germany needs people like you more
than it needs me.”
Hans chortled and
looked at his friend with an incredulous expression on his face. “What are you
talking about?”
“I know irrational
people are in our midst. They are incapable of distinguishing the good from the
bad.”
Hans smiled wryly. “Ah!
You mean the good from the bad! That too has become a basis of distinguishing
people from one another, or precisely one group from another. I always thought
the bad are the criminals and those less enthusiastic about the welfare of Germany.”
Karl gulped empty
his glass of drink, his demeanor overbearing. “Let’s put it this way. I hold
you, Alex and Humfried in high esteem. I shall always be available to safeguard
your interests. That is, if the need arises and if it is within my powers.”
Hans shook his head
in disbelief. “Within your powers, you said?”
“Within my powers,”
Karl reiterated.
“You are getting
yourself into a group, my dear friend. Most of us have an idea of how they
operate. Henceforth, do not be surprised when people start judging you based on
the group’s activities. People will start judging you as a Nazi, irrespective
of the extent of your involvement with that party. Once you get in, you are in,
Kumpel. Never forget that.”
“Perhaps you are
right. Who knows?” Karl said with a shrug. “I bear no malice against you and
your people. But I have Germany
at heart.”
Hans got up and
regarded his friend fixedly for a moment. “I’m leaving now,” he said and
started for the door.
Karl got up too and
went after him. “Hans!” he called, stopping him just as he had his hand on the
knob.
Hans turned around
and regarded his friend with brooding eyes. “Yes Karl.”
“I know there are
moments when I might even be viewed as a difficult person to understand. I even
wonder what I really stand for. But what else do we have with us to ensure our
sanity except our love for something beyond ourselves―our love for our families,
our love for our fatherland?”
“Don’t fool
yourself, Kumpel. Our love for our country is worth nothing if it
deprives us of our sense of humanism, if it destroys positive consensus. Do we
have any form of consensus in Germany
today? No, no! We do not. Rationalism isn’t cheap anymore.”
Karl laughed
uncomfortably and ruffled his hair. “Come on, Kumpel! You have your olde
freund hier. I am the same buddy you will find tomorrow.”
Hans turned around
and stared at Karl straight in the eye, forcing him to look away. “I hope so,”
he said with a note of sadness in his voice.
“Do you really want
to leave now?”
Hans nodded.
“In that case, greet
your family for me.”
“When do you plan to
pay us a visit?”
“I don’t know. We
are facing uncertain times.”
“We shall see again
before I board the ship,” Hans said and patted Karl on the shoulder in an
awkward manner.
Karl nodded and
leaned on the door. “Also, I don’t think I can go that far.”
“That far? What do
you mean?”
“I cannot go that
far in seeing you off.”
“Why?” Hans asked,
dimming his eyes in the momentary haze of incomprehension that glutted his
mind.
“There is someone,”
Karl said, took a deep breath, and then continued, “I am expecting someone any
moment from now. He is important. Commitments you know,” he stuttered and
shrugged in an apologetic manner.
Hans looked at his
friend deeply for a moment and understood. “You don’t need to explain anything
to me,” he said and flashed him a faint smile, “I understand,” he added, opened
the door and walked out. He did not even say goodnight.
He was still furious
when he took the second bend from Karl’s home. His friend was undergoing a lot
of transformation like someone searching for a new role for himself in the New
Germany. Humfried was right about Karl after all. Why had he doubted Humfried
all the time? Karl was embracing Nazism with open arms. His apology not to see
him off was a polite excuse not to be seen with him. Hans bit his lip and
trudged on.
It was only nine
o’clock, but the night carried an eerie quietness with it as if the
neighborhood was bracing itself for a disaster. Even the streets looked
deserted too. True they were usually scanty at that hour of the season, but he
had been away for two years, so he could not dismiss the possibility of changes
so easily. It was a chilly night too, forcing Hans to pocket his hands and
quicken his pace. He kept walking for a couple of minutes preoccupied with his
thoughts and paying little attention to the things and people around him. The
only time he slowed down a little was as he approached the intersection to the
next street. In fact, he heard voices with a worrying ring in them, but failed
to dwell on them. However, someone called his name, forcing him to snap out of
his thoughts and raise his head. That was the moment he first saw them. There
were five men altogether, and they were in their late twenties or early
thirties. He immediately deduced from the men’s facial expressions, tall and
slightly muscular frames, hardened looks and outfit that they were involved
with the paramilitary. He heaved his shoulders and kept on walking despite the
chill that ran up his spine.
