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Authors: Bryce Courtenay
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pride.
But before the Judge could notice the effect of his words on me, I quickly resumed my obsequious manner. The thrill of the compliment had almost caused me to forget my other anxiety.
âWhat will happen if Adolf Hitler comes before the end of term?â I asked, my heart beating overtime.
The Judge looked at me blankly, then suddenly grinned, understanding the reason for my question. âOkay, man, you got me there. I will say nothing to Hitler about you until Iâve passed at the end of the year.â He shook his head and gave me a look not entirely without sympathy. âIâm sorry, Pisskop, after that I will have to tell him. You must be punished for killing twenty-six thousand Boer women and children. You and your stupid kaffir chicken are dead meat when he comes. But Iâll tell you something, I give you my word as a Boer. If I pass in sums, I swear on a stack of Bibles not to tell Adolf Hitler until next term.â
The Judge, his brow furrowed as though he were doing the calculations himself, started to copy over the answers I had written in his exercise book.
I had won: my plan had worked. I could hardly believe my ears. Granpa Chook and I were safe for the remainder of the term.
The Judge had come to the end of his copying. I had never seen him quite so happy, not even when he was Heil Hitlering all over the place. I saw my opportunity and, taking a sharp inward breath, said quickly, âIt will be difficult to march every afternoon and still do your homework, sir.â
The inside of my head filled with a zinging sound. Had I gone too far? Iâd won the battle and here I was risking all on a minor skirmish. Marching around wasnât so bad. Quite fun, really. What if he realized I used the time to do his homework anyway?
The Judge sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. âOrright, no more marching. But you do my homework, you hear? If I catch you and that kaffir chicken messing around, youâll do twice as much marching as before. You are both prisoners of war, and you better not forget it, man.â
Victory was mine a second time. My first conscious efforts at manipulation had been successful. It was a heady feeling as Granpa Chook and I followed the Judge to school that morning.
One thing is certain in life. Just when things are going well, soon afterward they are certain to go wrong. Itâs just the way things are meant to be.
Mrs. Gerber told us that day in class that there had been an outbreak of Newcastle disease on a chicken farm near Merensky Dam. Her husband, the vet, had left to visit all the surrounding farms.
Even the youngest kids know what havoc a disease of any kind can cause with poultry or livestock. Of course, rinderpest and foot-and-mouth disease among the cattle were the worst, but every farm keeps at least fifty chickens for eggs, so Mrs. Gerberâs news was met with consternation. My mother had once said that if my granpa lost all his black Orpingtons it would break his heart.
It was pretty depressing to think of my mother with her nervous breakdown in an English concentration camp knitting jumpers with funny sleeves. Knitting away with all the Boer mothers and children as she waited to starve to death or die of blackwater fever. Meanwhile, back on the farm, there was poor old Granpa, slowly dying of a broken heart. That was, if Adolf Hitler didnât arrive first. If he did, I knew Granpa wouldnât even have the strength to make escape plans or drive the Model A, and then what would become of me?
Maybe I could live with Nanny in Zululand? This thought cheered me up a lot. Adolf Hitler would never look for a small English person in the middle of Zululand. Inkosi-Inkosikazi would hide me with a magic spell and they wouldnât have a hope. As for Granpa Chook, Adolf Hitler would never be able to tell an English-speaking chicken apart from all the other kaffir chickens. I decided right there and then that when I got
But before the Judge could notice the effect of his words on me, I quickly resumed my obsequious manner. The thrill of the compliment had almost caused me to forget my other anxiety.
âWhat will happen if Adolf Hitler comes before the end of term?â I asked, my heart beating overtime.
The Judge looked at me blankly, then suddenly grinned, understanding the reason for my question. âOkay, man, you got me there. I will say nothing to Hitler about you until Iâve passed at the end of the year.â He shook his head and gave me a look not entirely without sympathy. âIâm sorry, Pisskop, after that I will have to tell him. You must be punished for killing twenty-six thousand Boer women and children. You and your stupid kaffir chicken are dead meat when he comes. But Iâll tell you something, I give you my word as a Boer. If I pass in sums, I swear on a stack of Bibles not to tell Adolf Hitler until next term.â
The Judge, his brow furrowed as though he were doing the calculations himself, started to copy over the answers I had written in his exercise book.
I had won: my plan had worked. I could hardly believe my ears. Granpa Chook and I were safe for the remainder of the term.
The Judge had come to the end of his copying. I had never seen him quite so happy, not even when he was Heil Hitlering all over the place. I saw my opportunity and, taking a sharp inward breath, said quickly, âIt will be difficult to march every afternoon and still do your homework, sir.â
The inside of my head filled with a zinging sound. Had I gone too far? Iâd won the battle and here I was risking all on a minor skirmish. Marching around wasnât so bad. Quite fun, really. What if he realized I used the time to do his homework anyway?
The Judge sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. âOrright, no more marching. But you do my homework, you hear? If I catch you and that kaffir chicken messing around, youâll do twice as much marching as before. You are both prisoners of war, and you better not forget it, man.â
Victory was mine a second time. My first conscious efforts at manipulation had been successful. It was a heady feeling as Granpa Chook and I followed the Judge to school that morning.
One thing is certain in life. Just when things are going well, soon afterward they are certain to go wrong. Itâs just the way things are meant to be.
Mrs. Gerber told us that day in class that there had been an outbreak of Newcastle disease on a chicken farm near Merensky Dam. Her husband, the vet, had left to visit all the surrounding farms.
Even the youngest kids know what havoc a disease of any kind can cause with poultry or livestock. Of course, rinderpest and foot-and-mouth disease among the cattle were the worst, but every farm keeps at least fifty chickens for eggs, so Mrs. Gerberâs news was met with consternation. My mother had once said that if my granpa lost all his black Orpingtons it would break his heart.
It was pretty depressing to think of my mother with her nervous breakdown in an English concentration camp knitting jumpers with funny sleeves. Knitting away with all the Boer mothers and children as she waited to starve to death or die of blackwater fever. Meanwhile, back on the farm, there was poor old Granpa, slowly dying of a broken heart. That was, if Adolf Hitler didnât arrive first. If he did, I knew Granpa wouldnât even have the strength to make escape plans or drive the Model A, and then what would become of me?
Maybe I could live with Nanny in Zululand? This thought cheered me up a lot. Adolf Hitler would never look for a small English person in the middle of Zululand. Inkosi-Inkosikazi would hide me with a magic spell and they wouldnât have a hope. As for Granpa Chook, Adolf Hitler would never be able to tell an English-speaking chicken apart from all the other kaffir chickens. I decided right there and then that when I got
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