Chapter 2

Two days later Luitenant Verkramp was sitting in his office dreaming of Dr von Blimenstein when a directive arrived from the Bureau of State Security. It was marked “For Your Eyes Only” and had accordingly been read by several konstabels before it reached him. Verkramp read the directive through avidly. It concerned breaches of the Immorality Act by members of the South African Police and was a routine memorandum sent to all Police Stations throughout South Africa.

“You are hereby instructed to investigate cases of suspected liaison between police officers and Bantu women.” Verkramp looked “liaison” up in the dictionary and found that it meant what he had hoped. He read on and, as he read, vistas of opportunity opened before him. “In the light of the propaganda value afforded to enemies of South Africa by press reports of court cases involving SAP officers and Bantu women, it is of national importance that ways and means be found to combat the tendency of white policemen to consort with black women. It is also in the interests of racial harmony that transracial sexual intercourse should be prevented. Where proof of such illegal sexual activity involving members of the SAP is forthcoming, no criminal proceedings should be instituted without prior notification of the Bureau of State Security.”

By the time he had finished reading the document Luitenant Verkramp was not sure whether he was supposed to prosecute offending policemen or not. What he did know was that he had been instructed to investigate “cases of suspected liaison” and that it was “of national importance that ways and means be found”. The notion of doing something of national importance particularly appealed to him. Luitenant Verkramp picked up the telephone and dialled Fort Rapier Mental Hospital. He had something to ask Dr von Blimenstein.

 Later the same morning the two met on what had once been the parade ground for the British garrison and which now served as an exercise area for the inmates of the hospital.

“It’s the ideal spot for what I have to say,” Verkramp told the doctor as they strolled among the patients. “No one can possibly overhear us,” a remark which gave rise in the psychiatrist’s bosom to the hope that he was about to propose to her. His next remark was even more promising. “What I have to ask you concerns… er… sex.”

Dr von Blimenstein smiled coyly and looked down at her size nine shoes. “Go on,” she murmured as the Luitenant’s Adam’s apple bobbed with embarrassment.

“Of course, it’s not a subject I would normally discuss with a woman,” he muttered finally. The doctor’s hopes fell. “But since you’re a psychiatrist, I thought you might be able to help.”

Dr von Blimenstein looked at him coldly. This wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “Go on,” she said reverting to her professional tone of voice. “Out with it.”

Verkramp took the plunge.

“It’s like this. A lot of policemen have anti-social tendencies. They keep doing what they shouldn’t do.” He stopped hurriedly. He had begun to regret ever starting the conversation.

“And what shouldn’t policemen do?” There was no mistaking the note of disapproval in her voice.

“Black women,” Verkramp blurted out. “They shouldn’t do black women, should they?”

There was really no need to wait for the answer. Dr von Blimenstein’s face had gone a strange mauve colour and the veins were standing out on her neck.

“Shouldn’t?” she shouted furiously. Several patients scampered away towards the main block. “Shouldn’t? Do you mean to say you’ve brought me out here just to tell me you’ve been screwing coon girls?”

Luitenant Verkramp knew that he had made a terrible mistake. The doctor’s voice could be heard half a mile away.

“Not me,” yelled Verkramp desperately. “I’m not talking about me.”

Dr von Blimenstein stared at him doubtfully. “Not you?” she asked after a pause.

“On my honour,” Verkramp assured her. “What I meant was that other police officers do and I thought you might have some ideas about how they can be stopped.”

“Why can’t they be arrested and charged under the Immorality Act like everyone else?”

Verkramp shook his head. “Well for one thing they are police officers which makes them rather difficult to catch and in any case it’s important to avoid the scandal.” Dr von Blimenstein stared at him in disgust.

“Do you mean to tell me that this sort of thing goes on all the time?”

Verkramp nodded.

“In that case the punishment should be more severe,” said the doctor. “Seven years and ten strokes isn’t a sufficient deterrent. In my opinion any white man having sexual intercourse with a black woman should be castrated.”

“I quite agree,” said Verkramp enthusiastically. “It would do them a lot of good.”

Dr von Blimenstein looked at him suspiciously but there was nothing to suggest irony in Verkramp’s expression. He was staring at her with undisguised admiration. Encouraged by his frank agreement, the doctor continued.

