Oom Samie se Winkel
From Koljander, koljander, so deur die Bosch
by Annatjie Melck
In 1981 Gerhard Froneman came and told me that there was a shop looking for a new owner near thebottom of Dorp Street. The shop was known as ‘XL Store’. According to a friend who worked for Dr Anton Rupert’s Historical Houses, it was one of the original old shops in Stellenbosch, a genuine old general dealer, just like the old village shops of yesteryear.
I am interested in anything that’s old, and that tells a story. I approached a few friends, and together we hired the shop. Two years later we bought the property, shop and all. It was one of the most irresponsible things I’ve ever done in my life.
Then Professor Frans Smuts asked me whether I knew whose shop I’d bought. I had no idea. He told me it had been Oom Samie’s shop.
Who was Oom Samie? I had no idea, so I arranged to have the shop’s history researched, and in this way I met Oom Samie – posthumously. He impressed me so much that I immediately changed the shop’s name to Oom Samie se Winkel.
Oom Samie was a philanthropist. He was disabled and incapable of doing physically demanding work. His parents bought the shop for him in 1904, and it still stands on the same spot and remains in the same building occupied by Oom Samie, then trading under the name CJ Volsteedt Algemene Handelaar.
Oom Samie was known for his kind-heartedness, and for always including something extra with thepurchases of those who were experiencing difficulty. I decided, with my partners, to allow the style and theemotion of the shop to live once more. And the shop has an emotion. It smells of tobacco and sugar and salted fish and herbs and spices. It brings a smile to the faces of visitors to Stellenbosch. It brings a nostalgia for times and lifestyles long gone.
Oom Samie se Winkel has become a life anchor for me. I am responsible for the people who work for me. I cannot lie in and just take it easy. I have to get up every day, encourage my staff, and thank them. We try always to offer traditional ingredients such as bokkoms, sour fig jam, honey, chest sugar, offal, sheepheads, rooibos tea, and much else besides. Oom Samie is today the oldest shop in Stellenbosch still trading on the same property and in the same building. In 2015 Oom Samie se Winkel was 110 years old.
A TV crew got to hear about this and asked whether they could do a story about the shop and its people. The resulting programme was aired about two months later. While the crew was in the shop, the presenter asked me to tell an interesting story about something that had happened in the shop. The story that came to mind was the one about the veldskoens.
An old, used pair of veldskoens hangs in my shop, and the story behind this is as follows. A gentleman who was on a Stellenbosch ‘red wine tour’ stepped inside the shop in his old veldskoens, selected a new pair on the shelf, ‘tried them on’, placed his old veldskoens where the new ones had been on the shelf, and left without paying.
About a month after this story hit the airwaves, I received the following letter at my office: ‘When I was in Stellenbosch with a few mates on a red wine tour in 1988 and we visited Oom Samie, I saw some new vellies – I took off my old vellies, put on the new pair, and placed my old shoes on the shelf where the new ones had been.’
A friend of my correspondent had seen the TV programme about Oom Samie, phoned him, and said he must go and pay for his veldskoens. The result was that I one day entered my office and found the letter plus a credit card receipt for R600 – after twenty-six years, this gentleman had come in and paid for his shoes. He gave me his cell number, and I phoned him to say thank you. He lives in Bothaville.
I don’t know what he was doing in Stellenbosch this time, but he gave me great pleasure, and put a smile in my heart, when he came and paid for his shoes.
From The Sea To The Milky Way
From Abducting A General
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Manoli, Andrea, Kotsiphis and I climbed down from the rocks and the roots in the afternoon, to see what the Germans were up to. All was quiet. Andrea went up the cliff again, and we lay and smoked behind a rock until the others should come. Manoli reckoned that we must have seen about four hundred people since the capture. Knowing Crete, he went on with a wry smile, many hundreds more must have a pretty good idea of our whereabouts by now. Yet here we were.
To avoid the look of too large a procession, the others came down in two parties, and we all lay up until nightfall on a ledge in a deep hollow of the cliffs, where an icy spring trickled down the rocks. An old Rodakiniot had walled it in with sea boulders, to make a little grotto, like a hermitage, deeply shaded by fig trees and oleanders. We soaked Stathi’s hard bread, and munched it with the old man’s onions and lettuces and radishes, and sat talking until long after dark. Then we crossed the short distance to the little cove we hoped to leave from. It seemed to us all, with its walls of rock on either side, and the sand and the pebbles, the lapping of the water, and the stars, a quiet place for our adventure to end.
As we stood about, talking in whispers at first, although there was no one to be afraid of, Andartes climbed down the rocks in twos and threes to join us. There were the Rodakino Kapitans, Khombitis and Manoli Yanna and Andrea Kotsiphis, and there too, suddenly, with the great fair moustache that had made us christen him Beowulf, was Petraka, the Kapitan of the Asi Gonia band, and one of our closest friends on the island. He had brought a contingent of Goniots to join the other Andartes in guarding our departure, and also to say goodbye.
