That Christmas 1941 Morn

By George Thakur

THAT CHRISTMAS 1941 MORN ...

In Germany, a bullet renders Rachel, now Jewish Yohann’s wife, barren.
When Dirk learns that his wife Delilah’s Nazi father is responsible, he is penitent.
The ability to recompense the family arrives in 1929. In a magnanimous gesture, Dirk and Delilah bestow Dolb and Donter, one each of two sets of twins born to them, to Yohann and Rachel – to be brought up by them as their own children.

On Christmas 1941 morning, when Delilah’s brother, a Nazi soldier, attempts to kill the Jews – including her flesh and blood, Dolb and Donter. She shoots first. The families flee, setting the scene for retribution, reprisal, rape and murder ...thirteen years later!

If you win, you need not have to explain.
If you lose, you should not be there to explain!
Adolf Hitler

• Language: English
• Publisher: CUSTOM BOOK PUBLICATIONS
• Release date: Oct 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310183102

Book preview

The BEARDED DRAGON …

Shirley Hanna is approached by the South African Police to assist Warrant Officer Sam Radebe find young boys who have been abducted in Johannesburg. An Albino with a dark past, she is a private detective specialising in investigating cases involving missing children.

Sam and Shirley become a formidable team ably supported by one of the members of the counselling group who plays an important role in Shirley's life.

Their investigation takes them through many twists and turns in South Africa to London and Lesotho.

Each time Sam starts to lose hope in finding the boys, Shirley finds a key piece of the puzzle leading to many surprises and a dramatic climax.

A story of Kidnap, Drugs, Bribery and Corruption.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Erasmus was born in Johannesburg, South Africa and raised in the small gold mining town of Orkney situated in the North West of the country. As a child he suffered from a rare heart condition which resulted in him being bedridden for some years during which time he developed a love of reading, particularly the classics.

With a Master's Degree in Business Administration from the University of the Witwatersrand, he has held senior global management positions in companies specialising in finance and human resources. Michael has developed a passion for understanding different cultures which has culminated in his change of direction as an aspirant writer.

Married with three children, he and Sandra are are involved in a number of charitable organisations which focus on social upliftment of impoverished children.

Copyright © 2016 Michael Erasmus

Published by

CUSTOM BOOK PUBLICATIONS

ASIA'S GLOBAL PRINT & DIGITAL PUBLISHER

DIGITAL EDITION

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

The

BEARDED

DRAGON

A Novel by

Michael Erasmus

To Sandra, my amazing wife and Gina, my daughter – for their valuable input and hard work in keeping me focused. A special thanks to Lynn, Errol, Fabio and Franco for their encouragement and support.

CHAPTER ONE

As I took my seat in the large living room I felt all eyes settling on me. Nothing unusual but it was a welcome change that, without exception, they all expressed curiosity and not hostility.

Jenny, the counsellor, threw her arms around me and introduced me to the group. There were four other ladies sitting in the comfortable chairs provided for us. The room had obviously been lovingly dressed by an expert. There were three Tinus de Jong paintings hanging on the walls depicting various country scenes that captured the tranquillity and beauty of the mountains, forests and streams, like only he could. In the centre of the room there was a painting of Monks eating a wild boar at a table in the seventeenth or eighteenth century. I had never seen anything like it; I could not take my eyes off of it, it was captivating. There were artefacts and expensive vases and Venetian glass ornaments strategically placed all around the room which blended in with the paintings to create an atmosphere of peace and harmony. I felt so relaxed and could sense that my new-found friends felt the same. For a brief moment I forgot about Brian.

There were four other ladies sitting around the large oak table and I wondered if they would have stranger tales to tell than me. I am an 'eyes' person. I have always maintained that you can gauge the gist of a person's character by looking into their eyes and have seldom been proved to be wrong. Never ask me what people wore or what they looked like, just ask me about the eyes. It was one of the reasons that I had chosen Jenny as my counsellor. I had spent many hours drifting from one counsellor to another before I found what I was looking for. Jenny had the kindest and most intelligent eyes I had ever seen – a unique combination, with which only a small percentage of the population is blessed. She was the first person that pierced the veil I had wrapped so tightly around myself over the past four decades. She had a wonderful nature and it was always obvious that she was genuinely interested in me. She was very picky with choosing clients; she would only take you on if she believed that you were going to put in every effort to work with her. As a result she did not have many clients but those she had simply adored her.