“I feel so strongly about miscegenation that I would be quite prepared to carry out the operation myself. Is anything wrong?”

Luitenant Verkramp had suddenly turned very white. The idea of being castrated by the beautiful doctor corresponded so closely with his own masochistic fantasies that he felt quite overcome.

“No. Nothing,” he gasped, trying to rid himself of the vision of the doctor, masked and robed, approaching him on the operating table. “It’s just a bit hot out here.” Dr von Blimenstein took him by the arm.

“Why don’t we continue our discussion at my cottage? It’s cool down there and we can have some tea.” Luitenant Verkramp allowed himself to be led off the parade ground and down the hospital drive to the doctor’s cottage. Like the rest of the hospital buildings, it dated from the turn of the century when it had been officers’ quarters. Its stoep faced south and looked over the hills towards the coast and inside it was cool and dark. While Dr von Blimenstein made tea, Luitenant Verkramp sat in the sitting-room and wondered if he had been wise to broach the subject of sex with a woman as forceful as Dr von Blimenstein.

“Why don’t you take off your jacket and make yourself comfortable?” the doctor asked when she returned with the tray. Verkramp shook his head nervously. He wasn’t used to having tea with ladies who asked him to take his jacket off and besides he rather doubted if his braces would go very well with the tasteful decorations in the room.

“Oh come now,” said the doctor, “there’s no need to be formal with me. I’m not going to eat you.” Coming so shortly after the news that the doctor was an advocate of castration, the idea of being eaten by her as well was too much for Verkramp. He sat down hurriedly in a chair.

“I’m perfectly all right like this,” he said, but Dr von Blimenstein wasn’t convinced.

“Do you want me to take it off for you?” she asked, getting up from her own chair with a movement that disclosed more of her legs than Luitenant Verkramp had ever seen before. “I’ve had lots of practice,” she smiled at him. Verkramp could well believe it. “In the hospital.” Feeling like a weasel fascinated by a giant rabbit, Verkramp sat hypnotized in his chair as she approached.

“Stand up,” said the doctor.

Verkramp stood up. Doctor von Blimenstein’s fingers unbuttoned his jacket as he stood facing her and a moment later she was pushing his jacket back over his shoulders so that he could hardly move his arms. “There we are,” she said softly, her face smiling gently close to his, “that feels a lot more comfortable, doesn’t it?”

Comfortable was hardly the word Luitenant Verkramp would have chosen to describe the sensation he was now experiencing. As her cool fingers began to undo his tie, Verkramp found himself swept from the safe remote world of sexual fantasy into an immediacy of satisfaction he had no means of controlling. With a volley of diminishing whimpers and an ecstatic release Luitenant Verkramp slumped against the doctor and was only prevented from falling by her strong arms. In the twilight of her hair he heard her murmur, “There, there, my darling.” Luitenant Verkramp passed out.

 Twenty minutes later he was sitting rigid with remorse and embarrassment wondering what to do if she asked if he wanted another cup of tea. To say “No” would be to invite her to take the cup away for good while to say “Yes” would still deprive him of the only means he had of hiding his lack of self-control. Dr von Blimenstein was telling him that a sense of guilt was always the cause of sexual problems. In Verkramp’s opinion the argument didn’t hold water but he was too preoccupied with the question of more tea or not to enter into the conversation with anything approaching fervour. Finally he decided that the best thing to do was to say “Yes, please” and cross his legs at the same time and he had just come to this conclusion when Dr von Blimenstein noticed his empty cup. “Would you care for some more tea?” she asked and reached out for his cup. Luitenant Verkramp’s careful plan was wrecked before he realized it. He had expected her to come over and fetch his cup, not wait for it to be brought to her. Responding to the contradictory impulses towards modesty and good manners at the same time, he crossed his legs and stood up, in the process spilling the little bit of tea he had kept in his cup in case he should decide to say “No” into his lap where it mingled with the previous evidence of his lack of savoir-faire. Luitenant Verkramp untangled his legs and looked down at himself with shame and embarrassment. The doctor was more practical. Picking the cup off the floor and prising the saucer from Verkramp’s fingers, she hurried from the room and returned a moment later with a damp cloth. “We mustn’t let your uniform get stained, must we?” she cooed with a motherliness which reduced most of Verkramp to a delicious limpness and quite prevented him from realizing the admission of complicity in his mishap implied by the “we” and before he knew what was happening the beautiful doctor was rubbing his fly with the damp cloth.