The place was filling up like a drawing room. Groups were lounging about among the rocks or strolling with slung guns, conversing in low tones.
Quietly composed, with his sling neatly retied by Manoli, the General sat on a rock by the water’s edge. I said it would be nice for him to be in a bunk with sheets, after all our ups and downs. Billy told him we’d all soon be eating lobster sandwiches – the captain of the ship was famous for them. The General smiled: ‘Danke, Herr Major; Merci mon Capitaine’, as much at the intention as at the prospect of these delights. He had had a rotten time, and he knew we were trying to be nice.
Signalling was to begin at 10 o’clock, not Monkey King after all, but S.B. (Sugar Baker), once every five minutes. To our consternation, we realised that neither of us knew what B was in Morse code; only the S from SOS. Billy flashed the three short dots, then a sort of ‘S’ something, in the hopes that Brian Coleman, the captain, would make allowances for us not being regular soldiers.
At last we all thought we could hear the ship’s engine, and a wave of excitement ran along the beach. Then, after a series of faster signals, the sound grew fainter and seemed to die away, and a mood ofdismay assailed us all. These awful moments often occurred on beaches at times like these. Perhaps it was because one’s ears, after straining out to sea, played tricks; but today there was a real reason for concern.
This agony was finally resolved by the arrival of Dennis, who was also due to leave. Fortunately, he knew Morse code, and we started desperately flashing the correct signal. At last, faint at first, then gradually louder, the sound of the ship came to us, and a great sigh of relief rose from the waterline. (It occurs to me now that we ought to have asked the General. He must have been as eager to go as we now were. Did we not think of it, or was it shame at our amateur status?)
There was a slight coil of mist over the sea, so it was not until she was quite close that we saw the ship. We could hear the rattle of the anchor going down. Then two boats were lowered. They headed for theshore, full of dark shapes. We had forgotten all about George Jellicoe’s raiding forces. We could soon see that the boats were manned by figures in berets and jerkins, all bristling with sub-machine guns. When thekeels touched the pebbles, they leapt into the shallow water and rushed ashore at full tilt. I heard someone shout my name. They thought we might have had to retreat, fighting to the rendezvous. When they saw that we were unsoiled, I think they were all a bit downcast, especially the commander, who was not Jellicoe, but Bob Bury, whom I hadn’t seen for three years.
I introduced him to all of the party, and to the guerrilla leaders who were crowding about us, in a state ofgreat jubilation, and to the General. He bowed stiffly, shook hands, and said: ‘Sehr gefällig, Herr General,’ in a perfect German accent.
The moment had come. Bob Bury and his commandos emptied their rucksacks of all their stores and cigarettes, and handed them over to those of our companions who were remaining. We all pulled off our boots to leave them behind: this was always done – even in rags they came in useful. Soon we were saying goodbye to Petraka, and the Rodakino Kapitans, and Yanni Katsias, and the guerrillas, and lastly to Antoni Zoidakis. We all embraced like grizzly bears. I tried to persuade Antoni to come with us. He wavered a moment, and then decided against it. I wish he had. A sailor said: ‘Excuse me, sir, but we ought to get a move on.’
As we neared the ship, the figures waving along the shore began to grow indistinct among the shadows and, very fast, it was hard to single out the cove from the tremendous mountain mass that soared from thesea to the Milky Way.
The ship grew larger, her pom-poms and Bofors anti-aircraft guns shining in the starlight. When we drew alongside, sailors in spotless white were reaching down into the bulwarks to guide the General up therope ladder – ‘That’s right, sir! Easy does it!’ – while we, Billy, Manoli, George and I, helped from below.
A moment later we were on the deck in our bare feet, and it was all over.
Van Die See Af Melkweg Toe
Uit Abducting A General
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
In die middag het ek, Manoli, Andrea en Kotsiphis van die rotse en die wortels afgeklim om te sien wat die Duitsers aan die doen was. Alles was stil. Andrea het weer met die rotswand opgeklim, en ons het daar gelê en rook en gewag totdat die ander sou opdaag. Manoli was van mening dat ons, vanaf die gevangeneming, omtrent vierhonderd mense gesien het. Omdat hy Kreta geken het, het hy met ’n skewe glimlag voortgegaan, moes etlike honderde mense ’n baie goeie idee gehad het waar ons ons nou bevind het. Maar hier was ons.
Om dit te vermy dat ons soos ’n groot prosessie gelyk het, het die ander in twee groepe ondertoe gekom, en ons het almal tot skemerdonker daar op ’n rotslys in ’n diep leegte in die rotswand gewag. ’n Yskoue fontein het daar van die rotse af in ’n straaltjie afgesyfer. ’n Ou Rodakiniot het dit met rotse uit die see opgebou om so ’n klein spelonkie soos ’n kluisenaarshut te vorm, met donker skadu’s van wildevyebome en oleanders. Ons het Stathi se harde brood gedoop en saam met die ou kêrel se uie en blaarslaai en radyse, daaraan gepeusel. Ons het tot laat in die nag gesit en praat. Toe het ons die kort entjie na die grotjie toe geloop. Ons het gehoop dat ons van daar af kon vertrek. Met die mure van rots aan beide kante, en die sand en die spoelklippies, die kabbeling van die water, en die sterre, het dit vir ons almal gelyk na ’n goeie, stil plek waar ons ons avontuur kon eindig.
