The Jews of Johannesburg

By Shankly. B. Farred

The Jews of Johannesburg is a story about family, Aparthied and resistance against oppression. Malachi Goldstein is someone who loves his family but he also puts them aside as he joins the armed resistance, can he maintain his humanity even when he is not seen as human. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shankly. B. Farred
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224806577

Book preview

Part one : a Capetownian funeral

Chapter one: extension thirteen

James Belberg woke up at the usual time. Four in the morning. He would have to take the taxi. His family were already eating breakfast. Two fried eggs and one piece of crispy bacon. The eggs had two shakes of salt on them and the bacon was burnt at the bottom. They both tasted like sunflower oil. This was a meal they preferred. It was quick to make and kept everyone's stomach warm. The aroma of warm pork drew everybody to the table. The Belberg family always had pork in the house and cheap alcohol. James had his school uniform on. The school was lower Bellhar high. Their uniforms were always boring and lacked any imagination. White shirt and Grey pants. Just like the other government schools. It was not like old Bellhar high or upper Bellhar high. Those schools had blue shirts and rainbow ties. The rainbow ties were optional for kids who did not support the gay and lesbian communities of Cape Town. The blue was meant for support for the transgender students. James never understood why they needed colors to support and not money. James loved fried eggs and ate them with happiness. He moved on to the one piece of bacon. His mother gave him a lunch bag. He took it and was on his way out.

He waited by the taxi stop for ten minutes. He waited in the cold and still had bacon grease on his lower lip. He rubbed his hands together to keep himself warm. The taxi stopped for him and he got on. The smell of alcohol and drugs filled the taxi. James sat next to an old woman with one seeing eye. She smelled like dead fish and cheap cigarettes. Her front teeth were missing and her stomach was big. She looked at James like he had done something or said something. He just avoided eye contact. There was two stops and he arrived at lower Bellhar high.

The school was ugly. The walls were cracked. The windows were broken. The roof had seven small holes in it. People think all of this damage occurred because the republic of South Africa had a black president but in reality these things had been here when the presidents were white. Some kinds leaned against the gate, drinking beers. They had torn pants and the beer cans were black and grey silver. Their teeth were yellow and their tongues were black after years of smoking. The beer was cheap so naturally it tasted like dog urine. Smoke and bad beer conflicted. The beer had a flat taste. Flat and without sugar or bitterness. So they swallowed quickly.

The bell rang.

Klean. Spelled wrong and written down by the principal. Keep the Class Klean. That was the full sentence on the chalkboard. The teacher was reading her Bible before the children walked in. She was happy to read it all day. This was the grade eight class. There would be no discussions of good behavior yet. She stood up and got the children to pray. James hated this. He had to pray at home, pray before he ate, pray at the first class and at the last class. He never got the point of it. He did it.

Bang!

Bang!

The teacher screamed. This was the second time this year. James was at home, sick, when this last happened. Everybody else was more relaxed. James looked at his teacher. She was calm. Then a bullet broke the window and everyone hid under their desk. Some were beginning to feel the fear. Someone was able to make a joke. Maybe a student will actually die this time around? Bad taste. It was a joke made in very bad taste. So, offcourse, every child laughed. James sweeped the room with a glance. A student was missing. James knew who was missing, his friend, Benson. He yelled his name. He was silenced when another window was shattered by a stray bullet.

He knew what was going on. Two gangs were fighting outside. Probably the Bellhar boys and the Excelsior experts. Rival gangs from two different extensions. Ruthless, foolish and blood thirsty. They were going to execute each other. No. They were looking for someone. Someone to hang for some kind of act of stepping out of bounds. This was, whatever it was. Was a act of brutality. They shot someone. The victim screamed. Nobody saw anything. Nobody knew who it was but the scream did not sound like a child's scream. It was a man's scream. So it was either a gangster or a teacher. The bullets got louder. They were getting closer. They are looking for someone? Are they hunting someone? No. It cannot be that they are looking for someone. That they are looking for a student? How could they be looking for a high school student? For a child? What threat did a child pose to them? Boom! Blam! Someone was trying to knock down the door. They were trying to get in. James could not handle this. He was beginning to panic. What could he do? What could he actually do? His body felt cold. His hands were shaking like a leaf. Like a tree in the wind.