Luitenant Verkramp’s reaction was instantaneous. Once was wicked enough but twice was more than he could bear. With a contraction that bent him almost double, he jerked himself away from the doctor’s tempting hands. “No,” he squeaked, “not again,” and leapt for cover behind the armchair.

His reaction took Dr von Blimenstein quite by surprise.

“Not what again?” she asked, still kneeling on the floor where his flight had left her.

“Not - What? Nothing,” said Verkramp desperately struggling to distinguish some moral landmark in the confusion of his mind.

“Not? What? Nothing?” said the doctor clambering to her feet. “What on earth do you mean?”

Verkramp turned melodramatically away and stared out of the window.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

“Done what?”

“You know,” said Verkramp.

“What did I do?” the doctor insisted. Luitenant Verkramp shook his head miserably at the hills and said nothing. “How silly you are,” the doctor went on. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. We get quite a few involuntary emissions every day in the hospital.”

Verkramp turned on her furiously.

“That’s with lunatics,” he said, disgusted by her clinical detachment. “Sane people don’t have them.” He stopped abruptly, vaguely aware of the self-accusation.

“Of course they do,” said the doctor soothingly. “It’s only natural… between… passionate men and women.”

Luitenant Verkramp resisted the siren tone.

“It’s not natural. It’s wicked.”

Dr von Blimenstein laughed softly.

“You mustn’t laugh at me,” shouted Verkramp.

“And you mustn’t shout at me,” said the doctor. Verkramp wilted before the tone of authority in her voice. “Come here,” she continued. Verkramp crossed the room nervously. Doctor von Blimenstein put her hands on his shoulders. “Look at me,” she told him. Verkramp did as he was told. “Do you find me attractive?” Verkramp nodded dumbly. “I’m glad,” said the doctor and taking the astonished Luitenant’s head in her hands she kissed him passionately on the mouth. “And now I’ll go and rustle up something for lunch,” she said breaking away from him and before Verkramp could say anything more she was in the kitchen clattering away quite surprisingly for a woman of her size. Behind her in the kitchen doorway Luitenant Verkramp struggled with his emotions. Furious at himself, at her, and at the situation in which he found himself, he looked round for someone to blame. Sensing his dilemma Dr von Blimenstein came to his assistance.

“About the problem you mentioned,” she said, bending over seductively to get a saucepan from the cupboard under the sink, “I think I might be able to help you after all.”

“What problem?” Verkramp asked brusquely. He’d had enough help with his problems already.

“About your men and the kaffir girls,” said the doctor.

“Oh them.” Verkramp had forgotten his original reason for coming.

“I’ve been thinking about it. I can see one way it might be tackled.”

“Oh really,” said Verkramp, who could think about a great many more but didn’t feel up to it.

“It’s really a question of psychic engineering,” the doctor continued. “That’s my term for the experiments I have been conducting here with a number of patients.”

Luitenant Verkramp perked up. He was always interested in experiments.

“I’ve had a number of successful cures already,” she explained, chopping a carrot up with a number of swift strokes. “It’s worked with alcoholics, transvestites and homosexuals. I can’t really see any reason why it shouldn’t work just as well in the case of a perversion like miscegenation.” There was no doubting Verkramp’s interest now. He moved away from the kitchen doorway all attention.

“How would you go about it?” he asked eagerly.

“Well the first thing to do would be to isolate the personality factors in men with a tendency towards this sort of sexual deviation. That shouldn’t be too difficult. I could work out a number of likely attributes. In fact it might be a good thing if your men were to fill in a questionnaire.”

“What? About their sex life?” Verkramp asked. He could see the sort of reception a questionnaire like that would get in the Piemburg Police Station.

“About sex and other things.”

“What other things?” Verkramp asked suspiciously.