Two of the ladies were black, both elegantly dressed, one in a cotton blue blouse and blue jeans, the other in a traditional orange and green South African dress. Their eyes were calm, albeit full of sadness. The lady to my left was coloured, she was tiny and looked timid and frail. It was obvious that she was in a bad way. Her face bore the scars of many hours of pain; she was dressed in a red blouse and blue jeans. Her eyes were dead. Sitting to her right was a very large white lady. She was portly, with heavy arms and looked as if she had come straight from a farm after milking the cows. She wore a khaki shirt and jodhpurs. Her eyes were heavy with rage and I immediately knew that her sessions would be the most uncomfortable.

'Good morning ladies… welcome to our first group session. All of you have been requested to join this session and have agreed to attend.'

Jenny took a sip of water from the glass placed strategically to her left. Although she was excited with this new venture she was also apprehensive. It was the first time that she had brought together a group of woman with extreme emotional issues into a group setting. She had been pleasantly surprised when all of them readily agreed to attend. She expected resistance but none was forthcoming – a good omen. They all wanted to reach the finishing post. Jenny had been running counselling sessions for many years now but the vast majority were one on one's and the few group sessions she had tried, were not very effective and had to be aborted after a short time. She could not help wondering why this should be any different. She was desperate but they were all so special and she owed them one last shot at redemption.

'I just want to summarise why you are all here.'

'Firstly you have all suffered severe trauma of some kind in your lives. I am hoping that you will openly share those experiences during these sessions and I need not remind you that everything that is said or done here is confidential.

'Secondly, the trauma you have experienced has been at the hands of the male species hence the reason why this is an all-female group.

'Thirdly, and this is the last point I want to make before the formalities are over, you have reached that stage in your journey to heal the wounds where the engine has stalled. Despite my – and your – best efforts we just can't seem to go forward. It is vital when you have been through what you all have been through, that you eventually beat the devil. You and I will both know when that has happened. I am hoping that together as a group we will achieve that aim. Humans are social beings and we need help to solve our most difficult problems; even Einstein did not do it all on his own.'

Her eyes twinkled as she said, 'If you all knew what a mess my life is in, you probably wouldn't be here and if we get to the end goal with these sessions, I promise to reverse the roles and enlist your help.'

I smiled to myself, I had heard the rumours. Time would tell if they were accurate or not.

To start the session I would like you, in one paragraph, to summarise what your trauma is. The white farmer, Joan, jumped up. 'Hey wait just a minute! I don't even know these people. How can we start straight off by bearing our all? This is not a nudist colony, I thought that we would slowly work our way around first. I need to be sure that I can trust everyone.'

'Okay,' Jenny said, '…fair point. Before any of you say anything further, I need to stress that this is my last attempt to help you beat the devil, if this fails then I must let you fly. It would be unprofessional for me to continue with counselling sessions when I know that I cannot add any further value. I love you all dearly but I need to burst this pimple wide open – it is now or never. I also want to say that I have known you all for a number of years and that you are all trustworthy, that is why you are here.' To be fair to Jenny she had gone through all of this with me when she discussed our next steps and I was sure that she had done the same with all the others as well.

'I am in,' I said, 'I did agree to that.'

The others nodded in unison. Joan sat down, her face red and went into a sulk but I could see that she was not going to push it further.

'I'll start. As you can see I am an Albino, I have been ostracised by society all my life. I bear the scars of many slings and arrows poisoned with hate and rejection. My father abused me as a child and due to the embarrassment of having produced an albino child, abandoned me to the foster home system which punished me further for being born with a lack of melanin. I was a straight-A student throughout school but could not get into university through lack of funds and when I went for interviews for bursaries, I was always politely declined. I joined the South African Police in 1996 when diversity was being addressed. I flew through my studies, always placing top of the class but when my colleagues found out I had two white parents they turned their back on me and made my life extremely difficult. Neither black nor white could accept my situation – with a few notable exceptions, of course. I finally could not take the abuse anymore and left to start my own private investigation agency. Most of my cases are referred to me by SAPS. I specialise in finding missing children.'

Jenny was delighted that I had got the race off to such a good start. 'Wonderful!' She could see that everyone wanted to ask questions and quickly nipped that in the bud. 'As we go through the sessions you will have ample time to ask questions. Next…'

Thandi, the lady in blue was next.

