EUGENIA AT THE CROSSROAD

By Ákis Awgérinós

They met in the rebellious campus of Columbia University during the 1960s, the days of the Civil Rights, women’s movement and the anti-Vietnam war protests. Jenny was a post-grad aspiring to transform her activism into a journalistic crusade; Siegfried a young and handsome German law student charismatic and unyielding haunted by his family’s past. Random encounters soon turned into sleepless nights; a passionate love story was born!

In 1968 Siegfried arrived in Rhodesia (current day Zimbabwe) a break-away British colony in Southern Africa, as a member of a legal U.N. team to investigate human rights violations and a few weeks later Jenny flies there to meet him with her wedding gown in her suitcase. Here in this exotic but racially segregated paradise, the couple witnessed in the impoverished African townships and the countryside, what oblivious white settlers refuse to accept, and what the hardline white regime’s propaganda machine systematically conceals: a fast-approaching African revolution.

When Jenny crossed paths with an unconventional and scientific warfare contractor, an immense figure of unparallel political influence, wealth and charms and repressive colonial military background, she will -unintentionally- find herself in the shadowy corridors of Southern Africa’s deep state operating behind the mainstream political smokescreen. She will also discover a dark side she never imagined existed: her own.

Placed against a historical backdrop that spans from the hedonistic Cabaret Berlin of 1920s, wartime Germany and Nazi occupied Greece to the 1960s America, and the apartheid era in South Africa; And from Southern Africa’s killing fields to the 108th floor of World Trade Center’s north tower on September 11, 2001, Ms. Y is a cross-genre psychological drama, epic in scope, that deconstructs rather than glorifies power, examines the depths of human controversy, delivers provocative social messages and blends history, mythical allegory and fictional narrative in a fast-pacing plot dominated by three bigger than controversial protagonists tested by love and promiscuity, moral conflicts and momentous circumstances.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9781532045196

Ákis Awgérinós

George Constantine “Ákis” Awgérinós was born and raised in Athens, Greece, and lives in New York City. Visit him at www.EugeniaAtTheCrossroads.com.

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 Ákis Awgérinós.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Disclaimer

EUGENIA AT THE CROSSROADS is a work of fiction in which fictional characters interact with historical figures. I have made certain alterations to the historical context to meet the necessities of the narrative. The names of all non-historical characters in this book are invented. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Author Credits: George C. Awgerinos (George C. Ákis Awgérinós)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR’S NAME

The name Ákis Awgérinós is an alternate spelling and pen name of

Georg(eos) (George) Konstantinou Ákis Awgérinós.

Ελληνικά: Γεώργιος (Γιώργος) Κωνσταντίνου «Áκης» Αυγερινός

Anglicised spelling: George Constantine Ákis Awgerinos

Front cover photography & design: Maria Papamichail

Photo: Maria-Nephéle Awgérinoú

TXu-2-217-201

CASE#1-13260119821

©2020 by George C. Akis Awgerinos

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4521-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4520-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4519-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023918529

iUniverse rev. date:  02/12/2024

for Eugenia

für Eugenia

στην Eυγενíα

voor Eugenia

Nature’s Pendulum: From Nothing to Nothing.

Everything that crosses the gate of birth

in every cosmos, including this tiny Earth,

monuments, kingdoms, rich and poor,

women of beauty, men of strength and wealth,

will experience rise, fall and death.

From air to air and dust to dust,

the future will immerse in the wheel of the past.

Everybody’s life is neither holding nor belonging;

life is a school unfolding.

Everybody’s life is an alma mater.

Future and past don’t really matter.

Beyond the shape exists the Being;

it dwells in the world the eyes can see and the unseen.

The essence of the rise is the cause of the fall

for humans, monuments, queens and kings, symbols and all.

What rises and reaches the sun

someday will lay in ruins, spread in pieces on the sand.

Someday all of us will be null, nullified by our antimatter,

and the Universe will become one thin breath

beyond existence, birth and death.

Ákis Awgérinós

A Note from the Author

I never imagined when I started writing the first sentences of Eugenia Alexander’s story, one hot and tropical summer Christmas Day, that it would become a lifelong journey. The novel represents two intertwined pathways: the tale of Eugenia’s life that you are about to read, and my personal odyssey to bring this multi-genre work to completion.

The story of Eugenia—commonly known as Jenny—was born on 25 December 1987. It is a cross-genre narrative with fictional characters blended with actual historical figures and events. I obtained my information by travelling to the locations I describe, doing exhaustive research in library archives in six countries, gathering records from international agencies and engaging in an extensive study of history books. I carried out a series of interviews with people who either lived during the historical period I describe or were linked directly to the events.

Helmut Scheffel, Leontine Sagan, Christopher Isherwood, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Léon Degrelle, Bishop Lamont, Patrice Lumumba, H.F. Verwoerd, Dimitri Tsafendas, P.K. van der Byl, Josiah Tongogara, Ken Flower, Ian Smith, Peter Walls, Robert and Sally Mugabe, Chief Rekayi, Samora Machel, Shiro Ishii, Mac McGuinness and Dr S. are actual historical persons. Still, I invented certain scenes and dialogue to meet the story’s plot. The Wadzi village, the Mazarru camp and Saxon Heights are fictional entities. The landscape around the mission also has been adjusted to suit the storyline.

The Special Branch in Rhodesia and South Africa were existing agencies, but I adjusted their operational profiles to suit my narrative. The Southern Africa Development Concession conglomerate, the Directorate of the Special Branch of State Security and the Gendarmerie are limited to this story; however, since the early colonial days, Africa has been ruled by state-sized monopolies that have enforced policies on the colonial administrations, introduced their own coats of arms and flags, formed their own private constabulary and intelligence, and signed treaties with foreign governments.

The descriptions of the Nazi era and the 1960s at Columbia University are based on archival publications and personal accounts of people who lived during those historical periods.

The investigation of Rhodesian politics, Rhodesian society and the Bush War proved a remarkably long-winded and multi-layered process. Interviews and historical records contained inconsistent data, and many witnesses provided conflicting and biased information, which made the research an arduous pursuit. Some government officials and military officers related to that period agreed to help me, provided their anonymity would be maintained.