“Black Jew, Hans
Heinrich,” one of the men called out, distinguished himself from the group and
approached Hans in a half-running manner.
Hans realized it was
too late to turn around and make a run for his life. But, why run? He
thought. Now, the men were less than eight yards away, and they looked too
malicious for his liking. The fact that
one of them recognized me could prove to be helpful, he thought. Hans kept
on walking in a slightly hesitant manner until they closed in on him.
“Halt! We
want to talk to you,” one of the brown-shirted men barked.
Hans put up a
dignified air as he stopped. But he did not turn around. “What do you want?” he
asked in a calm voice that was surprising even to his own ears.
“What is it we
want?” the second man repeated.
“The creep lives
with that communist?” the tallest and meanest looking, said, his chevron
moustache aligned in a funny way.
“Ja!” Another
growled. “His father is an African monkey. And worst still, his mother is a Jew
married to a communist.”
Hans fought back his
rising infuriation. “Verzeihen Sie bitte, Meine Herren. I am
trying to get back home after visiting my friend. I suppose you don’t mind
that.”
“You will get home
all right, but not until after we are done with you,” the third man said with a
mocking laughter that had an insane ring in it.
“Tell us the name of
the ape your Jewish mother fell in love with to conceive you.”
Hans did not
respond. Instead, he turned around and looked at the man who threw the insult.
At that moment, he saw the silhouette of an approaching figure down the street.
He could not discern the face, but the profile looked so much like Karl’s that
he was about to shout out his name. Then the figure stopped, hesitated for a
moment, and then turned around and hurried away.
“I see what you are
doing. You think you can defy us by not responding to our questions. Huh?” the
fourth man said and edged closer.
“He must answer this
one or else―,” the fifth man said.
“What is the
question?” one of the men asked.
“Was the kike who
raped your grandmother circumcised?”
Hans did not utter a
word. He knew that the fifth man knew something about his lineage too.”
“Answer us, black
kike,” the first man ordered.
Hans maintained his
tranquility and sucked his mouth, wondering whether it was actually Karl
backing away after observing the thugs harassing him or if it was someone else.
“Say something,” one
of the men shouted with a slight plea in his voice.
Hans stared at them
straight in the eye, moving from one person to the other. He settled on the
last fellow who was having a look of discomfort on his face, the man who had
tried to engage him in an eye-to-eye contact. He was about to say something to
him when the others pounced on him—punching his head, stomach and back. They
rained him with kicks and shoves that knocked him off his feet and brought him
crashing down by the roadside. Hans attempted to fight back, but they quickly
overwhelmed him. He shielded his face with both hands and curled to avoid the
kicks and blows raining on his body. The men pounded and cursed him, laughed at
him and mocked him, spat on him and promised him hell to the point where he
thought he was about to die. Then they dragged him up the street and abandoned
him on the curb. He lay there all bloodied and battered for about five minutes
before he tried to get up again. The first effort saw him tumbling back. In the
end, he managed to crawl onto the pavement.
“Kamerun, Kamerun…Kamerun.” Hans mumbled,
as he tried to make use of his legs.
Eva was reading a novel in the sitting
room when she heard the noise outside. She dropped the book on the sofa and
dragged her feet to the door, gripped by curiosity, fear and apprehension. She
opened the door yawning, and then peered outside. The sight of his
half-conscious brother bent over with his buttocks on the cobblestones forced a
scream out of her mouth. Hans was bloody and dirty, with a big cut on his
forehead. With his eyelids and lips so swollen, he was barely recognizable. She
continued screaming and even shut the door before opening it again.
“Eva,” he gasped and
fell on her feet.
“Mami…Mami, Mami—”
she continued screaming haltingly, unable to control her rising hysteria.