'I am the wife of the famous serial killer; Bongani Mshepo.' I had followed his case carefully in the press; Bongani was a taxi driver who murdered fifteen young girls over a three year period in Alexandra, a huge suburb of Johannesburg. Alexandra had been set up during the apartheid years to cater for black labour that was required by white businesses. It was situated close to where the labour was required and borders the affluent suburb of Sandton, where many of the wealthiest people in South Africa reside today. It is slowly being upgraded but the vast majority of its residents live on, or below the poverty line and cannot afford their own transport. A taxi driver serial killer's haven. Bongani would, from time to time, take his last passenger to the old mine dumps near Soweto then rape and kill his prey.

'I have been ostracised by my community as well, I was married to Bongani for ten years and people still believe that I must have been aware of what was going on. I had to change my surname back to my maiden name, Ndlovana, but have had to move jobs several times when the truth comes out. '

Her eyes filled with tears and Jenny gently stopped her by getting up and putting her arms around her.

Clementine Cloete, the coloured girl, stood up. 'I am married to a monster that continuously beats me, I am fortunate he was put behind bars for three years for hitting another motorist over the head with a baseball bat in a road rage incident, but he is now out and stalks me. I have a restraining order against him but it is useless. The police are so inundated with crime in this country that enforcement of a restraining order has no priority. He catches me at every opportunity and I have so many physical problems due to the beatings that I fear for my life'

Although I could see that she was badly traumatised there was a strength in her that was evident from the way that she jutted her jaw out as she spoke of the incident. My heart went out to her; I knew what it feels like to fear for your life.

Thuli, the black lady in the traditional dress was next.

'I am the wife of DinganeThobela, the former MEC of Gauteng, who was jailed for tender fraud. I lived a life of luxury and privilege, not realising that it was all a 'Peter Pan world' which would come tumbling down and crush me. I too have been ostracised by the community, even though I was left penniless and had to move in with parents who have been my sole source of support. My father has lost many business opportunities due to the stigma that clings to me, but never complains. It breaks my heart that they have to suffer as well. All of the so called friends have long disappeared, not one is left. My children went from going to Crawford College in Bryanston to Mondeor High.' She too started to cry, Jenny stood up and put her arms around her. This time, with the exception of the farmer girl, we all hugged her. The group was starting to bond.

We all waited with bated breath to see what Joan would do. Was she going to participate or not? She fidgeted with her hands and looked down at the floor for a few minutes and then said, 'What the heck, what have I got to lose? I was the wife of Wim and mother to Danie and Suzette van der Merwe who were murdered last year on our farm in Kroonstad, in the Orange Free State. I was raped, stabbed and left for dead. God, for some reason known only to him, left me alive to live in purgatory for the rest of my life. I would have committed suicide by now if it was not for Jenny and if I do not beat the devil after these sessions, I will do just that.'

There was a dead silence and then we all got up and hugged her. She tried to resist at first but capitulated and burst into tears, which seemed to go on and on. All of a sudden my problems paled in significance compared to the stories I had just heard. Life is so hard for so many, you wonder why we even bother. Perhaps Joan was right; sometimes the only weapon you have is to show life a middle finger and escape its clutches. I immediately thought of the joy I had brought to those parents who had given up their children as lost. That joy cancels out any of the cards that the devil can deliver. It makes life worthwhile and I was determined to do my bit to help Joan and the others find some of that.

Jenny quietly called an end to the session and we agreed to meet every second Tuesday morning. To Jenny's delight at the suggestion made by Clementine, we all exchanged cell phone numbers and promised to be there for each other, no matter what. My thoughts returned to Brian as I bid my farewell.

Brian was a six year boy who had mysteriously disappeared from his day care centre. Parents normally pick up their children after work between five and seven pm in the afternoon. Sometimes there is a knot when a group of parents arrive at the same time and that is what the police think happened on the day Brian disappeared. The centre was situated in Randpark Ridge, a suburb to the west of Johannesburg, fairly affluent where this type of disappearance was unheard of before.

The suburb was one of the boomed-off areas and although the security guards who manned it were not allowed to prevent anyone entering the suburb, they did on occasion take down the registration numbers. I was on my way to interview the owner of the day care centre and the security guards. The police had been working the case for three weeks with no leads and the press were all over them like a rash on a baby's bottom. Yekani Moolah from SAPS, a warrant officer at the Honeydew police station, had contacted me for assistance. It was at the Honeydew station that I started my career and had reported to Yekani who recognised my potential and became my mentor. He always said that I would eventually become station commander and be his senior based on the marks I achieved with my studies. He also protected me from the Popcru union rep who despised me and wanted me out due to a combination of my skin colour and gender. He was convinced that I was bewitched. Many people think that, so maybe I am.