“Oh the usual. Relations with mother. Whether the mother was the dominant figure in the home. If they were fond of their black nanny. Earliest sexual experience. Normal things like that.”

Verkramp gulped. What he had just heard sounded positively abnormal to him.

“A careful analysis of the answers should give us some lead to the sort of men who would benefit from the treatment,” Dr von Blimenstein explained.

“Do you mean to say you can tell just by answers to a questionnaire if a man wants to sleep with a kaffir?” Verkramp asked.

Dr von Blimenstein shook her head. “Not exactly, but we’d have something to go on. After we had weeded out the likely suspects, I would interview them, in the strictest confidence, of course, and see if any were suitable for treatment.”

Verkramp was doubtful. “I can’t see anyone admitting he wanted a kaffir,” he said.

The doctor smiled. “You would be amazed at some of the things people confess to me,” she said.

“What would you do when you’d found out?” Verkramp asked.

“First things first,” said Dr von Blimenstein, who knew the value of keeping a man in suspense. “Let’s have lunch on the stoep.” She picked up the tray and Verkramp followed her out.

By the time Luitenant Verkramp left the cottage that afternoon he had in his pocket the draft questionnaire he was to put to the men in the Piemburg Police Station but he still had no idea what form the doctor’s treatment would take. All she would tell him was that she would guarantee that after a week with her no man would ever look at a black woman again. Luitenant Verkramp could well believe it.

On the other hand he had a far clearer picture of the sort of man who had transracial sexual tendencies. According to Dr von Blimenstein the signs to look for were solitariness, sudden changes of mood, pronounced feelings of sexual guilt, an unstable family background and of course an unsatisfactory sex life. As the Luitenant went through in his mind the officers and men in Piemburg one figure emerged more clearly than all the others. Luitenant Verkramp had begun to think he was about to discover the secret of the change that had come over Kommandant van Heerden.

Back in his office he read through the directive from BOSS just to make sure that he was empowered to take the action he contemplated. It was there in black and white. “You are hereby instructed to investigate suspected cases of liaison between police officers and Bantu women.” Verkramp locked the memo away and sent for Sergeant Breitenbach.

Within the hour he had issued his instructions. “I want him watched night and day,” he told the Security men assembled in his office. “I want a record of everything he does, where he goes, who he meets and anything that suggests a break in his usual routine. Photograph everyone visiting his house. Put microphones in every room and tape all conversations. Tap his phone and record all his calls. Is that clear? I want the full treatment.”

Verkramp looked round the room and the men all nodded. Only Sergeant Breitenbach had any reservations.

“Isn’t this a bit irregular, sir?” he asked. “After all, the Kommandant is the commanding officer here.”

Luitenant Verkramp flushed angrily. He disliked having his orders questioned.

“I have here,” he said, brandishing the directive from BOSS, “orders from Pretoria to carry out this investigation. Naturally,” his voice changed from authority to unction, “I hope as I’m sure we all do that we’ll be able to give Kommandant van Heerden full security clearance when we’re finished but in the meantime we must carry out our orders. I need, of course, hardly remind you that the utmost secrecy must be maintained throughout this operation. All right, you may go.”

When the Security men had left, Luitenant Verkramp gave orders for the questionnaire to be xeroxed and left on his desk ready for distribution the following morning.

Next day Mrs Roussouw, whose job it was to superintend the black convicts who came from Piemburg Prison every day to do the Kommandant’s housework, had her work cut out answering the front-door bell to admit a succession of Municipal Officials who seemed to think there was a damaged gas pipe under the kitchen, a mains short circuit in the living-room and a leak in the water tank in the attic.

Since the house wasn’t connected to the gas and the electric stove in the kitchen functioned perfectly while there were no signs of damp on the bedroom ceiling, Mrs Roussouw did her best to deter the officials who seemed determined to carry out their duties with a degree of conscientiousness and a lack of specialized knowledge she found quite astonishing.

“Shouldn’t you switch off the main supply first?” she asked the man from the Electricity Board who was laying wires in the Kommandant’s bedroom.