One of the most complicated scenes to describe was the one inside the World Trade Center on the morning of 11 September 2001. During that research, I received contradictory narratives. Two employees of Colors Restaurant provided the most comprehensive information about the Windows on the World.

I try to present six different historical periods as accurately as possible. Still, as a work of fiction, its essence lies in the intricate plot; the illustration of a diverse cultural tapestry; the historical backdrop; the complex psychological portrayal of the characters; and the moral messages they articulate through their introspection, intentions and deeds.

The fact that I wrote this novel in English, which is not my first language, presented me with an array of extraordinary challenges along the way and involved multiple rewritings and edits. However, I believe Eugenia At The Crossroads is a call for self-observation, invites questioning of our value system and becomes a window to human awareness.

EUGENIA

AT THE CROSSROADŠ

The EUGENIA Trilogy

CHRONICLE I

CONSTRUCT: LIBIDO AND MORTIDO

CHRONICLE II

ENTROPY: WAR AND CONSCIOUSNESS

CHRONICLE III

TRANSCENDENCE: THE RAINBOW AFTER THE STORM

Chronicle I

The Construct: Libido and Mortido

Edda A. Alma Mater

Edda B. Eugenia and Siegfried

Edda C. Shadow State: The Unelected Rulers

Edda D. Berlin: The Lust City, Cabaret Époque

Edda E. The Oracle of Zambezi

Edda F. The Chess Duel

Edda G. Destiny and Choice

Edda H. The Burning of the Phœnix

Edda A

Alma Mater

Oversized pedestals, minuscule worshippers.

1

In our next class, we will be discussing the status of women in African societies. Be sure you’ve finished the assigned reading.

The professor ended his lecture; the students stood and began to shuffle out into the hall. A young woman with raven-black hair in a ponytail, wearing a blue-jean skirt and black ballet flats, sat in the front row. She returned her lined notebook to her backpack, looked at her watch, and hurried out, joined by two of her classmates.

Jenny, don’t run so fast, said the girl on her left with a strong Appalachian drawl. She was of medium height, slightly shorter than Jenny, and had pumpkin-red hair with bangs. She wore a tie-dyed dress and rope sandals made from hemp. The woman on Jenny’s right, the tallest of the three, was dressed impeccably in a pale pink mini dress and pearls. Her flowing blonde hair reached her waist. The three mismatched classmates exited Fayerweather Hall and walked towards Low Library Plaza on the main campus of Columbia University.

We have a meetin’ on College Walk in ten minutes about Vietnam. Are you comin’? asked the hippie girl.

I can’t, Trudy Ann. I’ve got to finish writing my article for the newspaper. It’s due tomorrow.

Jenny walked ahead with long strides. The taller woman joined her as Trudy Ann went her own way.

Those political meetings are a total waste, just talk. Do you have five minutes?

I’m in a hurry.

You’re always too busy, Jenny; c’mon, slow down.

I have to make a living, Dianne. My dad doesn’t pay for my expenses like yours.

Five minutes won’t pay them either. I want you to meet my new boyfriend.

The girls arrived at Low Library. Surrounded by buildings with Greek and Latin epigrams, the square was reminiscent of a classic ancient amphitheatre. That evening, Low Plaza was full of the vivid motion of youthful life, with students chatting, flirting, studying, or napping under the descending sun.

Is this the flame of the month?

Don’t be mean, this one is different. He’s studying law. His name is Kevin, and he would like to meet you.

Okay, five minutes, just for a quick hello.

He’s the sexiest guy you’ve ever seen, Jenny. His father is a Columbia alumnus and well-known dental surgeon on the Upper East Side. There he is.

Dianne, you should go to work as a society reporter. You’re wasting your time with sociology.

Halfway to the entry of the library stood the university’s best-known landmark. Alma Mater, the eight-foot bronze statue symbolising the goddess of wisdom, was seated on a pedestal overlooking the campus. Five male students, all dressed in suits, stood in front of Alma Mater. One of them left his pals and came towards the two young women. He kissed Dianne, who made the introductions.

This is Eugenia Alexander, but everybody calls her Jenny. And this is Kevin.

Jenny said a polite hello, but as Dianne and her new beau chatted, her eyes were drawn back to the other four young men standing beside the statue, especially a tall one with wheat-blond hair and silver-rimmed glasses. She guessed he was more than six feet tall; he looked like a Nordic raider of the tenth century dressed in a modern outfit. At one point, Jenny exchanged a glance with him. Spontaneously, she smiled. He didn’t respond; instead, he straightened up his suspenders and pushed his glasses against his nose with his left thumb.

Are all of you on your way to a Wall Street recruiting session? Jenny joked.

Oh, no, Kevin responded. We have a meeting with President Kirk, and we must be formal. He is old school; if we want his good opinion—and our futures depend on it—we need to dress properly for him.

Jenny looked at her watch. Well, I’ve got to go; it was nice meeting you, Kevin.

She took one last glance at the Viking-looking student and rushed down the stairs. At the bottom of the steps, she found her red bike leaning against the wall. She unlocked it and walked with it towards Broadway. Then she rode across the sidewalk and immersed herself in the traffic, pedalling skilfully, shifting between lines of cars and buses.

Edda B

Eugenia and Siegfried

Trying to understand people is like interpreting dreams.

Radicalism changes the face of tyranny.

"Analysis is a thinking process, and our thinking is

based on our past. What we perceive as truth is our

truth, not the Truth. Intellectualism is not spirit. It is

processed food for the mind. There is a formless and

nameless ‘something’ beyond our perceived reality."

2

Mr Prime Minister, I urge you to reconsider your decision.

The South African prime minister, tall and imposing with silver hair and a wide smile, dismissed the warning of his national security adviser.

Dr Duplessis, our republic is under imminent threat from within. I will never allow this country to be hijacked by a Shadow State. In one hour, I will reveal to the parliamentary caucus what has been going on behind closed doors.