Terwyl ons daar rondgestaan het, en aanvanklik in fluisterstemme met mekaar gepraat het, hoewel daar niemand was om voor bang te wees nie, het Andartes in twees en dries by die rotse afgeklim om by ons aan te sluit. By hulle was die Rodakino Kapitans, Khombitis en Manoli Yanna en Andrea Kotsiphis, en skielik was daar ook Petraka met sy welige snor. Dis hoekom ons hom Beowulf gedoop het. Hy was die Kapitan van die Asi Gonia-bende en een van ons hegste vriende op die eiland. Hy het ’n kontingent van Gonianiete saam met hom gebring om by die ander mense van Andartes aan te sluit om wag te staan by ons vertrek, en ook om totsiens te sê.
Hulle het die plek toegesit soos in ’n sitkamer: daar was groepe wat tussen die rotse rondgehang het ofnet daar rondgestaan het en in gedempte tone met mekaar gepraat het, hulle gewere hangend oor die skouers.
Die generaal het rustig op ’n rots naby die water gesit ná Manoli sy hangverband weer mooi aangesit het. Ek het aan hom gesê dat dit vir hom lekker sou wees om in ’n slaapbank met lakens te wees ná al ons wisselvallige ervarings. Billy het aan hom gesê dat hy binnekort kreeftoebroodjies sou eet – die kaptein van die skip was beroemd vir hulle. Die generaal het geglimlag: “Danke Herr Major; merci mon Capitaine,” veel meer vir die gedagte as vir die vooruitsig na hierdie genietinge. Hy het ’n ellendige tyd beleef, en hy het geweet dat ons probeer het om gaaf te wees.
Seinwerk sou om 10 uur begin – nie Monkey King nie, maar S.B. (Sugar Baker), een keer elke vyf minute. Tot ons konsternasie het ons besef dat nie een van ons twee geweet het wat B in morsekode was nie, maar slegs die S soos in SOS. Billy het ’n drie kort puntjies gesein, en toe ’n soort van S of iets, met die hoop dat Brian Coleman, die kaptein, sou verstaan dat ons nie beroepsoldate was nie.
Uiteindelik het ons almal gedink dat ons die skip se motore kon hoor, en ’n golf van opgewondenheid het langs die kus afgeloop. Toe ná ’n reeks vinniger seine, het die geluid dowwer geword en geklink asof dit verdwyn het. ’n Stemming van verslaentheid het ons almal oorweldig. Sulke aaklige oomblikke het op soortgelyke tye dikwels op strande plaasgevind. Miskien was dit omdat mens se ore, ná die inspanning met die see in die agtergrond, poetse op ’n mens gebak het. Maar vandag was daar ’n grondige rede vir kommer.
Hierdie angs is skielik bygelê deur Dennis se aankoms – hy was ook veronderstel om te vertrek. Gelukkig het hy morsekode geken en het ons heel desperaat die korrekte seine uitgestuur. Uiteindelik, eers dofweg en toe stadigaan duideliker, het ons die geluid van die skip gehoor, en ’n groot sug van verligting het vanaf die waterkant opgestyg. (Dit het nou tot my deurgedring dat ons die generaal moes gevra het. Hy moes toe net so gretig gewees het soos ons om te vertrek. Het ons nie daaraan gedink nie, of was ons maar net skaam oor ons amateurstatus?)
Daar was ’n ligte misbank oor die see; en dit was nie voordat die skip redelik naby was dat ons hom gesien het nie. Ons kon die gerammel van die anker hoor toe dit laat sak is, en toe was twee bote te water gelaat, en hulle het vol donker gedaantes strand toe gevaar. Ons het skoon vergeet van George Jellicoe se strooptogmagte. Ons kon gou sien dat die bote beman was deur figure in barette en leerbaadjies – almal bewapen met handmasjiengewere. Toe die kiele die strandklippies geraak het, het hulle in die vlak water gespring en teen volle vaart die strand opgehardloop. Ek het iemand my naam hoor skree. Hulle het gedink dat ons moontlik moes terugval, al vegtende, na die rendezvous. Ek dink dat toe hulle gesien het dat ons ongeskonde was, hulle almal ietwat teleurgesteld was, veral die bevelvoerder, wat nie Jellicoe was nie, maar wel Bob Bury, wat ek vir die afgelope drie jaar nog nie weer gesien het nie. Ek het hom aan ons groep voorgestel, en ook aan die guerrillaleiers wat om ons in ’n staat van verrukking saamgedrong het – en aan die generaal. Bob Bury het styf gebuig, hande geskud en gesê: “Sehr gefällig, Herr General,” met ’n perfekte Duitse aksent.