Karina failed to
retain her usual calm when she ran to the door and found Eva struggling to get
Hans on his feet. She too uttered a loud, sharp and piercing cry as if she had
to complement her daughter in her distress. As the women tried to give some
support to his wobbling legs, weeping on his body as they did so, Rudolph
Heinrich reached the scene mouth agape, his shirt unbuttoned and his zip down.
He managed to calm the women down. Then he made Hans rest his weight on his
body. Assisted by Karin and Eva; they carried him into his room.
The family helped
him undress. Then they helped him take a bath before they cleaned his wounds.
“Kamerun!” was the
last word from Hans’s lips that night before he passed out into a tranquilizing
sleep.
The freighter Hans
boarded left the Kiel harbor for the voyage to Africa on a wet Thursday morning. He left behind a
country that was about to give birth to a new order, fearful that it risked
pitting Germany
again against the rest of the world. Hardly did he imagine even in his wildest
dreams that the new order could affect his German family. It had already sucked
in Karl Mittenzer a week ago when he became a member of the Waffen SS,
otherwise known as the Schutz Staffel (SS)―the Nazi paramilitary that
would become Hitler’s Praetorian Guard. He thought his friend had entered a
pact with the devil.
Like all determined
prospectors, he left Europe behind, convinced that destiny was taking him away
from a land devoid of hope, to a land holding a better future for him, and
perhaps for his future descendants too. He thought he would find his new haven
in a land whose coastal mountain ranges were described by Carthaginian
adventurers as ‘The Chariots of the Gods’ when they observed it spewing lava
some two thousand years ago.
Hans fell asleep
that night without an iota of doubt that staking his future in the alluring
land often referred to as ‘Africa in Miniature’ was the right thing to do. His
new homeland would be the land Portuguese sailors called Rio dos Camaros,
meaning River of Shrimps, when they visited its shores four centuries ago, and
then moved up the Wouri estuary and found a river rich with shrimps.
CHAPTER FIVE
Josef Nana Njike paced his office room
in Nkongsamba restlessly that wet Monday morning. He was agitated, a mood he
could not comprehend. He had left his home that morning with much anticipation,
which is often how he began a new week. That is, until his car broke down
barely thirty yards away from his home. He had considered that a mild
irritation that an average guy could easily shake off, and then continued the
commute to his office on foot, whistling and greeting people as he walked
along. However, that optimistic spirit evaporated when a French soldier cyclist
splashed muddy water on his well-polished shoes, and then rode away without
looking back or offering even a word of apology.
“The bastard,” he
had cursed.
Even so, he only
attained the height of his irritation after he stepped into his office. Hardly
had he settled behind his desk when the door burst open and one of his
employees ushered himself in beaming with smiles.
“Tapang has a
letter. I am sorry, no. Tapang has a telegram that came from Douala last Friday,”
Franz Tchakounteu had announced, using his name of respect.
He had grunted,
slightly bemused by Tchakounteu’s beaming smile. “Where is it now?”
He remembered
Tchakounteu coughing nervously as he looked away, as if he just found something
interesting at the window. “Eboua should be having it. In fact, he promised to
give it to you without delay. I bet his wife did it again with her bickering.
That woman has a way of making my friend forget to use his brains. I can swear
she is the reason why he failed to get the telegram to you.”
“Where is he?” Nana
Njike had asked in a leveled voice.
The nervous-looking
Tchakounteu had scratched his head before responding. “He came to work quite
early today, but left a short while ago for your home. He told me he wanted to
catch you there and give you the telegram before you leave for office. I don’t
think he expected you here this early.”
“For God’s sake, how
long have you been working with me? Don’t I always start my Mondays earlier
than the other days? Now, get out of here and make sure I get the telegram
before, before—” he had half-screamed and motioned Tchakounteu out with an
angry wave of his hand.
That was how his bad
morning got exacerbated that January, leaving him in a state of heightened
emotion that he deplored. How could his day start so badly? The discomfiture he
had encountered en-route to work should have been soothed by a promising office
day. It was as if his employees were mocking him, giving him the impression
that they too were out to add more misery to his day. He felt particularly
disheartened because Jacob Eboua and Franz Tchakounteu were employees he
trusted. How could they not understand the importance of a telegram in their
part of the world, a rare dispatch for that matter? He was convinced it
concerned him and his businesses, something their livelihood also depended on.