Never before has a public exposure of such marquee names come before the legislative assembly. This unorthodox approach is unheard of in the history of political affairs, Dr Duplessis insisted in his distinctive Wallonian¹ inflection. He was a long-skulled, pale-skinned man of average build, no taller than five foot seven, with close-cropped grey hair, an icy stare and robotic mannerisms. He listened as the prime minister went on with his rant.

South Africa didn’t gain its independence from the British Crown to subordinate itself to its military-industrial establishment. Apartheid was meant to protect the racial order in this country, not to become a self-destructive debt-spiral ploy.

Independence means the freedom to choose your own masters, and racial order is a costly agenda.

This is the South African Republic, not South Africa Inc.

It is the South African Republic Inc. All states are corporate entities, monsieur, one way or another; this country is not an exception. With all due respect, presidents, prime ministers, and even absolute rulers are the stage protagonists in the theatre called politics; they are neither the writers nor the producers of the show. This is a friendly reminder.

The premier was aware that South Africa had become a republic because of Dr Duplessis’s gerrymandering and intricate offstage diplomacy. He owed his prime ministerial chair to his trusted policymaker’s machiavellian machinations, but he would not yield to his insolent innuendo and skilful pressure. When he spoke again, it was apparent he had removed from his mind the last shadows of hesitation. The tone of his voice was conclusive.

"Dr Duplessis, alea jacta est—the die is cast. The security operations units are on alert. The disarming of the Territorial Gendarmerie and the arrests of the Concession’s board members will begin once I commence my speech."

As you wish, monsieur.

The prime minister relaxed his tone with his adviser and became genial, as usual.

On Thursday, I will turn sixty-five years young. I’m having a family gathering at home. You will be there, Thibaut; you promise?

Of course, Hendrik, I will, Duplessis responded.

The prime minister watched his adviser retreat. As he sat alone, he stared at the antique clock across from his oak-panelled desk. Its hands showed one thirty-five. He checked once more the printed page of his speech, which he had placed on the desk. That day, he would make an announcement signalling a shake-up in modern African history, and in the process, he would settle some old scores. For a few seconds, he visualised the caucus’s reaction: a standing ovation for his daring initiative. Pleased with that thought, he approached the window and watched the midday bustle of Cape Town, his beloved city.

53604.jpg

Nestled in the southwest corner of the African continent, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean with glistening coastlines and breathtaking views of Table Mountain, Cape Town, the parliamentary capital of South Africa, was a thriving metropolis with Dutch architecture, wide boulevards, colourful parks and a flourishing business district. The city’s rich history contained an intriguing mix of European sophistication and Cape Malay exoticism that dated back to the seventeenth century, blended with subtropical African beauty.

Picturesque and prosperous though it might have been, Cape Town was not a paradise for all. The eye of the conscientious traveller in 1966 would observe, from stores to parks to the sandy beaches, two signs in Afrikaans and English: Slegs Blankes (Whites Only) and Slegs Nie-Blankes (Non-Whites Only).

Seven miles into the sea across the panoramic Table Bay was Robben Island. It appeared to be a tiny, idyllic islet that one might have guessed was a fisherman’s retreat, but such was not the case. Once a leper colony, Robben Island was one of the most notorious penitentiaries on earth. Yet it incarcerated no penal convicts; instead, it detained Civil Rights activists, including some with world-renowned names, such as Govan Mbeki, Nelson Mandela and Jacob Zuma.

Just ten miles to the east of the majestic capital was another world that most Capetowneans did not know existed: a district for natives only, which no whites except the police could enter. There the neighbourhoods of Langa, Nyanga and Guguletu resembled a massive dumpster more than a sprawling suburbia. Newly built project buildings that reminded one of barracks sat beside wooden shacks with tin roofs. African women washed their clothes in rusty bins with boiled water outside their slum dwellings. Their barefoot children played soccer with tin cans in dirt alleys with numbers for names, such as NY1 or NY4, which stood for native yards, as the city called those dusty, unpaved lanes.

53609.jpg

It was two fifteen on Tuesday afternoon, 6 September 1966, when the prime minister of the South African Republic made his entry to the House of Assembly to deliver his momentous speech. While he took the podium, a man with Mediterranean features, dressed in a messenger’s uniform, entered the building. He crossed unchecked through the heavily guarded lobby, and approached the podium. Within seconds, the messenger pulled a dagger out of his jacket and stabbed the prime minister four times in the chest. Parliamentary members rushed to pin the assassin to the ground while the premier’s blood gushed from the gaping wounds in his chest. An ambulance rushed him to the Groote Schuur Hospital, but it was too late. He was pronounced dead on arrival.

53611.jpg

Later that day, television and radio stations around the world announced the staggering news. From nations opposed to the apartheid regime came lead stories declaring, Dimitri Tsafendas, the son of a Greek immigrant and an African woman from Mozambique, assassinated Dr Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd, the prime architect of apartheid. Conversely, the local media stated, A mentally disturbed extremist assassinated the father of white South Africa, motivated by hatred and rage. The African underground press was jubilant: "Tsafendas, inyanga yezizwe" (Tsafendas, the healer of the nation).

53613.jpg

That evening witnessed an unusual commute in front of the ministerial houses below the campus of the University of Cape Town. Cars carrying government officials and parliamentary members came and went. It was after midnight when the gates of a nearby palatial mansion opened, and three stretch limousines with black-tinted glass made their exit. The convoy moved slowly down Belleview Road, encountering little traffic. Police patrols created a strong presence that night. In the second car of the motorcade, two men sat in the back of the limousine. One was a short, plump gentleman in his sixties. After looking nervously at the car following them, he reached for the limo’s bar and took a bottle.

Thirty-year-old Glenfiddich, Mr Cromwell? I know it’s your favourite, he said, pouring some into a shot glass.

I’ll have tobacco instead, Minister, his companion replied with a conspicuous English accent. He was a towering man with broad shoulders, a wide face with a prominent jawline and a thick moustache. He wore a safari pith helmet, resembling a nineteenth-century colonial military officer, or perhaps, a jungle explorer ready to hunt his prey. He lit a cigar and silently puffed on it, apparently enjoying his smoke. At one point, he too, glanced back to face the limo that was following. The headlights illuminated his face, showing a man in his late forties with harsh features and piercing dark eyes.