The day care centre was just off Beyers Naude and had a security gate which you could not enter without identifying yourself. I buzzed, spoke into the intercom, the gate opened and I was greeted at the front door by a middle-aged lady who appeared to be nervous.

'Hi, I am Bonny, the owner, please come in. I'm not sure that I can add anything to what I have already told the police though. They have put me through the mill and back.'

She did a double take when she saw that I was an albino.

'Not what you expected,' I teased. She blushed. 'I am so sorry, I have never met an…' Her voice trailed off.

'Albino… Bonny, it is not a disease, please don't let it bother you, it certainly doesn't bother me.' I seated myself in her lounge without asking to stamp my authority on the situation. 'Tell me what happened.'

'Brian's parents dropped him off early in the morning as usual and came to collect him at six. That is when we found that he was missing.'

'Let's start again …what happens after children are dropped off?'

'I'm sorry; they are all taken into what we call the play area at the back of the house. We have swings, slides, soccer balls; you name it, to keep the children busy.'

'How do they get from the lounge area to the back of the house?'

'I have three servants who prepare the food and take care of the children when they are not in class. One of them escorts the children to the back and another keeps an eye on them to make sure nothing goes wrong. At seven-thirty the children are rounded up and seated in the dining room area for breakfast.'

'How do you know that all the children are at breakfast?'

Her hesitation confirmed the thought had never occurred to her. When things go right year after year, security goes out the window. 'We know our children, Ms. Hannah,' she said angrily. 'We would know if any were missing.'

'Bonny, I specialise in child abductions and everyone I deal with says exactly what you said. Bottom line, how do they go missing? I am not your insurance agent nor the police – my job is simply to find the child. You have at least one hole in your system, I want to know what that is and start piecing together who the hell exploited it. What you tell me is off the record, I do not report my findings to the police so let's start again.' She started to shake and the tears began. 'Don't you think that I have agonised night after night over Brian's disappearance? I am close to a nervous breakdown, most of the parents have removed their children. The Williams family is suing me and I don't have the funds for a decent attorney. I have been harassed, threatened and spat on at our local mall. My husband died a few years back and this is my livelihood, I started it as I adore children but we could not have children. Any parent will tell you how much I love and care for these children, I barely keep afloat because of the excellent food that we provide them.'

Her eyes told me that she was genuine and that fate had merely given her a rotten apple. 'Bonny please, I am here to solve the mystery, just co-operate with me. The truth will come out and if you were not negligent, you will be vindicated. I do not judge people without reason, let's start again and trust me, I am not the enemy. The person who did this is, and that person is certainly not you.'

'How do you know that?' she asked sheepishly.

'You have honest eyes.' She was still confused, but grateful.

It turned out there was a presumption that once the children went through the door they could not disappear. That only happens in Alice in Wonderland. Bonny called her staff members, the three aftercare workers and three teachers. We did a flow chart together, recording the process so that I could study it in my own time at home. I could see the holes; there were more than one but I was convinced that none of the staff were involved in the abduction, even though Yekani told me that they were still the prime suspects. It was always possible that they were involved so I was not discounting it entirely. The staff also helped me put together a flow chart of Brian's movements on the day he disappeared, based on their recollection of what happened that day.

My meeting with the security guards was fruitless; the two guards who were on duty on the day the abduction occurred had not recorded any suspicious vehicle in the area, and I could not expect them to remember every vehicle that left the area which was carrying young children. I came away realising that the booms were merely there to send a warning to potential criminals that the area was subject to security patrols, which is a deterrent, albeit a weak one, but not for the real professionals. It would never stop the abduction of a child.

I arrived home just before the mindless Johannesburg rush hour traffic started. The city had become so congested the last few years that I avoided rush hour whenever possible. I always smiled when my friends complained about the traffic; I have been overseas on many occasions, the traffic in Los Angeles, London, New York and any other major city is far worse. My most unpleasant experience had been in Lagos, where traffic was congested the entire day. Dead pedestrians were left on the side of the road for hours before they were collected, Johannesburg is a small town by comparison.

I live in Rosettenville, south of Johannesburg; it used to be a suburb made up of mostly Portuguese speaking immigrants who came from Madeira and Mozambique. Many of them have returned to their motherland and once apartheid was erased from our history, it opened up to all races. It started to become a slum, driven mainly by immigrants from Nigeria, DRC and Mozambique but after Lucky Dube, the reggae musician, was shot and killed in the area, the residents started to drive the criminals out of the suburb. I have lived there since 1994 and have never had a