Die oomblik het aangebreek. Bob Bury en sy kommando’s het hulle rugsakke, met al hulle voorrade en sigarette, leeggemaak en dit aan ons kamerade wat sou agterbly, oorhandig. Ons het ons skoene uitgetrek en daar gelos, soos die gewoonte was om te doen. Selfs al was hulle deurgeloop, was dit tog nuttig. Gou daarna het ons totsiens gesê aan Petraka, en die Rodakino Kapitans, en Yanni Katsias, en die guerrillas, en ten laaste aan Antoni Zoidakis. Ons het mekaar soos grysbere omhels. Ek het probeer om Antoni te oorreed om saam met ons te kom – hy het ’n oomblik lank gehuiwer en toe daarteen besluit. Ek wens hy het tog anders besluit. ’n Matroos het gesê: “Verskoon my Meneer, maar ek dink ons moet aanstoot.”
Toe ons nader aan die skip gekom het, het die waaiende figure in die skaduwees langs die strand dowwer begin word en, baie vinnig, was dit moeilik om die baaitjie te onderskei van die ontsaglike massa van die berg wat uit die see opgestyg het na die Melkweg toe. Die skip het groter geword. Sy pom-poms en Bofors lugafweerkanonne het in die sterlig geblink. Toe ons langsaan ingevaar het, het matrose in hulle vlekkelose wit in die bolwerk uitgereik om die generaal met die touleer op te help. (“Dis reg, Meneer! Wees versigtig!”) terwyl ons – ek, Billy, Manoli en George hom van onderaf bygestaan het.
’n Oomblik later het ons kaalvoet op die dek gestaan, en dit was alles verby.
Never A Flicker Of Hesitation Or Doubt
From Abducting A General
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
‘Well, Herr Major, how are the plans for our departure progressing?’ By now the General had become as solicitous for the success of our departure as we ourselves were.
‘Wunderbar, Herr General! We’re leaving!’
It was true, the order of release, or the promise of it, had come through. The German drive through the Asi Gonia mountains had driven Dennis to earth and put his set momentarily off the air. But messages from Cairo were now beamed to all stations and when the great news came through, Dick himself, hearing ofour local troubles, and making a dash clean across the nome of Retimo, reached our cheerless grotto long after dark. The boat would put in at a beach near Rodakino at 22h00 hours on the night of 14 and 15 May – ‘10 o’clock tomorrow night!’ It was in exactly a day from now. We would only just be able to manage it.
The thing was to get the main party to the coast under cover of darkness. I sent Billy off with George and the others, and Yanni Katsias and his two wild boys, by a short route that would bring them, by daybreak, to a place where they could wait for us. The General, Manoli and I would go by a much longer and safer route, where the mountains were so steep and deserted that, with a cloud of scouts out as a precaution, we could move by day without much danger. Unfortunately it was too steep and uneven for a mule, so theGeneral would have to go on foot. But the sky was clear, and there would be a bright moon and starlight. Yanni would warn the Rodakino bands that we were heading for their mountains, and ask some of them to come and meet us.
Sustained perhaps by the thought of an end to his ordeal, the General tackled this via crucis with scarcely a groan. Helped by Manoli and me when he stumbled, and then by the guerrillas that shimmered like ghosts out of the vacancy, he moved across the landscape in a sort of trance. But, tormenting as our journey was, the dazzle of the moon and, when it set, of a blaze of stars that was nearly as bright, undermined this commotion of rock and then, by a planetary device in collusion with the optical tricks ofwhich, at some moments, Crete seemed to be composed – involving manipulated reflection and focus, levitation, geometrical shifts and a dissolving of solids balanced by a solidification of shadow – filled thehollow, then porous and finally transparent island under foot with lunar and stellar properties and, while joisting it several leagues in the air, simultaneously, with moves as quiet as an opening gambit followed by those advances of knights and bishops, fast and stealthy as grandmother’s steps, which lead to penultimate castling and a sudden luminous checkmate, regrouped all the mountain tops of Crete within touching distance. The valleys and foothills had dropped away from this floe of triangles. They drifted in the windless cold starlight with the pallor, varying with their distance, of ice or ivory.
The sun rose behind Mount Ida and, by the time it was up, about twenty guerrillas were padding along beside us. They were all from the Rodakiniot band of the Kapitans Yanna, Kotsiphis and Khombitis. Like a number of their men, these were old friends from my time in their region, but I hadn’t seen most of them for a year and a half.
