Читать книгу The Land God Made in Anger - John Davis Gordon - Страница 11

He had finished the beers by the time he reached the farm gate shortly before Usakos. Here the desert was turning to thorn trees, scrubby low mountains. This was the start of the cattle country. McQuade closed the gate behind him and set off on the long dirt road through the Schmidt land. It was nine o’clock when he rounded the hill and saw the Schmidt homestead twinkling ahead.

He was taken aback by the number of cars. It appeared that a big party was in progress. There was a black guard with a flashlight at the gate. McQuade wondered if he was doing the right thing, showing up uninvited. The black man recognized him. ‘Goeie naand, Baas Jim.’ He pointed his flashlight, indicating parking space. McQuade parked near the back of the house, and when he switched off the engine he heard orchestra music.

He felt very doubtful about this. This was a large formal party and he didn’t even have a tie. But, hell, he’d just come back from sea and the old people always made him welcome. (‘You come to marry my dodder, aha-ha-ha!’). He mounted the steps to the verandah and walked towards the front door. As he passed the living-room window he stopped, and stared.

The big room had been cleared of furniture and two dozen couples were waltzing. From one wall hung a massive flag, red, white and black with a huge swastika in the middle of it. On another wall hung another flag, almost identical, but the swastika was three-legged: the flag of the AWB, the Afrikaner Weerstand Beweging, the right-wing Afrikaner movement. The women wore ball gowns; half the men were in military uniforms. Some wore black, some grey, with shiny black boots, and each was wearing a swastika armband. Some younger men were in smart khaki uniforms, wearing the AWB swastika armband. McQuade stood on the dark verandah an astonished moment, then suddenly a voice boomed behind him, ‘Willkommen!’ He turned around. Helga’s father was lumbering down the long verandah towards him.

He was a big man, with a barrel chest and a balding head with a round face wreathed in beery smiles, his big arms extended. On his arm was the swastika. McQuade took an uncertain step towards him, and the old man stopped. He stared at McQuade in surprise; then he dropped his arms. ‘What are you doing here?’

McQuade said: ‘Excuse me.’ He made to turn and leave.

The old man cried: ‘Who invited you?’

McQuade stopped. ‘Nobody. I’m sorry, I’ve just got back from sea.’

‘Not even my stupid dodder would invite you today!’

‘She didn’t.’

‘So can’t you see today is a private party?! So what we going to do now?’

‘Forget it, I’m leaving.’

McQuade strode across the verandah. The old man suddenly lumbered after him. ‘Jim – Jim, I’m sorry …’

‘Goodnight, Herr Schmidt.’

‘Jim …’ the old man pleaded, then he bellowed: ‘Helga!’

McQuade was on the lawn when Helga burst onto the verandah. She stared at McQuade disappearing into the darkness, then she clutched up her evening gown and ran down the steps. ‘Jim!’

McQuade was halfway across the lawn when she caught up. ‘Jim!’ She grabbed his arm. Her blue eyes were aghast. ‘What are you doing here?’

McQuade looked back at the house. Half a dozen figures had emerged onto the verandah. ‘What are you doing in there? Dancing under the Nazi flag. With gentlemen wearing uniforms and swastika armbands! And wearing this!’ He pointed at a black velvet choker around her neck, from which dangled a little gold swastika.

‘Didn’t the guard stop you at the gate?’

‘Yes but he thought I was a Nazi too.’ He frowned with amazement. ‘Do you do this often?’

She glared. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t you know what the date is? The twentieth of April!’

‘So?’

She glared at him. ‘Oh, don’t be dense! Whose birthday is on the twentieth of April?’ She waved a hand at the homestead. ‘This is just … a little traditional celebration. The English do the same thing on the Queen’s birthday.’

‘Whose birthday is the twentieth of April?’

She glared at him sullenly. ‘Adolf Hitler’s, you fool!’

McQuade stared at her. Absolutely amazed. He couldn’t believe this. But suddenly he understood what had happened in the bar of the Europahof Hotel, and he was staggered that she was part of this. ‘Jesus Christ.’

She opened her mouth but he went on in wonder: ‘So every year you celebrate the Führer’s birthday? With great big swastika flags and SS uniforms and Nazi armbands? And this …?’ He flicked the little golden swastika.

She hissed. ‘That is just jewellery – the swastika is an ancient international symbol of good!’

‘The Nazi Party was good?’

‘You drink a toast to the Queen on her birthday …?’

He wanted to shake her. ‘The Queen of England happens to have an unblemished political record! You are celebrating the birthday of the most brutal mass-murderer the world has ever known! The man who ordered the Holocaust of six million Jews!’

Her hand flashed in the moonlight and cracked across his face. He stared at her, shocked, his face stinging, and she screamed: ‘That’s the hoax of the twentieth century! There was no Holocaust!’ Her breasts were heaving.

McQuade took a deep breath to control his fury. ‘Goodbye, Helga.’ He added sarcastically: ‘Heil Hitler.’ He turned and strode away.

Helga stood on the lawn, her eyes bright; then she shrieked; ‘Yes, Heil Hitler!’ She stamped her feet together and shot out her right arm and screamed: ‘Heil Hitler!’

A man leapt over the verandah rail and started running towards the Landrover. McQuade got in, slammed the door, and started the engine. He roared off down the gravel drive.