What an evening, Mr Cromwell.

It was a rather spiffing evening, Minister, wasn’t it? the big man with the pith replied, puffing his fat Havana.

"Now that the obstacles have been removed, the door is open for the government and the Southern Africa Development Concession to sign the agreement. The armaments production executive board will be replaced, and within a week, the Shopping List² will be on your desk, Mr Cromwell."

The Englishman stared out the dark window, momentarily lost in thought, and then said: Minister, the signing of agreements is not enough. The Concession is part of South Africa’s apparatus, and we need our territory secured. We cannot intervene every time some careless bureaucrat in your administration oversteps or defies our initial arrangements.

What do you have in mind, Mr Cromwell?

The Southern Africa Development Concession needs ironclad legislation that secures our role in this country’s future. You did it with the Oppenheimer gold and diamond cartel; you will do it with us too.

That was the situation five decades ago when this part of the world was the Wild South. This is 1966.

However, the Englishman didn’t seem in the mood to brook refusals.

Rhodesia and South Africa will always be the Wild South. Africa is made by monopolies for monopolies; I say, the Concession would have to refuse anything less. Without the Southern Africa Development Concession, apartheid will fall swiftly like a shack in a gale. You do know that as well as I, Minister, don’t you?

The driver continued moving on the barren road. His burly build and crew cut made apparent his role as secret security rather than a mere chauffeur. Cromwell puffed his Havana contemplatively while the car rolled past the closed stores of Belleview Road. The South African minister of defence and national security refilled his glass.

Are you sure you don’t want some malt?

I never mix liquor and business, and this is business, Minister, isn’t it?

I’ll make the arrangements tomorrow morning. Be assured that from tonight, we enter a new period of friendly cooperation for both sides.

Cromwell seemed pleased with the minister’s conclusive reply. He looked at his watch.

It’s already one o’clock. I need to be back in Rhodesia in two hours, but I enjoy myself every time I am in the Cape, especially tonight.

3

Jenny and Dianne arrived at the soccer field, where a crowd watched an intrasquad game as the Columbia Lions prepared for the upcoming Ivy League season. Both teams were playing hard. Jenny watched the coach. He stood about six foot three and had broad shoulders. His baseball cap hid his face, but as he turned, his silver-rimmed glasses glinted in the sunlight.

"That guy was with Kevin the other day at the Alma Mater, right?" she asked.

Who?

The coach.

Dianne nodded. Yeah, he’s one of Kevin’s buddies. Columbia appointed him head coach of the soccer team because he had an excellent record as a striker and team captain at the University of Heidelberg before he came here.

Do you know him?

Who doesn’t? He isn’t my type. He’s got a lot of enemies on the soccer squad.

Why?

Because he’s a bloody swine, said a guy sitting next to Jenny.

What did he do?

He practises the team like they’re marines, not college athletes.

Come on, another student intervened. We were losing to kindergarteners a couple of years ago. Now Columbia is one of the top soccer machines because of Blue Ice.

I think they should kick the bloody Kraut out, the first guy retorted.

Kraut? Jenny asked.

He’s from West Germany, Dianne whispered to her girlfriend.

Jenny looked back at the field.

Blue Ice runs the squad with an iron hand, another student noted as he joined the heated conversation. This season we’ll beat Yale, MIT and Princeton.

Why do they call him Blue Ice? Jenny asked.

His blue eyes rarely show emotion, Dianne replied.

You make him sound terrible.

He’s German—what do you expect? the student next to Jenny commented.

What’s his name?

Siegfried Ahrend. He’s everywhere: soccer, college politics, law school committees and on the dean’s list too, Dianne explained.

He is very good-looking.

Not like my Kevin. Kevin is as handsome as a Hollywood star.

The coach is like a Nordic warrior.

Jenny!

What?

Don’t tell me you like Blue Ice.

I just think he looks cool.

Oh, Jenny, you’re good with books, but with men you have no taste. Ahrend is the Germanic version of Mr Stiff Upper Lip, but I can introduce you to him if you want to—

Jenny felt her cheeks flush. Maybe he’s going out with someone.

Dianne smirked, which made Jenny blush even more. It had been awhile since she’d expressed interest in a guy.

He just broke up with Wendy O’Donnell.

Jenny conjured up the image of Wendy, the ginger-haired gymnastics champion and campus celebrity. The idea that Wendy had dated the coach intrigued her even more. She nudged her friend. Okay, Dianne, you can introduce us.

When the game ended, the young women walked towards the locker room. The players were leaving. Kevin had already changed into his street clothes; the coach was still in his sky-blue Columbia uniform. Jenny grabbed Dianne’s hand as the guys approached.

Hey, goalies, Dianne said to them in greeting. She kissed Kevin and turned to the coach.

How are you doing, tough guy? This is my friend Jenny. She’s a fan of yours.

Players, not coaches, have fans, he replied drily.

His accent and authoritative tone sounded strange to Jenny’s ears. His penetrating blue eyes looked as if they were searching for something, and his towering posture made Jenny uneasy. She could tell his sobriquet was warranted.

Maybe players have fans, but some coaches make enemies by how they handle their team, she remarked.

Doing the right thing is what matters; approval doesn’t win matches. Everything worth doing makes enemies, he snapped.

Jenny was surprised when he offered his hand.

Siegfried Ahrend. How do you do?

His formality amused her.

Nice to meet you, Siegfried, she replied, shaking his hand.

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his left thumb. There was an awkward silence. He put his backpack on.

Well, I have to run, Ahrend said and walked away.

From afar, they watched the coach put on a black helmet, kick-start an old burgundy 1960 FLH Harley-Davidson, and disappear at the end of the road.

53615.jpg

Jenny rode along Broadway and pedalled with the traffic to 114th Street. Then she turned right and stopped in front of an old brownstone, where she lived off-campus. Her third-floor apartment was tidy, yet revealed her personality. It included a small living room, a hallway and two bedrooms. Posters of Ida Bell Wells-Barnett, Anaïs Nin, Allen Ginsberg and Inez Milholland hung on the walls. The flat was an eclectic mix of cultural and political statements. The bookshelves had everything from Erich Fromm and Herbert Marcuse to Simone de Beauvoir, Betty Friedan and Súsanna Patursson.