A few hours later we were gazing down at the point where the Germans, fortunately about two miles from our intended point of exit, lived in a strongly defended barbed wire perimeter. (Our march, until the reunion with Billy’s party in the middle of the morning, had taken thirteen hours. It was considered a great feat.) Billy and the others had arrived at our tryst – a jut of the mountains commanding the entire coast – just before dawn. There was a great feeling of excitement in the air. The main body of the enemy were a mile further west. We watched the outpost directly beneath us, as they moved about their pen at normal garrison tasks. Suddenly they all seemed to be bounding across an open space, in an extending line which began to shrink at the other end. I asked Minoli for the binoculars. He looked through them, laughed, and handed them to me. Billy adjusted his, and when we saw that they were only playing leapfrog, songs burst simultaneously from our lips. The General looked down for a long time and handed back the glasses with one of his deep sighs. I don’t think he was thinking of rescue. It was too late now, and, with all those black-clad guerrillas lying smoking and talking quietly among the rocks, with their guns beside them, too remote a contingency. I think the sigh, and the resigned smile and the shrug that followed, meant that those minute figures below were the last of the German Army he would see until thewar was over. He said, not sarcastically: ‘You must be feeling pleased.’
But I wasn’t, not altogether. Billy and I both felt that all would go well this time. The Rodakino captains had done us proud. Long before the ship was due, there would be eighty or a hundred well-armed men in themountains, to close out the passes inland and to swoop down the mountainside, should there be trouble at the last moment. They could hold those Thermopylean narrows, between the sea and the mountains, against a whole regiment.
But Crete is always difficult to leave. It was especially so now.
And the Cretans? There has been more than a hint in this account of their kindness and generosity, and ofthat aspect of Cretan life which gives the phrase ‘Brothers in Arms’ such meaning.
Yet it was another side of the Cretans, for which there has been no room at all in this narrative, which one knew one would miss most: the flair for friendship, company, talk, fun and music; originality and inventiveness in conversation, and an explosive vitality that seemed to recharge itself from the high voltage of the air. It was to the air, too, that they gave the credit for their capacity to cross several mountain ranges, at the same lightning speed, on an empty stomach, as well as after swallowing enough raki and wine to lay low other mortals for a week. Their glance and their speech were equally unguarded. There was something both patrician and bohemian in their attitude to life, and their sense of the comic drew a thread of humour through everything – not frivolously, but rather out of stoicism, if things were going badly – and to wipe away anything maudlin or rhetorical from matters that were too serious to be blurred by either. Recalcitrant to official dragooning, they would let themselves be cut to bits for theabstract ideas around which their lives turned.
In a way, of course, they were ready for all that was happening. They were brought up on powder and shot, and on traditions of fighting against occupation. They knew all about the cost of a wedding feast. Even if the whole place went up in smoke, they knew they would win in the end. If not this time, then thenext.
When eating and drinking in sheep-folds and in caves, it was to take anything stagey out of their utterances that they adopted a mock-heroic, and almost ribald, tone when they clashed glasses together and said, ‘Let us die without shame’. But they meant it, and they did.
In the end, excitement at the thought of getting the General off the island, and of being free at last from the risks of disaster or failure (and, less creditably, from the bruta figura) had us all in its grip. Anyway, this time the whole party, except for Grigori and Antoni Zoidakis, were coming too. It was them I had been thinking about, and would miss most.
They had been utterly beyond praise and, of all the participants (before and after the capture) who had passed us on from hand to hand, like an explosive and incendiary baton in two relay races, across a dozen mountain ranges, lasting for twenty-two and then seventeen days, their help had been instantaneous, enthusiastic and total, with never a flicker of hesitation or doubt.
Nooit ’n Sprankie Wankelmoedigheid Of Twyfel Nie
Uit Abducting A General
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
“Wel, Herr Major, hoe vorder die planne vir ons vertrek?” Teen dié tyd het die generaal net so besorg oor die sukses van ons verkassing geword soos ons.
“Wunderbar, Herr General!” Ons is besig om te vertrek!”
Dit was waar. Die opdrag dat ons die wyk gaan neem, of die belofte daarvan, het ons bereik. Die Duitse dryfjag deur die Asi Gonia-gebergtes het vir Dennis ondergrond gedwing en sy stel vir ’n oomblik van die lug afgehaal. Maar boodskappe vanuit Kaїro is nou na alle stasies toe uitgesaai, en toe die groot nuus deurgekom het, het Dick homself, toe hy van ons plaaslike probleme te hore gekom het, dwarsoor die grote Retimo gesnel, en ons neerslagtige grot lank ná sononder bereik. Die boot sou ’n kus naby Rodakino teen 22h00 uur op die nag van 14 en 15 Mei bereik – “10 uur môreaand!” Dit was presies ’n dag van nou af. Ons sou net daarin slaag om die afspraak na te kom.
Die taak was om die hoofgroep onder die beskerming van die donkerte by die kus te kry. Ek het Billy saam met George en die ander kêrels, en Yanni Katsias en sy twee wilde seuns, vooruitgestuur. Hulle sou ’n kortpad volg wat hulle teen dagbreek by ’n plek sou bring waar hulle vir ons kon wag. Ek en die generaal en Manoli sou ’n heel veiliger en heelwat langer roete volg, waar die berge so steil en verlate was, dat, met ’n klomp verkenners op die uitkyk, ons gedurende die dag sonder veel gevaar sou kon beweeg. Ongelukkig was dit te steil en ongelyk vir ’n muil, en die generaal sou dus te voet moes aanstoot. Maar die lug was skoon en daar sou ’n helder maan en sterlig wees. Yanni sou die spanne van Rodakino waarsku dat ons van plan was om koers berge toe te kies, en party van hulle vra om ons tegemoet te kom.