Out! They were shouting. Loudly and with ferocious anger. Out! They were not shouting any more, they were roaring. Out! Now they had knocked down the door. The wood exploded onto the floor. The shoes of one gangster had splinters sticking out of it like needles stick out of a pin cushion. They were angry. Rage lit up their eyes and fueled their actions. They looked at the students. These were not big men. These were not large men. These were not strong men. They were just men with guns. These men are not actually men but cowards who hold power over the residents of Bellhar with laughter and bullets. The teacher stood up. Do not anger them. Do not make eye contact with them.

But talk to them.

She looked at the one man. She asked him if he went to Excelsior. He said yes. She smiled. She told him that she taught at excelsior. She was an English teacher. He was confused by this but wanted to see where this was going. He looked at her. She asked him for his name. Without sarcasm or contempt, he gave it to her. She took a deep breath. A very deep breath and said she was his teacher. He did not believe her. She asked how his brother was doing. She called him by name. She did know him. She knew his brother. She asked if his sister's child was in grade one yet. He was ready to slap her. She stepped back and told him her point. All the children in this classroom, naughty or well behaved, smart or stupid and whether they are obedient or disobedient, they are all someone's brother or sister. Somebody loves them and they would be heartbroken if they died. So please, leave.

Bang!

He shot her in the stomach. She fell onto her chair. She was suffocating on her own blood. Her finger kept twitching on her right hand. Her left hand was still. Motionless. Frozen. Unmoving. It looked as if it belonged to a statue. Her mouth was covered in blood. Her lower lip's lipstick was smeared all over her chin. Her eyes were open. Wide open. The wound was erupting with blood. The volcano was her belly button. Her head was hurting. She looked him in the eye. She was dying slowly. Painfully. Her mind was broken. It was in one hundred pieces. She tried to grab her Bible. Our father. She spoke as she died. Not in heaven. Give us this day. She was thinking about church. The heartbreak of not going. The devotion all should have to God. Our daily bread. She thought about her daughter's baptism.

Shut that dog up.

Gladly.

He placed his gun in between her eyes. And Bang.

She was dead. Her face had a hole in it, one eye, one ear was covered in blood, her tongue was almost ripped out and her mouth was open. He looked at her corpse. He almost felt something. Then there was nothing. Nothing left to say. To utter. She was dead. That is all there really was to it. He would have cried a long time ago. James threw his chair at the man that pulled the trigger. The other gangsters tried to shoot him but of course they missed him every time. He got behind the killer and grabbed his gun. The thing fired. It fired again and he had shot himself in the foot. James had the gun.  Now what?

He pointed it at the other gangsters. They looked at each other. James was afraid. Two shots went off. The one gangster fired. James did not. The other gangster fired. Both bullets ended up in James's gut. He dropped the gun and fell to the floor. He threw up his own blood. No! I am going to die. No! He looked up at them. I... Will... See... You... In Hell. He threw up more blood. More pain.

No.

Dead.

Chapter two: Kuils river.

Patricia Belberg worked at a store in Kuils River. She spoke one language, Afrikaans. Her son and her daughter were slowly teaching her English. She knew enough to work. Plastic? That was always the million dollar question. Everybody said yes. Even if they did not need a plastic bag. The people were nice. And she knew numbers. She could calculate and do the assessments in her head. She could think better with numbers than with words. Her father will die soon. She knew this. Then she can take her share of the inheritance. Maybe use it to send James to the university of the Western Cape.

Someone came to her and told her that there was bad news. They were crying. She did not know what was going on. She held the person. They told her everything would be alright. She went to the manager. He would tell her what happened. She went there. Unsure of her fate. Was she going to be fired. Would they arrest her. Did they know she used to do drugs when she was fifteen. How could they know about that? She had been kicked out of the house. Moved out of their old home, moved out and made to watch them bulldoze their home. She was weeping. She was alone. Smoking tick everyday. She was homeless. Unable to feed herself. There it was. His office. She was trembling.

No

Please

No

She walked in. He had a grim look on his face. One she has never seen before. He was usually a jovial man. A very likable. Even a likable boss. He had been so patient with her. He was patient because he knew how hard it was for her to learn English. Because it was hard for him to learn English. He grew up in a heavily boer area. One mall. Ten farms. No movie theatres. He understood her struggle. Now he had to tell her something that would shatter her and he wanted to help her pick up the pieces but he had to be honest with himself. Could he? Could he actually help her?

James died today. He was brave. That is what the police officer told me. That he saved his classmates. Two men were about to shoot the children at the school. A teacher died as well. But nobody else and that was James. James saved all those people. He is a hero. But he died. He was shot twice in the stomach. I do not know why I told you that. His classmates tried to help him after the gangsters were arrested but there was nothing they could do. I am sorry. So sorry.