She walked into her bedroom. On the wall hung her BA from Barnard College and a master’s from Columbia’s School of Journalism. Her bedside table had a copy of the latest edition of the Berkeley Barb, a popular underground paper from the West Coast. After working at her typewriter for an hour, Jenny turned on the radio. The latest news from South Africa was being reported when she heard the key in the door.

Hi tha’ah, Jenny, honeyp’ah. Trudy Ann sighed as she tossed her keys onto the counter and began unbuttoning her coat.

Hey, Trudy Ann. I was about to make some of your favourite sassafras tea. Did you hear what happened? The premier of South Africa was assassinated a few hours ago.

Really? Well, I’ve got no sympathy for the fascist swine. He got what he deserved.

Trudy Ann reached into a kitchen cabinet for a mug and set it down next to Jenny’s.

Rumours say it was an inside job: monopolies, the army and the State Security.

That wouldn’t surprise me, darlin’; few countries have politics as dirty as Africa’s Deep South.

As the kettle started to sing, Jenny rose to prepare the tea and changed the subject.

"I found a trick to save myself time with my articles. For the last three months, I’ve written the same review for the Spectator and the Greek Herald. I write in English, translate it to Greek, and voilà! Two birds with one stone."

What’s your theme for tomorrow?

Jenny put her teacup down and went to her room to retrieve her pages, while her roommate put on a Dizzy Gillespie album and shut off the news. Jenny returned and announced, American society drifts towards the anti-establishment left, versus the traditionalist, Bible-fanatic, warmongering, Communist-phobic right.

I like it, but it’s too rhetorical; you don’t mention anything about social insurrection, the end times, the political Armageddon.

"Trudy Ann, I believe in participatory democracy, like the ancient Athenians, not in cataclysmic uprisings. That’s why I don’t want to be part of the SDS³ or any similar organisation. I like to take part in meetings, but I don’t want to join the ranks. I’m not a foot soldier. I want to reserve the right to say no."

Trudy Ann poured more water into her teacup and turned to her friend.

Do you believe that the French or the Russian Revolution would have been successful if revolutionaries were not under a flag? Have you ever seen a revolution without blood?

Those radical revolutions ended up with Napoleon and Stalin, and I am not enthralled by messianic saviours. Oversized pedestals, minuscule worshippers.

"Have you ever thought why the Negroes in this country cannot become equal unless they form a black counter–Ku Klux Klan?"

"The conditions of Black Americans have changed because of the Civil Rights activists, not the militants."

Radicalism erases the past and brings a new dawn, Jenny.

Radicalism changes the face of tyranny, Trudy Ann.

4

Alec Burnham, the newly appointed minister of Rhodesia’s national security, sat alone in the limousine as his chauffeur drove him towards Gloucester Manor in the Gun Hill suburb on the outskirts of Salisbury, Rhodesia’s vibrant capital. The mansion’s concrete walls were topped with glass shards; from afar, he thought, they looked like the jagged teeth of a savage animal.

Burnham waited while the gates opened. Security cameras swept the area, and a helicopter flew overhead, shining a spotlight on the grounds. Searchlights kept beaming, penetrating the darkness, scanning the clear skies above the estate. The view made him feel a peculiar dread. Five men in dark green uniforms with yellow pinstripes encircled the car. All of them, whites and Africans alike, were huge and menacing and carried Uzis or nine-millimetre Brownings, walkie-talkies, batons and handcuffs. Two held growling German shepherds beside them. A muscled giant approached the window and examined the visitor in the back seat. The gentleman lowered his window.

Good evening, sir, the Goliath said. The guard signalled the driver to approach the mansion. A security guard opened the limo’s back door, and the guest got out. Two more hulks in crew cuts and dark suits materialised from the entryway of a Gilded Age-architecture Hall and escorted him up the wide marble stairs. Not one step was left to chance.

So, this is the famed Gloucester Manor, the new Cromwell residence. Not bad for a former colonial officer! Burnham thought.

The front door opened, and the visitor was greeted by a marble fountain of Leda and the Swan. Hung above the artificial cascade was a chandelier that reflected the movement of the bubbling water. As his eyes swept the entry, they passed over landmark paintings of Boonzaier, Volschenk, van de Cappelle and Pierneef. A Persian rug covered the gleaming oak floors. A sprawling staircase was adorned with figures of golden hands. To complete the impression, floor-to-ceiling mirrors gave the entry an expansive appearance. A six-foot-five man with broad shoulders and piercing dark eyes waited for his guest.

Good evening, Alec. Congratulations on your new post.

Clive, this treatment is a first for me. Even our prime minister, Mr Ian Smith, doesn’t require these security procedures.

Smith is a man of the people—the white people. I’m not, Clive Cromwell replied.

He doesn’t live in a house like this either.

Well, Ian is Mr Rhodesian Government, isn’t he? I am Mr Rhodesian Holdings!

They shook hands.

My people are waiting in my office, Alec.

What is this habit of yours, Clive, to schedule meetings at night?

All the great decisions in history were made while the public lay sleeping, Alec.

As the two men strode down the hallway, they passed several domestics.

May I ask how many boys you have in this house?

The Gloucester Manor employs twenty-six full- and part-time staff. The security personnel are not included in that figure.

Good Lord, we have seven houseboys, and my wife says it’s too many.

I’m a good employer, and I never call my people boys.

They are boys.

They’re domestic employees, Alec, aren’t they? Your insistence on calling them boys will cost you this country one day.

That’s what you think, Clive.

That’s what you’re not seeing, Alec.

Cromwell opened the door to his study, where two men sat waiting. Burnham had met them numerous times before. Every time, he felt the same queasiness. The first was a fair-skinned, stocky, nearly six-foot-tall man with a shaved head. He wore a dark green uniform with a red pinstripe. His epaulettes, insignias, and the colour of his stripe indicated he was the head of the most formidable and dreaded organisation in the Southern African region: the Directorate of the Special Branch and the Territorial Gendarmerie.

Good evening, Mr Kappka, Burnham said. As he went to shake hands, the man stood up to greet him.