To keep somebody’s
telegram for a day, let alone for three days was ludicrous, a development that
he could only attribute to the falling values in the land. His employees were
failing him in that regard.
He fell into pensive
mood with a contemplative expression on his face as he walked to the window,
opened it and viewed his coffee plantation outside. His intuition was at play
again, indicating something unusual. He wondered what that could be. His
cluelessness exasperated him even further. In spite of that, he resolved to
trust his intuition. It rarely failed him.
Even as Nana Njike
thought about it, he knew something momentous was about to happen. Could it be
the French administration again or could it be his family back home in
Banganté? The worry forced a sigh out of his lips
His heart skipped in
his chest as he leaned on the windowpane and thought about the telegram again.
He would have been able to dispel the nagging worry at the back of his mind had
he seen it right away. He scratched his wrist from an itch, and then looked at
his hands wet with perspiration and sighed. The furrow on his forehead appeared
more accentuated when he left the window and slumped in his seat behind his
office desk.
Just then, an
agitated Eboua knocked and entered. Nana Njike glared at him for a moment, and
then leaned forward with his elbows on his desk.
“Good morning Tapang.
I brought the letter,” Jacob Eboua stuttered.
Nana Njike did not
respond. Instead, he shut his eyes and shook his head repeatedly, surprised
that he was not as angry as he was moments ago. He opened his eyes again and
fixed them on Eboua for a moment, only to realize that the man looked
hung-over.
“Do you have any
idea what is in there?” he asked in a mild voice.
Eboua turned the
telegram over in his hands, looked at it, and then looked away. “Yes, Tapang,”
he said in a faint voice.
“Do we receive
telegrams in French Cameroun that often?”
“No, Tapang!”
“Do you think it is
important?”
“I believe it is
important, Tapang.”
“Important!” Nana
Njike exclaimed and threw his hands in the air in a comical manner.
“Yes, Tapang!
That’s what I think! Something tells me it is bearing a very important
message.”
“But you kept it for
three days before bringing it to me,” Nana Njike said in a calm voice.
“I am sorry, Tapang.
I was so preoccupied with worthless issues to the point where I forgot to bring
it to you, to your home, as I had intended originally.”
“Occupied doing
what?” Nana Njike snapped, and then shook his head and sighed.
“I am sorry, Tapang.”
Nana Njike spoke
again in a voice devoid of any irritation. “But you were at Talla’s funeral
last Saturday and got yourself sluggishly drunk. You spent most of your day
yesterday at Mami Wanji’s drinking spot, depleting her stock of palm wine. What
is wrong with you, Eboua?”
“Huh, Tapang!
How did you know about that one?”
“I am informed,
Eboua, even by people who care about your welfare.”
“I am sorry, Tapang.”
“Tell me.”
“Hmm! You see, Tapang!”
“What is wrong with
you?” Nana Njike repeated.
Eboua bit his lip,
opened his mouth to say something, apparently thought about it, and then shook
his head instead. “It is a long story that involves my wife and her family,” he
said finally.
“Your wife and her
family, you said,” Nana Njike beamed encouragingly and nodded.
“Yes, Tapang! The
ciphers have been too demanding on me. In fact, they have been bothering me
beyond the endurance of my patient nerves. Tchakounteu can attest to everything
I say here. My home is always full of my in-laws, yet they had the guts to
demand that I contribute the equivalent of a month’s salary for the preparation
of her late brother’s memorial.”
“Hah! Your patient
nerves, you said.”
“They are too
demanding as if I am blessed with all the wealth in this world.”
“That shouldn’t push
you to drink that much to the point where you thought your mother-in-law was
your wife and ordered her to bring your food to the table,” Nana Njike said,
rubbing his cheeks.
“A weakness, Tapang.”
“Did you say a
weakness?”
“Yes, Tapang!
A weakness aggravated by other pressures.”
“Have you complied
with the demands made by your in-laws?”
“No, Tapang,”
Eboua replied with a vehemence in his voice that surprised Nana Njike.
“No?”
“Yes, Tapang. I said
no, never. I am sick and tired of their endless demands. Let them go to hell
and ask the devil himself to make me change my mind. Only, they would be
surprised to find that I am the devil.”