Dalk ondersteun deur die gedagte dat hy aan die einde van sy beproewing kom, het die generaal hierdie via crucis amper sonder ’n kreun of ’n gesug aangepak. Bygestaan deur my en Manoli wanneer hy gestruikel het en dan ook deur die guerrillas wat soos spoke uit die duisternis geglinster het, het hy oor die landskap in ’n soort van beswyming beweeg. Maar hoe pynigend ons reis ook al was, het die glans van die maan met sy ondergang en die volle prag van die sterre wat amper net so helder was, die kabaal van rotse getemper. En dan deur ’n planetêre patroon in samewerking met die optiese truuks waar dit, op sekere oomblikke, gelyk het of Kreta daaruit saamgestel is – dit behels gemanipuleerde weerkaatsing en fokus, levitasie, meetkundige verskuiwings en ’n versmelting van vaste stowwe gebalanseerd deur ’n verharding van skaduwees – volgemaak deur die holte, dan poreus en uiteindelik deursigtige eiland onder jou voete met eienskappe van die maan en sterre en gestut deur verskeie myle, terselfdertyd, met bewegings so stil soos ’n openingskuif gevolg deur opmarse van die ridders en lopers, vinnig en stilletjies soos ouma se voetstappies, wat lei tot ’n voorlaaste rokade en ’n skielike skitterende skaakmat en al die bergpieke van Kreta word binne raakafstand hergroepeer. Die valleie en die voorheuwels het weggeval uit hierdie drywende driehoeke. Hulle het in die windlose koue sterlig gedryf met die bleekheid, afwisselend volgens hulle afstande, van ys en ivoor.
Die son het sy kop agter Ida-berg uitgesteek en, teen die tyd wat dit op was, het daar omtrent twintig guerrillas sag en gedemp langs ons beweeg. Hulle was almal van die Rodakiniot-span van die Kapitans Yanna, Kotsiphis en Khombitis. Net soos ’n klomp van hulle manskappe, was hierdie van my ou vriende sedert my tyd in hulle omgewing, maar ek het meeste van hulle vir ’n jaar en ’n half nog nie weer gesien nie.
’n Paar uur later het ons afgekyk na die punt waarbinne die Duitsers gelewe het – stewig beskerm deur ’n doringdraadheining om die perimeter. Gelukkig was hulle omtrent twee myl weg van ons voorgenome vertrekpunt af. (Ons skof, tot waar ons in die middel van die oggend met Billy se groep verenig is, het dertien uur geneem. Dit was as ’n groot kordaatstuk beskou.) Billy en die ander het by ons afgesproke plek – ’n uitsteeksel van die berge met ’n uitsig oor die hele kus – net voor dagbreek bereik. Daar was ’n gevoel van groot opwinding in die lug. Die hoofmag van die vyand was ’n myl verder wes. Ons het die buitepos hier direk onder ons dopgehou terwyl hulle in hulle kamp met die normale garnisoentake rondbeweeg het. Skielik het dit gelyk asof hulle gehardloop het om in ’n oop gedeelte in ’n lang uitgerekte tou, wat aan die anderkant minder geword het, te gaan staan. Ek het Minoli vir die verkyker gevra. Hy het daardeur gekyk, gelag, en dit aan my gegee. Billy het syne verstel en toe ons gesien het dat hulle hasieoorspring gespeel het, het ons altwee sommer aan die sing gegaan. Die generaal het vir ’n hele ruk na hulle gekyk en toe die verkyker, met een van sy diep sugte, teruggegee. Ek dink nie hy het daaraan gedink om gered te word nie. Dit was nou te laat. Met al daardie swart geklede guerrillas wat daar gelê en rook het, en stilweg met mekaar daar tussen die rotse gesels het, met hulle gewere langs hulle, was dit ’n te vêr verwyderde moontlikheid. Ek dink die sug en die gelate glimlag en die skouerophaling wat daarop gevolg het, het beteken dat daardie klein figuurtjies daaronder die laaste van die Duitse weermag was wat hy sou sien tot die oorlog verby was. Sonder sarkasme het hy gesê: “Julle voel seker baie gelukkig en tevrede.”
Maar dit was nie só nie, nie heeltemal nie. Beide ek en Billy het gevoel dat dit hierdie keer reg sou verloop. Ons was trots op die Rodakino-kapteins: lank voor ons die skip verwag het, sou daar tagtig ofhonderd goed gewapende manne in die berge wees. Sou daar op die laaste oomblik probleme ontstaan, sou hulle die passe na die binneland sluit, en langs die berghange afstroom. Dit was vir hulle moontlik om daardie smal Thermopylean-deurgange tussen die see en die berge teen ’n hele regiment te behou.