Burnham had recently met him at the Salisbury Club, where Kappka had informed him that the Concession’s board had approved his posting as a cabinet minister of defence and national security. Unlike some hot-headed politicians, Burnham was well aware that elected officials in that part of the world were meagre couriers of the monopoly establishment, and no force of will could change that reality.

The man beside the state security chief director was Dr Duplessis, the most prominent but also the most feared administrator on racial policy and national security in South Africa and Rhodesia. As the newcomer entered the room, Duplessis brushed his hand over his pants and mechanically smoothed a crease in the fabric. He greeted Burnham from his seated location, and when he spoke, it was with a French-Wallonian accent. Duplessis had in front of him an ashtray overflowing with unfiltered Gitanes Brunes cigarettes smoked to the nub next to a large jug of coffee.

Alec, Cromwell started, it’s been a year since Rhodesia followed South Africa’s example and broke away from the British Commonwealth. Now the UN has turned to sanctions. That leaves Rhodesians surrounded by a sea of hostile natives who demand independence. This country has run out of options; we need to introduce state surveillance for a surveillance state. The Southern Africa Development Concession will consolidate the Atlas Aircraft Corporation arms production and munitions contracts for South Africa under a gigantic industrial umbrella. It will be called ARMSCOR. We will apply the same consolidation here in Rhodesia. The Ian Smith government needs to pass a new defence budgetary bill in the next few days.

This is a state capture, izzit?⁴ Burnham raised his voice.

Please, Alec, don’t be overdramatic; this is a cooperation between the government and the defence industry.

You know how much Verwoerd opposed this idea, Burnham protested.

Yes, he did, but Vorster, his successor, will not!

And you, Dr Duplessis, were against such a consolidation once.

Cromwell responded on behalf of the Wallonian. Dr Duplessis is a man of reason. If you chaps in the Rhodesian government don’t understand the necessity of the times, someone else will. We fought side by side in Malaya, Alec. I want to do business with you, but the stakes are too high, aren’t they?

It was the turn of the man in uniform to talk. Kappka had a flat voice and a slow, clear tone that emphasised every one of his words.

We need to create no-go administrative zones—territories controlled by the Southern Africa Development Concession and not under Rhodesian jurisdiction. The industrial facilities, the bioresearch programme and all imported cargo will be inside these no-go territories. The first area the Concession needs is the Wadzi village and its surroundings. It’s close to the border of Mozambique, and its position will make it a critical transportation artery for us.

"The Wadzis have lived there for centuries. You know the coons,⁵ they don’t want to be next to a massive industrial facility," Burnham commented.

The Wadzis will be relocated, Alec, Cromwell announced. Then he clipped the end of a Havana and lit it. He blew smoke rings and continued.

The Wadzi relocation will be a private arrangement between the Concession and the Wadzis. If you collaborate with us, you’ll be a wealthy man. Alec, try to be part of the right pack.

Burnham knew that a similar meeting had taken place two months earlier in Cape Town between Cromwell and Verwoerd. The unyielding South African premier, who had his head in the clouds, had notified Burnham that he was determined to end his country’s hijacking by the cartel. Back then, Duplessis had been fervently against the monopoly. Now Verwoerd was out of the way and puzzlingly Duplessis seemed to be part of Cromwell’s inner clique. Unlike the ex-South African premier, Burnham was a pragmatic man. He sensed that on the other side of Cromwell’s warning, opportunity awaited. He was considering the offer when the voice of Duplessis brought him to the reality of the room.

Monsieur Burnham, the prime minister is the voice of the government to the citizenry. We want you to be the voice of the Concession to the government.

Kappka spoke again; he seemed reassuring. This is a colossal agenda of historic proportions, and you can be part of it. That means rise to prominence and riches beyond imagination, Minister—but if you become one of us, it will be an entry with no exit door.

By then, Burnham had made up his mind.

Okay, gentlemen, we can go ahead. However, I need to review the numbers. Your proposal needs budgetary adjustments.

Of course, Cromwell smirked and puffed his Havana.

For a moment, Burnham wondered which of this triumvirate was the worst: Clive Cromwell, the cartel boss; Dr Duplessis, the apartheid policymaker; or Egon Kappka, the paramilitary and state security chief. In the end, it didn’t matter. If he’d just sold his soul to the devil, he thought, at least he’d go to hell a rich man.

The exchange was over. Cromwell escorted Burnham to the entrance, where the security detail waited to return him to the ministerial limo.

They shook hands.

Alec, Cromwell said, I enjoy talking to you. You know how to discuss business.

Fine, Burnham replied, exhausted. I’ll see you at the Salisbury Club on Saturday, Clive.

5

You’re sweating. You must have a fever, one of the two troopers said.

I’m not that sick; I can stay on my post, the other officer replied.

We have a long shift tonight. I don’t think you should stay like this until morning. I’ll message the sergeant to replace you; you need to see a doctor. Your eyes are bloodshot.

The two officers, dressed in the mustardy uniform of the British South Africa Police, or BSAP, as the Rhodesian police were officially called, chatted while jeeps and patrol vans were dispatched along Penhalonga Road, the longest country road in Manicaland, the eastern province of Rhodesia. That night, the police presence was overwhelming in that remote area of native villages, pastures and forests. Most of the troopers were concentrated on the roads closest to the Wadzi village, a native settlement that had stood for centuries. There was never much traffic in that part of the country, but that night the policemen redirected the few drivers who came through.

Do you know what happened? the sick trooper asked his colleague. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Those blokes in the big offices haven’t shared any information with us.

It has something to do with the Wadzis. They have festivities tonight.

"The wogs⁶ have celebrations all the time; what does it have to do with us? And the order is to stay along the road. We can’t let anyone approach the Wadzi. We’re not allowed to approach the village either."

You’re right, mate. I don’t understand the orders, especially those that come from Salisbury. But since they passed the National Security Emergency Act, it’s not wise to ask questions.