Nana Njike chuckled.
He laughed so much that he thought he was about to choke. Eboua was funny,
always funny, and so funny in an unintentional way. His effort to terminate the
laughter ended with a series of coughs that left him with misty eyes. The
sudden relief from the brief laughter amazed him. Eboua had altered his mood.
Nana Njike regarded him for a moment with a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Put the telegram on
the table,” he said finally and pursed his lips in an effort not to laugh any
more.
Eboua did. “Thanks, Tapang!”
“I want you to
remind me about this. We shall double your salary for this month. I suggest you
contribute half of it to the memorial service or Cry Die.”
“Thank you Tapang.
I don’t know what else to say.”
“Oh! I don’t expect
you to say anything. Just in case I forget, please remind me to make my
contribution before the celebrations. You can pick it up at my home.”
“Thank you,
Tapang!” Eboua repeated and held his hands together in gratitude.
“You haven’t shown
any inclination to visit my home of late. We can always find a day to have
dinner with your wife and kids. Don’t you think it is a good idea?”
“The idea is good, Tapang,”
Eboua said effusively, “And thank you very much for the invitation and all the
other help you have given me in life. You saved me again. Please, understand
why I don’t want to alter the happy mood that always prevails in your home with
the worries of my conjugal home. I am even planning to build a wooden divide on
our bed that would separate my wife from me. Why would anybody expect me to
sleep soundly when I know that I have a wife by my side who is plotting
constantly with her family to leave me without a sou, or without a penny,
as my cousin in British Cameroons would say?”
“Come on, Eboua. She
is a good woman, and you know that. You married a Bamileké woman knowing how
attached the Bamileké people are to the dead. Besides, she is the oldest
daughter of her parents and the first grandchild of both set of her
grandparents”
“I understand, Tapang!
Still, it is a tough job getting involved in all those funerals, memorial
services and Cry Dies.”
“That’s part of the
baggage that comes with her statute. She is trying to live up to expectations
and prove to her people that she is married to a man worthy of his salt, a man
who can be relied upon to sustain the good name of his in-law’s family. Don’t
tell me you aren’t such a man.”
“If the price is an
empty pocket all the time, then I don’t want to be such a man.”
“Ha-ha, ha-ha…ha-ha!” Nana Njike
laughed. “You might not believe this, but I thought you did the wise thing by
marrying a Bamileké woman from a small family. Believe me, Eboua! You should
count yourself lucky for failing to marry Agatha Kwinkeu who had your head
between her legs.”
“Huh, Tapang!
Why did you go there again?”
“To make you
understand you are not really having it bad with your wife!”
“You are right. I
loved Agatha. Perhaps I still love her. The only thing is that she still
frightens me. Hmm! How can a woman go about hurting the person she loves by
hurting herself?”
“Nobody can answer
that.”
“I still can’t.”
“I brought Agatha’s
name up in an effort to make a point, that’s all! Agatha Kwinkeu is the
daughter of the old Bana King’s first son. The king has tens of wives and
hundreds of children. Had you married her as she wanted, attending funerals and
memorials would have been your second job,” Nana Njike said and reclined in his
seat, feeling relaxed for the first time since he stepped into his office that
morning.
Eboua shrugged, “Hmm,
Tapang! Thank you again. I think I should leave now, so that you can go
ahead and read the telegram, and then begin your day.”
Nana Njike waved him
quiet to show that he did not appreciate the incessant show of gratitude. “We
are together. That’s something you should always remember, Eboua. Always bear
that in mind. Any time you have a problem, you come to me rather than get
yourself soaked up in alcohol. You wouldn’t find a solution to your problems
from the booze.”
“I will remember
that.”
“You have my ears
and heart at your disposal.”
“Thank you again, Tapang!”
“I hope you plan to
make a difference this time around and be practical about it.”
“Yes, Tapang!”
Eboua said. “I am promise to be sober, henceforth!”
“Okay!” Nana Njike
muttered, but did not say anything anymore, indicating that Eboua could leave.
“I think I should go
back to the work I was doing,” Eboua offered, “Also, I hope Tapang has
forgiven me.”
Nana Njike nodded
and smiled to show that he did not mind. He was still having an amused look on
his face when Eboua walked out.