“Suppose so,” the man said and went downstairs. When ten minutes later she found the light still on in the kitchen, Mrs Roussouw took matters into her own hands and went into the cupboard under the stairs and switched the mains off herself. There was a muffled yell from the attic where the Water Board men had been relying on a handlamp connected to a plug on the landing to help them find the non-existent leak in the cistern.

“Must be the bulb,” said one of the men and clambered down the ladder to fetch another bulb from the Kommandant’s bedside light. By the time he was back in the darkness of the attic the Electricity man had assured Mrs Roussouw that there was no need to cut the mains off.

“You know your own job, I suppose,” Mrs Roussouw told him rather doubtfully.

“I can assure you it’s quite safe now,” the man said. Mrs Roussouw went back under the stairs and turned the supply on again. The scream that issued from the attic where the Water Board man had his fingers in the socket of the lamp was followed by an appalling rending noise from the bedroom and the sound of falling plaster. Mrs Roussouw switched the electricity off again and went upstairs.

“Whatever will the Kommandant say when he finds what a mess you’ve made?” she asked the leg that hung through the hole in the ceiling. An answering groan came from the attic. “Are you all right?” Mrs Roussouw asked anxiously. The leg wriggled vigorously.

“I told you you should have cut it off,” Mrs Roussouw told the Electricity man reprovingly. In the attic the remark provoked a string of protests and the leg jerked convulsively. The Electricity man went out onto the landing.

“What’s he say?” he asked peering up the ladder into the darkness.

“He says he doesn’t want it cut off,” said a voice from above.

“Just as you say,” said Mrs Roussouw and went downstairs to turn the mains on again. “Is that better?” she asked pulling the switch down. Upstairs in the Kommandant’s bedroom the leg twitched violently and was still.

“You just hang on and I’ll give you a shove from below,” the Electricity man said and clambered onto the bed.

Mrs Roussouw emerged from the cupboard and went upstairs again. She was getting rather puffed with all this up and down. She had just reached the landing when there was another terrible yell from the bedroom. She hurried in and found the Electricity man lying prostrate amid the plaster on the Kommandant’s bed.

“What’s the matter now?” she asked. The man wiped his face and looked up at the leg reproachfully.

“It’s alive,” he said finally.

“That’s what you think,” said a voice from the attic.

“I’m sure I don’t know what to think,” Mrs Roussouw said.

“Well I do,” the Electricity man told her, sitting up on the bed. “I think you ought to go and cut the mains supply off again. I’m not touching that leg till you do.”

Mrs Roussouw turned wearily back to the stairs.

“This is the last time,” she told the man, “I’m not running up and downstairs any more.”

In the end with the help of the black convicts they managed to get the unconscious Water Board official down from the attic and Mrs Roussouw was persuaded to give him the kiss of life on the couch in the Kommandant’s sitting-room.

“You can get those kaffirs out of here before I do,” she told the Electricity man. “I’m not doing any kissing with them looking on. It might give them ideas.” The Electricity man shooed the convicts out and presently the Water Board official recovered enough to be taken back to the police station.

“Bungling idiots,” Verkramp snarled when they reported back to him. “I said bug the house, not knock it to bits.”

When Kommandant van Heerden arrived home that evening it was to find his house in considerable disorder and with most of the services cut off. He tried to make himself some tea but there was no water in the tap. It took him twenty minutes to find the stopcock and another twenty to discover a spanner that fitted it. He filled his Five Minute kettle and waited half an hour for it to boil only to learn at the end of that time that the water in it was still stone cold.

“What the hell’s wrong with everything?” he wondered as he filled a saucepan and put it on the stove. Twenty minutes later he was rummaging about under the stairs trying to find the fuse-box with the help of a box of matches. He had taken all the fuses out and put them back again before he realized that the main switch was off. With a sigh of relief he pulled it down to “ON”. There was a loud bang in the fusebox and the light in the hall which had come on momentarily went out again. It took the Kommandant another half an hour to find the fuse wire and by that time he was out of matches. He gave up in disgust and went out and had dinner in a Greek café down the road.