53617.jpg

In the meantime, a dilapidated pickup truck drove down Penhalonga Road past Lake Alexander. Every time it hit a bump, it jangled Obert’s nerves. A cloud of smoke spewed from the tailpipe, and the bumper dangled off the back. A piece of wire was all that kept it from falling off. The man to his right, sitting on the driver’s seat, made an effort to keep the steering wheel steady.

I’ll be lucky to reach Umtali with this wreck, the driver mumbled.

I need to be in Wadzi in a half hour. They’re waiting for me. You should come, Obedience. You were invited too, the young man responded. He was no more than twenty years old and was thin and, like the driver, fairly short with good-looking, prominent Shona features. He wore a white safari suit and American sneakers, while Obedience, the driver, was dressed in blue jeans and an unbuttoned orange shirt. It seemed as if he was considerably older; his forehead was wrinkled, and his curly hair was turning grey.

"I can’t. I have to pick up some parcels in Umtali, and I’m late. My baas⁷ will be mad at me. I hate that place; I need to look for another job."

"Changing jobs won’t get you anywhere, brotha’. We need to get rid of these white crocs⁸ who plunder Africa and keep us as indentured serfs in our own land."

Obert, these white crocs give us jobs so we can feed our families, Obedience replied.

Should we be grateful to them? Brother, it’s tragic that not only are you a slave to the white man but also you think like one.

Is that what you learned in the university, Obert? Your brothers and I worked hard to save money and send you to become a teacher, not a rebel. You can be the first in the Marufu family to have a job as a man in a suit.

"Suit, uniform, or naked, we all look the same to the white man—kaffirs,⁹ Obert retorted. We are cattle herders, hunters and farmers; our ancestors were warriors and pastoralists who built the Great Zimbabwe kingdom. These palefaces call us boys even if we have white hair. You want me to teach young African children how to be the next generation of kaffirs? The winds of change blow all over the continent. The time has come for the people of Zimbabwe to rise."

I’ve heard about revolution since I was young, Obert, but it never did. I remember the rebellion in Nyasaland back in 1953. It ended so miserably! It may take another forty years to get there, and by then you’ll be an old man. Can you wait your whole life for something that may never happen?

The insurrection is here now! We will see a better world without the white man. Look over there! Obert pointed.

Obedience glanced at an old building along the road. There was graffiti on the wall: "Nehanda! ZANU,¹⁰ Zimbabwe tatora" (We’ll take Zimbabwe). Those kinds of revolutionary buzz phrases had increased lately, appearing in every corner of the country.

Dusk spread its veil over the Eastern Highlands. The Wadzi hamlet was five hundred yards from the road and close to the border. Nevertheless, from their vantage point, the two brothers could see the bonfires and hear the tam-tams. To the ear of a stranger, the drums were mere noise, but for those Shona men, they formed a language. The tempo signified celebrations, births, deaths, or weddings. That night, it was a fertility celebration for the cattle and maize, which added wealth to the community. The Wadzis thanked Mwari, their ultimate Being, and the mudjimus, the ancestral spirits, for their grace. Obert was not spiritual, but he had many friends in the village and Wadzi women were known for their exotic beauty. He hoped to take one for a bride someday. Obedience slowed down as he approached the roadblock. Troopers were redirecting drivers.

"Pull over, bantu,"¹¹ a constable ordered him.

Obedience navigated the truck to the roadside. The BSAP trooper approached the window and looked inside. He held a handkerchief and dried his forehead. He had bloodshot eyes and seemed ill.

What kind of vehicle is this, boy? You could cause an accident with this wreck. Papers.

The officer asked Obedience a couple of questions and then turned to Obert.

"Give me your ch’tupa, muntu."¹²

Obert produced his ch’tupa, the registration certificate that allowed the indigenous people to move across Rhodesia. His hand shook in disgust at the thought that natives were not free in their own land. The trooper checked the young man’s pass identification.

Obedience Marufu and Obert Marufu from Tangwena. You’re brothers?

Yes, baas, Obedience croaked meekly.

Any relationship to constable Shepherd Marufu in Sakubva?

No, sir, no relationship with the law enforcement, Obert responded.

The trooper handed the ID card back to the young man.

What do you do for a living, bantu?

I do nothing for a living. If you’re asking about my occupation, I’m a student at Fort Hare University.

Fort Hare? That’s the school for terrorists like Mandela, Nkomo and Mugabe and rogues like Kaunda and Nyerere.

It’s a university for African leaders and scholars, Obert countered.

The sickly BSAP officer handed the document back to the young man.

Hey, kaffir, you have a big mouth; be careful.

Then the trooper turned to Obedience.

Go straight down Penhalonga Road, and don’t stop before you reach Jan Smuts Drive. You can’t turn off the road under any circumstances.

But I must go to Wadzi, Obert protested.

Nobody goes to Wadzi. The officer raised his voice. Now drive off, and do as you’re told.

Obedience started the truck. He drove through the roadblock with troopers on both sides. As soon as they got away from the police patrol, Obedience said, He could have arrested you, Obert; why did you lie about Shepherd?

Obedience, I didn’t lie; we don’t have any brother working in the constabulary.

Our brother Shepherd works in the Rhodesian police, and you know it.

"There is no such thing as Rhodesia. This country has been called Zimbabwe since ancient times; any African who works for the BSAP is a policeboy, a mapolisa,¹³ a sell-out. Shepherd doesn’t belong to our family, Obert affirmed. Pull over there; I’ll jump out."

"Are you crazy? Did you hear what the fuzzie¹⁴ said?"

"There are not many coppers¹⁵ here; nobody will see me. I know a passage to Wadzi. I’m not going to miss the pungwe¹⁶ because a white fuzz says so."

Obedience stopped, and Obert jumped out of the truck and ducked into the bushes. He knew the area well. He’d hunted and fished there many times when visiting his Wadzi friends and distant cousins. He watched his brother’s pickup truck disappear at the end of the road.