Alone in his office
room, Nana Njike sat up in his seat and took out his pipe. He filled it with
tobacco, lit it, inhaled a couple of times, and then puffed out smoke. He could
feel a soothing tranquility that was both comforting and oblivious. It made his
mind to reel a little, to the day he had his first cigarette.
Nana Njike willed
his mind not to dwell on that past. Instead, he leaned back in his seat,
regarded his spacious office and grinned. The interior design was almost the
carbon copy of the office of Otto Zammer, his principal in secondary school
back in Germany.
He always insisted on having the office thoroughly cleaned every day, a sense
of tidiness that continues to awe most of his employees.
He smiled as he
recalled a comment his driver Paul Nkepseu made to another employee. “Our Tapang
makes me wonder whether he isn’t a white man with a black skin,” Nkepseu had
said, not knowing that his boss was in the next room.
Nana Njike’s
children were very fond of Nkepseu. He too, was also amazed by the young
driver’s insightful nature.
He stifled a laugh as he recalled another. “Si―The
Supreme God wasn’t paying attention when he allowed Tapang to be born a
black man with our Bamileké blood. I don’t think he can manage Banganté with
its red soil. Don’t you think that’s why he keeps his family there while he
resides in Nkongsamba?”
He overheard that
comment one hot Saturday afternoon, when he walked into his office after a
hectic day working in his plantation, only to find that it had not been
cleaned. He had subjected Jonas Kwankam, the cleaner, to the better side of his
temper that day. The fellow then went on to grumble to another employee, not
knowing that he was within hearing distance.
Nana Njike puffed
out smoke and inhaled several times before he emptied the pipe into the waste
paper basket. Satisfied with the sense of relief it brought, he reached out for
the telegram on the table, humming Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21 as he did so.
“Ngenjeu,
Ngenjeu…Ngenjeu!” Nana Njike called repeatedly for his friend and assistant in
an excited voice.
The burly Benjamin
Ngenjeu hurried into the office moments after with an astonished look on his
face. “What is it, Tapang?” he asked, wondering why his friend was so
agitated.
Nana Njike got up abruptly from his seat, took quick steps
towards his friend, but said nothing as he rubbed his hands together. At
length, he held Ngenjeu’s shoulder and gasped for breath. “It is my son,” he
stuttered.
“Your son? Which son
are you talking about? Aren’t they all in Banganté?”
“Tambou, my
son is coming home to me at last,” he repeated, using Ngenjeu’s name of
respect.
“Your son? Home? Is
that what you just said?” Ngenjeu offered, too lost for more words.
“Yes, Tambou.
Indeed he is coming home at last. He is supposed to arrive in Douala in three days time. It is real, my
friend and brother. Can you believe that?”
Ngenjeu observed his
friend’s excessive exaltation without batting an eye, thought about it for a
moment, and then walked up to office cupboard by the window and picked up two
crystal glasses and a bottle of gin. He poured three quarters of a glass full
and gave it to Nana Njike, and then made half a glass full for himself before
rejoining his friend. They drank quietly.
“Thanks!” Nana Njike
said after a good dose of the booze.
Ngenjeu flashed him
a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to thank me because I used the opportunity
to have some for myself,” he said and laughed.
Nana Njike laughed
too. “Ah! And the drink is even mine.”
“You needed it. Your
nerves seem to be pretty rusty. Calm them down before telling me the thing that
got you into such a state of delight.”
Nana Njike shook his
head in disbelief. “It is my son in Germany. It is Hans Wette. I
thought I talked to you about him before.”
“I don’t remember
you telling me anything about him,” Ngenjeu said, shaking his head no.
“Ah, I never,” Nana
Njike admitted with a sigh, “The grief of the dispossession was too much for me
to handle. You can’t blame me for not sharing his existence with anybody, can
you?”
Ngenjeu shook his
head no, not knowing what else to say.
“I wanted Hans Wette
to grow up under my watchful eyes, directing words and reassuring gestures. I
wanted him to cherish me as his father, but his grandfather stood between us
even before he was born. Ah, Ngenjeu, he came into the world before I returned
home from Germany.
The whole thing was so depressing. It was really hard for me not to be around
him as a dad.”