By the time he got home again Kommandant van Heerden’s temper was violent. With the help of a torch which he had bought at a garage he made his way upstairs and was appalled by the mess in his bedroom. There was a large hole in the ceiling and the bed was covered with plaster. The Kommandant sat down on the edge of the bed and shone his torch through the hole in his ceiling. Finally he turned to the phone on his bedside table and dialled the police station. He was sitting there staring out of the window wondering why it took so long for the Duty Sergeant to answer when he became aware that what looked like a shadow under the jacaranda tree across the road was smoking a cigarette. The Kommandant put the phone down and crossed to the window to take a better look. Staring into the darkness he was startled to notice another shadow under another tree. He was just wondering what two shadows were doing watching his house when the phone behind him on the bed began to squeak irately. The Kommandant picked the receiver up just in time to hear the Duty Sergeant put his down. With a curse he dialled again, changed his mind and went through to the bathroom which overlooked his back garden and opened the window. A light breeze drifted in, ruffling the curtains. The Kommandant peered out and had just decided that his back garden was free of interlopers when an azalea bush lit a cigarette. In a state of considerable alarm the Kommandant scurried back to his bedroom and dialled the police station.

“I’m being watched,” he told the Duty Sergeant when the man finally picked up the phone.

“Oh really,” said the Sergeant, who was used to nutters ringing him up in the middle of the night with stories of being spied on. “And who is watching you?”

“I don’t know,” whispered the Kommandant. “There are two men out front and another in my back garden.”

“What are you whispering for?” the Sergeant asked.

“Because I’m being watched, of course. Why else should I whisper?” the Kommandant snarled sotto voce.

“I’ve no idea,” said the Sergeant. “I’ll just get this down. You say you’re being watched by two men in the front garden and one in the back. Is that correct?”

“No,” said the Kommandant who was rapidly losing patience with the Duty Sergeant.

“But you just said-”

“I said there were two men at the front of my house and one in the back garden,” the Kommandant said, trying to control his temper.

“Two … men … in … front… of… my … house,” said the Sergeant writing it down slowly. “Just getting it down,” he told the Kommandant when the latter asked what the hell he thought he was doing.

“Well, you’d better hurry up,” the Kommandant shouted, losing control of himself. “I’ve got a dirty great hole in the ceiling above my bed and my house has been burgled,” he went on and was rewarded for his pains by hearing the Sergeant inform somebody else at the police station that he had another nut case on the line.

“Now then, correct me if I’m wrong,” said the Sergeant before the Kommandant could reprimand him for insubordination, “but you say there are three men watching your house, that there’s a dirty great hole in your ceiling and that your house has been burgled? Is that right? You haven’t left anything out?”

In his bedroom Kommandant van Heerden was on the verge of apoplexy. “Just one thing,” he yelled into the phone, “this is your commanding officer, Kommandant van Heerden, speaking. And I’m ordering you to send a patrol car round to my house at once.”

A sceptical silence greeted this ferocious announcement. “Do you hear me?” shouted the Kommandant. It was clear that the Duty Sergeant didn’t. He had his hand over the mouthpiece but the Kommandant could still hear him telling the konstabel on duty with him that the caller was off his head. With a slam the Kommandant replaced his receiver and wondered what to do. Finally he got to his feet and went to the window. The sinister watchers were still there. The Kommandant tiptoed to his chest of drawers and rummaged in the drawer containing his socks for his revolver. Taking it out, he made sure it was loaded and then, having decided that the hole in his ceiling made his bedroom indefensible, was tiptoeing downstairs when the phone in his bedroom began to ring. For a moment the Kommandant thought of letting it ring when the thought that it might be the Duty Sergeant ringing back to confirm his previous call sent him scurrying upstairs again. He was just in time to pick the receiver up as the ringing stopped.

Kommandant van Heerden dialled the police station,

“Have you just rung me?” he asked the Duty Sergeant.

“Depends who you are,” the Sergeant replied.

“I’m your commanding officer,” shouted the Kommandant.

The Sergeant considered the matter. “All right,” he said finally, “just put your phone down and we’ll ring back to confirm that.”

The Kommandant looked at the receiver vindictively. “Listen to me,” he said, “my number is 5488. You can confirm that and I’ll hold on.”

Five minutes later patrol cars from all over Piemburg were converging on Kommandant van Heerden’s house and the Duty Sergeant was wondering what he was going to say to the Kommandant in the morning.