Obert followed the sound of the drums and the singing. The whole village was illuminated. But before he could complete his journey, he heard truck engines. A convoy of vehicles approached the settlement. Some were canvas-covered trucks, and others were long trailers with tractors attached that resembled refrigerators. He counted more than twenty of them heading towards Wadzi. Flying in formation above was a fleet of helicopters. He remained hidden in the foliage. When he was sure there was nobody around, he made his way to the outskirts of the hamlet. The lorries were between him and the Wadzi. From his temporary shelter, he watched a scene unfold. Men jumped out of the trucks as they came to a stop. They wore dark green uniforms with yellow pinstripes and red berets. Obert froze. They were neither police nor the regular army but the detestable Territorial Gendarmerie, a symbol of oppression and exploitation in South Africa and Rhodesia. He knew about them, but he had never encountered them before. They’d arrived in Rhodesia in 1965 when the war in the Congo ended.

They were former Congo mercenaries, ex-legionnaires and Katangese ex-gendarmes who formed a heavily militarised security constabulary with a new mission: to protect the interests of a corporate leviathan, the Southern Africa Development Concession. Within a year of their founding, this private armed force had become the most formidable paramilitary in the region. They had their own ranks, uniforms and insignias; their radio signals were not compatible with the frequencies of the police or the regular army. The gendarmes answered not to the Rhodesian or South African authorities but to the Directorate of the Special Branch and the Territorial Gendarmerie, a state within a state. Obert wondered why they were now in Wadzi on such an important night of celebration.

The floodlights from the helicopters turned the night into an artificial day and surrounded the settlement from all sides. Jackbooted uniformed cadres with machine guns gathered the population in the centre of the village. Obert watched as some gendarmes held menacing ridgebacks¹⁷ and German shepherds. The tribesmen were shouting at the cadres, but everybody stopped when a helicopter landed, and two officers approached the crowd. One of them was an African in the Gendarmerie uniform; his face was covered by a frightening wooden mask of a dragon. Another officer stood in front of the native crowd and spoke. The masked African translated in Shona with a noticeable Wadzi accent.

Dear villagers, we have approached you as friends many times. We explained that your area, a non-fertile piece of land, is useful for the good of this country’s people. We offered you money and assistance to resettle to a better place, but your chief refused to cooperate. Sadly, we have no choice but to relocate you for your good and out of necessity for this country. If you remain here, your traditional life will be disrupted. We will move you across the border, not far from here. There you will find plenty of water and grass for your cattle. You will be transported first, and in the morning, we’ll transfer all the livestock to your new location. Take no more than one bag per family. The trip will be pleasant and brief.

From his hideout, Obert watched the gendarmes push tribespeople inside the lorries. The helicopters circled the village, ensuring no one ran away. It was dark by the time the doors of the refrigerator trailer trucks closed behind the scrabbled Africans. Up to eighty people, along with their bags, were packed into each semitrailer. Obert saw the convoy drive away towards the Mozambican border, escorted by the helicopters, while dozens of cadres searched the huts. He knew he was safe temporarily, but he could not stay for long without being found. He had to run, but where could he go? Certainly not back to Penhalonga Road. The police would arrest him. The only option was the forest to the north.

He jumped when the first crackles of shots were fired. He saw a villager fall to the ground. The barking of the hounds became louder. Two gendarmes holding ridgebacks on leashes approached his hiding spot. One of the men glanced towards the shrubbery where Obert hid. He had to make a move. Another helicopter circled his hiding spot. The floodlight was strong; he felt its heat upon his head. He crawled along the foliage that protected him, then broke out of the shrubs and ran. The floodlight fell on him, and the barking became frenzied. Someone shouted after him, but Obert didn’t look back. Shots whizzed past his head, but he continued to run. He knew the area, and the forest to the north was the best pathway. The helicopter remained above him. More shots came, this time from above. A second helicopter approached. He dove under some bushes, then took off the white shirt that made him a target, and his newly bought takkies¹⁸ and wrapped them in his shirt. For a Tangwena man, bare feet were for the fast run. He dug his hands into the soil and placed the bundle in the dugout. He covered it with mud and twigs.

The terrain was inhospitable, especially under cover of darkness. It seemed to Obert they’d missed him, but it would only be a matter of time before the hounds found his scent. He knew he needed to cross the river and sprint into the woods on the other side. He leapt up and made a mad run towards the waterway. One of the gendarmes shouted, Let the dogs at him!

Several ridgebacks were unleashed, and the animals closed the distance between them. Obert could hear barking behind him. As he reached the riverbank, he stopped. White water churned below. He was a strong swimmer but at that time of year, with the stream so high, he didn’t know if he could make it. The lion hounds snarled viciously as they approached their prey. Obert looked over his shoulder to see sixty pounds of canine muscle hurtle towards him. He jumped and began swimming. The dog launched itself off its haunches and dove into the river. Another hound stayed on the riverbank, whimpering at its companion rather than jumping into the turbulent rapids.

Machine-gun fire exploded near Obert’s head. He dove and began frantically kicking his legs. He surfaced about halfway across the river and realised he had to allow himself to be drawn under the white water so he could resurface and continue swimming towards the bank. Behind him, the ridgeback was losing its battle against the current. The dog was dragged under the fast-moving water. It yelped in fear. By the time it resurfaced, the current had pulled the half-drowned animal far downstream.

If the bantu crossed the river and reached the forest, it will be hard to find him. He seems to know the area and runs like an antelope, the pilot said.

Let’s drop a few men into the woods, the co-pilot replied. He picked up the radio in the cockpit. Base, this is TG5-V8C. Request permission to drop our bundle. Roger.

There was momentary static on the line, and then came the confirmation. The helicopter swooped down over the river, but the men couldn’t see any sign of the fugitive. Obert was still under the water. He held his breath until he thought his lungs would explode, and then he resurfaced once more. He pushed himself the last few feet until he reached the other bank. As he caught his breath, Obert saw four ropes thrown out of a helicopter several hundred feet away. A gendarme was harnessed to each rope, being lowered to the forest floor. Despite the exertion of the arduous crossing, at the sight of his pursuers closing the gap, Obert’s fear pumped adrenaline through his body. He ran into the forest, away from his hunters. His feet were numb, but he kept on.

6

Jenny took the subway to Astoria, a trip she made four times a month. Her family had lived there since 1949. She got out on Astoria Boulevard and walked several blocks to a brick house with a small yard in front and a garden in the back.

When she arrived, her father read the Greek Herald and listened