She looked at the floor. Nothing. She said nothing. Her mind was broken. Her heart was broken. Her soul was crying. This was worse than getting fired. Worse than being homeless. Far worse than the humiliation of people knowing you used to do drugs. She would rather be alone on the street than for her son to be dead. She would much rather be called a drug addict or called a junkie than for her son to be dead. She would much rather be fired and without a job than for her son to be dead. No. This could not be happening. But. It was. It was happening. Her body was trembling again.

James.

I love you.

James.

Is dead.

Chapter three:  University of Cape Town.

Three professors talk.

What do we do?

What can we do?

We can call him.

Should we?

Offcourse!

How do you know?

I do.

Hell if I do.

They decided to call him after the last hour.

Okay.

Are we sure.

We are.

Okay.

It is ringing.

Chapter four: Tel Aviv.

They were finally in Tel Aviv. Malachi had to wait for his wheel chair. His mind was in Capetown. His thoughts were with the Belberg family.

Dad?

Yes honey?

You alright?

No but I'll be good in a moment. Just got some bad news.

Let's pray dad.

Yes. Lets

One more time

We

Are happy to be back.

Part two: My eyes may be blue but my soul is black.

Chapter one: Hillbrow

It is nineteen eighty four. There is a Jewish family everywhere in Hillbrow. There is a lot of gentile families too. Most of them are white. Mrs Susan Goldstein not from Hillbrow. In fact, Mrs Goldstein is not from the republic of South Africa. She was born in Dresden, in the old republic Germany. She was a lawyer's daughter. She sits at a table with her friends. The restaurant is mostly blue. So naturally the eccentric Mrs Susan Goldstein is also wearing blue. Her old Caribbean dress. Lilac blue. Covered in precious patterns of fragile flowers. White borders of harsh separation. Her head had a blue hat on top of it, defending her from the assault of powerful ultra violet. She is an old woman. Her hands shake uncontrollably from time to time. Her mind stands still whenever talking about Germany.

Something always happens in Hillbrow. Just like something happens in Soweto, or just like something happens in Nyanga, and just like things used to happen in Sophia town when it was called Sophia town. This place matters because this place is white only. There are two other women at Mrs Goldstein's table. They are looking at her with a smile. Not because they are happy but because they are keeping up appearances. They are also Jewish. One was born in Poland and the other was born in Russia. She was the oldest among old women. Dealing in her trauma her own way. The Russian way. With vodka.

They were talking about plans. About strategy. A young waiter comes to them and they all pretend to have been speaking about their holiday in England. They were all brought tea and biscuits. He asked if they needed another minute to look at the menu. To keep him busy, Goldstein gave him a one rand coin and asked him to get them the newspaper. He nodded and was gone. They started talking about Sizwe. He went undercover as a gardener in a white suburb. He would bring news to Ms Vich, the Russian, and she would bring it to this table. There is a problem, he is missing.

His passbook was found on the side of the road. It had blood on it. Sizwe on the hand was nowhere to be found. Mrs Vich told Mrs Susan Goldstein and Ms Holden, the polish woman. There was a moment of silence. A pause in conversation. There was no immediate solution to the problem. So they had to talk. The conversation picked up again when Mrs Goldstein said she would send Lewis, her gardener, to the township to ask around for Sizwe and if anyone had seen him. The three women discussed bringing this up at the next major meeting. Mrs Goldstein eventually had to shut the idea down.

Too risky. I know you are worried about Sizwe Ms Vich but if we do anything now the we put him in more danger, not less. The missing pass book is not an immediate issue even if he was to be caught without it. He'll be fine. I assure you. He will be fine. Now ladies, let's have our tea.

While Mrs Goldstein and her friends ordered food there was something grim happening two buildings away. It was in the top floor. In a picth black room. The one light goes on. The light falls on a man. Tied to a chair. A chair nailed to the floor. A floor that has been sound proofed. The man was Naked. He was delirious. Unable to comprehend pain. He could only comprehend that each beating was bringing him closer to death. He was crying. His body was still. Almost stiff. There were two police officers with him. He looked at them. Their faces were not human faces. These were the faces of dogs. Of ravenous mongrels trying to tear the flesh from the bone with their teeth. The blood was turning purple. The white in their eyes was the highlighted flame of ignorance. Of impeachable ignorant bravado.