“You are right about
that because you did a good job of keeping quiet about it.”
“Yes, I rarely
mentioned his existence. But my wife and the king know about him.”
“You said he is
coming here?” Ngenjeu asked in a calm voice.
Nana Njike nodded
and took a gulp of his drink. “Yes, he is coming home to Kamerun,” he said and
nodded effusively, “That was a request I made five years ago.”
“But, but…but! But,
why now, Tapang?”
Nana Njike sat back
in his chair and explained to his friend. He began from the time he first met
Karina, to the advent of Nazism in Germany. He even talked about the Nuremberg laws and his fears of what it could mean for Germany
and its relationship with the rest of the world.
“Germany rejected
its own seed. Even Herr Solomon Eichmann, a soul I respected greatly for
raising me and for working so hard for Germany, wouldn’t be appreciated and welcomed
in that country today.”
“I understand, Tapang!
Things have changed in Germany
since Hitler came to power in almost the same way as our old ways have been
affronted since the French took over this land from the Kaiser.”
“Hmm! What a comparison!
All the same, I am proud to say that my son has a home here, one that is always
ready to accommodate him. The first seed of my life wouldn’t be dishonored when
he has a place to call the natural abode of his spirit or soul or whatever
appellation you choose to give to the things that make him fully human,” Nana
Njike said, clenching his fist.
“He is Banganté
after all. We have our pride, our dignity,” Ngenjeu offered with gusto.
Nana Njike nodded,
his face looking grave all of a sudden. Ngenjeu watched him quietly for a
moment, until he startled him by getting up abruptly from his seat. Mouth
agape, he fixed his puzzled eyes on his friend, and then started pacing about
as if a new thought was bothering him. When he stopped and turned to Ngenjeu
again, he was radiating his usual authority and force.
“Tambou, you
are a brother from the heart,” Nana Njike began, “I would feel honored if you
help me welcome my son home.”
“I would consider it
an honor to do that. How do you want me to do it?”
“Could you help me by going down to Douala tomorrow and
preparing things there for Hans Wette’s arrival? Your presence there shall
serve a dual purpose. I mean for the cooperation and for us. Please go there,
be my face and get Hans adequately accommodated in Njiah’s hotel. I shall join
you two next Thursday.”
“It is okay, Tapang.
I think I can handle that.”
“You might need a
photograph to identify him.”
Ngenjeu nodded. “Do
you have one here with you?”
“Yes, I do. Give me
a moment, and I will get it for you,” Nana Njike said, pulled the top drawer of
his desk and ferreted among the things there.
“Perhaps you have it
at home,” Ngenjeu offered.
“No, I have it
here,” Nana Njike replied, banged the top drawer, and then grabbed the handle
of the middle drawer. He found the photograph in a book. “Here is the photo of
Hans, my first son. He is unlikely to look much different from the way he looks
here.”
Ngenjeu took the
photograph, regarded it for a moment, and then nodded. “He is big. He looks
like a man already. I see much of you in him”
Nana Njike nodded,
and then smiled warmly as he rubbed his chin. “He is twenty-six and a graduate
of the Humboldt, just like me. Only, he went two years further.”
Ngenjeu nodded too. “That means his presence here could also
serve as a major asset to the business. I bet he knows a lot about modern
agriculture and business.”
Nana Njike nodded. “He
is smart.”
“I shall cherish his
knowledge, Tapang.”
“As a matter of
fact, that is one of the aspects of his coming that I find rosy. Well, my dear
friend and brother, tell the director of that bastard agency to wait for me
next Friday for negotiations. Don’t respond to any of the demands or proposals
he puts forward. He is a whirlwind of a man whose every move should be
anticipated. They shouldn’t know our position before the real talks.”
“The man is rude and
obnoxious. His last proposal was crazy,” Ngenjeu complained bitterly.
Nana Njike laughed
in a raucous voice, never taking his eyes off his friend’s puzzled face. At
length, he sighed and shook his head. “I sometimes wonder if it is true the
things they say about the French—that they are sleazy as businessmen, crazy as
politicians, and that they go about life like born usurpers. Wouldn’t I be stereotyping
too if I hold on to those preconceptions, just like others have been
stereotyping about our people.”