Maar dit is altyd moeilik om Kreta te verlaat.
En die Kretensers? In hierdie weergawe was daar meer as net ’n sinspeling van hulle goedheid en vrygewigheid, en dat dit daardie aspek van die Kretaanse lewe was wat skielik die frase “Gewapende Broederskap” soveel betekenis gegee het.
Maar daar was ’n ander kant aan die Kretensers waarvoor daar glad nie ruimte in hierdie vertelling was nie, en wat mens weet wat jy die meeste sou mis: Die flair vir vriendskap, vir saamwees, om te gesels, genot en musiek, oorspronklikheid en vindingrykheid wanneer daar gepraat word, en ’n enorme lewenskrag wat homself skynbaar herlaai uit die stroomspanning in die lug. Dit was ook te danke aan die lug dat hulle die kapasiteit gehad het om verskeie bergreekse te oorkruis teen dieselfde weerligspoed op ’n leëmaag nadat hulle genoeg raki en wyn weggesluk het wat enige ander sterwelinge vir ’n week lank lam sou gemaak het. Hoe hulle na jou gekyk het en hoe hulle gepraat het was in gelyke mate onopgesmuk. Daar was iets wat beide aristokraties en boheems in hulle houding teenoor die lewe was, en hulle humorsin was ’n draad wat deur alles geloop het – nie ligsinnig nie, liewer uit gelatenheid as dinge sleg verloop het – om enigiets wat te sentimenteel of te retories was en wat te ernstig geword het, weg te vee. Balhorig teenoor amptelike onderdrukking, hulle sou alles prysgee vir die abstrakte idees waarom hulle lewens gedraai het.
Op ’n manier was hulle gereed vir alles wat besig was om te gebeur. Hulle het grootgeword met die geweer in die hand, en met tradisies van om te veg teen besetting. Hulle het alles geweet oor die koste van ’n huweliksfees. Selfs al sou die hele plek afbrand, het hulle geweet hulle sou aan die einde die oorwinnaars wees – as dit nie dié keer sou wees nie, dan die volgende keer.
Wanneer hulle in skaapkrale en grotte geëet en gedrink het, was dit met die doel om reguit te wees dat hulle ’n kamma-heroïese, en amper lelike, toon aangeneem het wanneer hulle hul glase teen mekaar laat klink het en gesê het: “Mag ons sterf met eer!” Maar hulle het dit bedoel, en hulle het met eer gesterf.
Teen die einde het die opwinding aan die gedagte om die generaal van die eiland af te kry, en om uiteindelik bevry te kon wees van die gevaar van ’n ramp of mislukking (en minder waarskynlik, van bruta figura) het ons almal in sy greep gehad. In elk geval, hierdie keer sou al die betrokkenes, behalwe Grigori en Antoni Zoidakis, ook daar wees. Dit was hulle aan wie ek gedink het en wat ek die meeste sou mis.
Hulle was totaal verhewe bo lofprysing en, van al die deelnemers, voor en na die gevangeneming, wat ons van hand tot hand aangegee het, soos ’n plofstof-en-brandbom-staffie in ’n afloswedren, oor ’n dosyn bergreekse, wat vir twee en twintig, en daarná sewentien, dae geduur het, hulle hulp was oombliklik, entoesiasties en volkome, sonder ’n sprankie wankelmoedigheid of twyfel.
An Impending Boat At Rodakino
From Abducting A General
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Among the rocks and arbutus clumps, there was an ice-cold spring that was said to bestow the gift ofimmortality. We all lay on our faces, and lapped up as much water as we could hold. I told the General about the property of the water. He leant down from the saddle of his mule, and urgently asked for a second mug.
Among the trees outside the hamlet of Karines, a little further on, Uncle Stavros Zourbakis, forewarned to make sure that the coast was clear, was waiting with Kiria Eleni, his high-spirited wife (a crack shot with a rifle), and their daughter Popi – our hosts, and guardian angels, on scores of journeys – with a tray of raki glasses and peeled walnuts. We swigged them down, and went on our way munching.
~
At a hut near Alones, Yanni Katsias was waiting with two very wild-looking boys, whose appearance aptly epitomised the mood of the approaching mountains, and our old escort turned back to Fortinou. We were joined too – he suddenly materialised out of the trees further on, as though instinct had summoned him there – by Eleftherios Alevizakis, son of Father John, the brave and saint-like priest of Alones. (Father John, in spite of the capture and execution of one of his sons, had sheltered and befriended many of us for years. It was with great difficulty that, after endless raids on his village, we had persuaded this tall, bearded and spectacled figure, one of the most outstanding of the resistance, to go to Cairo – at least until things had blown over a bit.)