He was forced to wake by having water thrown on him. He looked at the police officer. He saw his badge. He memorized it. They do not usually wear their badges to a torture session but he probably forgot to take it off. Either that or they were finally going to kill him. He did not know anymore if he wanted to live. Their cruelty made the man prefer death. They pulled his hair and shouted at him in Afrikaans. A language their prisoner could not understand. Nor could he guess the translation to after hours of torture. The issue was becoming less clear. His reasons for being tortured were blurred.

The wolf was howling at the sheep. The sheep does not understand the howl. It never does nor does it take issue with the howling if it howls far away. A sheep has no interest in the howls, it will just run. The wolf always catches its prey. Always bites. The police officer finally spoke English. He spoke like he was speaking to a journalist or a politician. He spoke with contempt. A dislike of the prisoner's very existence. The prisoner did not speak. He listened. Maybe the wolf was offering him a deal. He was prepared to die for his ideals but not to be tortured or be repeated beaten for them.

Now listen. We are reasonable people. We are not bad guys. Neither are you. We do what we think is right and you do what you think it right. Now Dingaan? Can I call you by your first name? I can? Excellent. You know what. All we need is a name. An address would also help but what we mainly need is a name. Who is Commander Q? He has been a nuisance to us. Keeping us up at night and all that. We can find him without you but I am giving you the chance to serve your country. Be a patriot. There is always going to be the black threat. There is always going to be a white response. Want a smoke?

He nodded and a cigarette was placed in his mouth. The police officer with the badge lit the cigarette for him. The prisoner inhaled. It felt good. It felt like a huge relief after so much pain. After so much suffering. After so many beatings. He had the officer look at him. They were still wolves. You still cannot make deals with them. They are worse than the devil. He looked at them and gave them a look that told them that he was grateful for the cigarette. They laughed and said it was a pleasure. He was going to die. He would die for his ideals then. He gave them his answer.

They did not kill him.

Back at the restaurant, Mrs Susan Goldstein was greeted by an old friend at her table. He used to be a boy. Small and energetic. Now big and reserved. Who knew a little boy who liked to run around all the time would become so stoic. So at peace with everything. Am I disturbing a black sash meeting Mrs Goldstein? She laughed at the joke. The smile on his face was worth a million rand. There was a problem however. He was old enough for to join the army. Would he go or would he fight. He would die in Angola. He would die in South West Africa. He would die at the border. And what would he be dying for? Imperialism? Racism? For a country where the Dutch reform church was the state religion. A Jew would die for the reform church? How unacceptable. How wrong.

He hugged her and then he disappeared. He would loudly announce his arrival and departure as a child. He was happy despite his fate. Despite what came next. She admired him. He was doing something important. He was making his choice. His body was strong and he was tall. He was also handsome. With large green eyes. The waiter brought the Newspaper. The News would be censored and the only things that were not a patchwork of lies would probably be the things that made the Boer government look good but there was a splendor in the writing. If you are going to lie then lie well.

Can I take your order ladies? What is your special for today and please make sure it is kosher, remember, nobody at this table eats that swine you gentiles seem so fond of. Of course madam, no pork, kosher, our special is Cambodian soup and Vietnamese noodles. Sounds terrible, I will just have a Italian pasta with mince, beef and sprinkled with cheese, and a salmon bagel afterward, avoid making it now. Excellent, and for you. Chicken salad and a long island cocktail. Grand, you miss? I will have a Cambodian soup. It might sound disgusting, which it does but I want to try new things. Good, that will take fifteen minutes.

He left. The three women started talking about work. The important work most young Jews were too self involved to get into. Now they were talking about the deal with the red taxies. The taxies were not red but the man who ran them was known as Big Red. He used to be a runner for the Boer policemen but now he has a back bone and fights with them more than his own people. They talked about how best to navigate the deal with Big Red and his spies. They were also his spies on the Caucasian (but mostly Boer Caucasians specifically) public transport routes.

Which he got in exchange for protection of their men. Now the problem was that Sizwe was under Big Red's protection but where is Sizwe. That was one thing they needed to hash out but at the moment they had a bigger problem, getting Big Red a pass. They all hated the idea of giving such a vile man something that he would definitely abuse but they did not exactly have a lot of options. Ms Vich was against the idea the most but she was also the most pragmatic of the three. She was uncomfortable with the idea but she took it as a sign it really needed to happen. Logic that made sense only to her.

Oi vey.

Something passed Mrs Susan Goldstein's eye. A light. A vibration. A something. She did not just see it, she felt it. She left it. Underneath a nearby building, in the basement, was