“If I could have my
way, I wouldn’t deal with them at all.”
Nana Njike smiled at
his friend. “Remember that developments since the past years have bonded us
together in an inseparable tango. We are destined to either find a way to enjoy
our dance together or be doomed for perpetuity. That doesn’t mean they
shouldn’t be held accountable for failing to base our relationship on realism.”
“True we are bound
to deal with one another for life. But all I am asking for is a relationship
that is mutually beneficial.”
“It is what most
Kamerunians want.”
A thoughtful
expression appeared on Ngenjeu’s face for a moment. Then he shrugged and smiled
faintly at his friend. He had no interest in philosophy and made it a point of
perceiving business relationships in the simplest terms possible.
“You might be right
after all. I guess you know them better.”
Nana Njike shrugged
too and smiled. “That’s business. The players always want an edge over their
counterparts, even if they share a common interest. Only, in our case, the
French are both players and arbitrators.”
Ngenjeu rose and
pocketed his hand. “Don’t you think it is time I return to the task I was
trying to accomplish before you made a song out of my name?”
“Ha,ha,ha…ha,ha!” Nana Njike
laughed. “Thanks for offering me a shoulder to lean on.”
“It is okay Tapang!
I will leave now and try to put everything in order before I go home and pack a
few things for the trip tomorrow.”
“Again!” Nana Njike
said, scratching his forehead uneasily. “Since you are going to use the train,
I may have need of the vehicle you are driving.”
“No problem,”
Ngenjeu offered.
Nana Njike nodded, and then took out his wallet from his jacket
pocket and counted out a thousand francs. “This is to take care of the enormous
cost you shall incur and for any other inevitability, that is, before I join
you two. I hope it is sufficient.”
“Ah, Tapang!
Believe me; our son will be in the hands of a second father.”
Nana Njike smiled in appreciation. “Treat him well. He is the
first life that came out of my loins.”
“I have never
declined in my affection for your children. You have always made me proud with
the privileged position you set aside for me in your family,” Ngenjeu said,
paused, and then added. “Your children mean more to me than you can imagine.
They are my other family; they are like my own.”
“I understand. You
have constantly reassured me without even saying it,” Nana Njike acknowledged
with a smile, and then rose too, “My dear brother, you can put my mind at rest
if you go down to Douala a day before the ship anchors and take care of his
lodging, food and whatever he fancies before I join you. You know, it is his
first voyage to Africa.”
“I shall be there
earlier than you can imagine.”
Nana Njike patted
his friend on the back. “You have this knack for getting things done the way
they should be. It is amazing. Yes, Tambou! You are an exceptional man.
How you managed to retain most of your values far away from our homeland, I
don’t know. You are truly Bamileké. You understand the seriousness of affairs
and the value of money.”
Ngenjeu shook Nana
Njike’s hand and smiled. “I am from Banganté. Yes, I am Bamileké after all.”
Little was said
after that, before Ngenjeu turned around and left the office.
Nana Njike watched
the door for a moment and thought about Ngenjeu’s mild smile. He knew the money
was too much. But his action was deliberate. Few men would have accepted the
task of bridging the relationship of an adult son and his father who had never
talked to one another before.
Back in his office,
Nana Njike perused the telegram again and realized the coincidence. His son
would be arriving on January 15, the same date that he set foot on German soil
with Solomon Eichmann. He wondered whether that turning point in his life could
herald a similar phase in his son’s life. As his mind wandered back to his
childhood, he doubted if that time of the Dry Season affected their destiny in
any way.
Nana Njike shook
himself out of his reverie and edged towards the window with a pensive look on
his face. His mind grappled with several thoughts for a moment before he
narrowed things down to a final decision. He would go to Banganté immediately
and prepare a place for Hans. He was convinced his native land would be the
best place to integrate his son into the realities of life in French Cameroun.
Nana Njike left his
office late that afternoon, got behind the steering wheel of the company pickup
truck Ngenjeu was using and drove to his six-bedroom mansion overlooking the
Manengouba Mountain. But it wasn’t until three hours after he got there that he
started the drive home to his family, to the bigger than life town called
Banganté that is located in the Southeastern borderland of the traditional
Bamileké realm of the same name.
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