A mishap occurred on this long night’s march: the girth of the General’s mule broke, and sent his rider tumbling down a steep precipice. We chased after him. At first we thought that one of his shoulder blades had been damaged. We arranged a sling and, after a while, the pain seemed to go. But his right arm remained in a sling for the rest of the journey. It was an anxious moment.
Outside the little village of Vilandredo, we were met by the kind and enthusiastic Stathi Loukakis and his brother, yet another Stavro. He led us all, dog-tired and woe-begone, to a built-up cave that clung to themountainside like a martin’s nest. It was only to be reached by the clambering ascent of a steep ladder ofroots and rocks – up which our disabled captive could only be hoisted by many hands and in slow stages.
But once we were inside, everything took a really promising turn: a booted, turbaned and heavily bearded figure, with a goatskin cloak about him, lay fast asleep in a corner of the cave. It was our colleague, Dennis Ciclitira, no less. His wireless set, we had learned from god-brother Stathi, was only just up thevalley at Asi Gonia. Yanni Katsias had told me, at our rendevous near Alones, through teeth clenched like a portcullis in the south-west Retimo and Sphakian way – it turns all their Ls into Rs, one of the many odd characteristics of the local accent – that he and his two chaps had explored the Rodakino beach. There was not a single German anywhere near. I hardly dared to think of it, but as we tucked up the General as snugly as possible, I could not help feeling that things must at last be going right.
At first, things really did look promising. Rumours of a German descent on the region had prompted Stathi to conceal us in a cramped and precarious eyrie the night before. But the next morning, all seemed serene. We climbed up to a commodious and beautiful ledge of rock, where the General was consoled for the agonies of the ascent by the coloured blankets and the cushions spread there under the leaves by my god-brother and Stavro (an old drinking companion of mine) and by a marvellous banquet of roast sucking pig and kalitsounias – crescent-shaped mizithra (soft cheese) croquettes – and the wicker demijohn ofmagnificent old wine that was waiting. Stathi was a great bon viveur and a paragon of kindness and generosity, as well as being the Kapetanios of an armed band. His eager blue eyes kindled with delight to see us demolish his feast. He hoped, and so did we, that we could lie up here in luxury until we slipped off, over the hill, to the boat.
There was a rushing stream hard by, and sweet-smelling herbs all around us, and the trees were full ofnightingales. We banqueted and slept, and talked and sang. The sun set through the surrounding peaks and as we lolled, exulting on the soft rugs under the moon and the stars, forever plied with fresh marvels by the two brothers, who sped to and from the village like kindly djinns, this sudden change in our affairs seemed, to all of us, as magical as the sudden transportation to paradise for beggars in a Persian story.
But next morning, two hundred Germans detrucked in Argyroupolis, the road terminus less than an hour away.
~
We changed our hideout several times, in accordance with the German movements.
At one point in this agitated interlude, a boy got through from Asi Gonia, with a message about an impending boat at Rodakino – the time, place and signals to be confirmed later. This buoyed us up in our troubles, which began to multiply. At one dark crevasse – our third cache – we were skulking and shuddering, waiting for Stathi and Stavro to come. They arrived, several hours after they had planned, with the baleful news that a hundred Germans had surrounded the village, so that nobody had been able to get in or out. They were asking, Stathi told us in a whisper, looking towards the huddled figure of our prisoner, for General Kreipe.
Then they left.
’n Naderende Boot By Rodakino
Uit Abducting A General
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
Tussen die rotse en ’n klomp aarbeibome was daar ’n fontein met yskoue water waarvan daar gesê is dat dit die gawe van onsterflikheid skenk. Ons het almal op die wal gaan lê en soveel water gesuip as wat ons kon. Ek het die voordele van die water aan die generaal verduidelik. Hy het skuins van die muil se saal afgeleun en op ’n tweede beker aangedring.
’n Entjie verder, tussen die bome aan die kant van die klein dorpie met die naam Karines, het oom Stavros Zourbakis gewag. Hy is vooraf gewaarsku om te verseker dat alles veilig was. Saam met hom was Kiria Eleni, sy lewenslustige vrou (en ’n baasskut met ’n geweer) en hulle dogter Popi – ons gashere en beskermengele op talle reise – met ’n skinkbord glase vol raki en afgedopte okkerneute. Dit het ons weggesluk en al kouende verder aangestryk.
~
By ’n hut naby Alones het Yanni Katsias saam met twee seuns wat ’n wilde voorkoms gehad het, op ons gewag. Die twee het heel gepas die bui van die naderende berge verpersoonlik, en ons ou eskort het hier teruggedraai Fortinou toe. Eleftherios Alevizakis het hier by ons aangesluit. Hy het skielik ’n entjie verder uit die bome gematerialiseer asof blote instink hom daarheen ontbied het. Hy was die seun van Vader John, die dapper, heilige priester van Alones. (Vader John het aan ons skuiling gebied, ten spyte daarvan dat een van sy seuns gevange geneem en tereggestel was, en hy was jare lank vriende met baie van ons. Met groot moeite en ná eindelose strooptogte op sy dorpie, het ons die lang, bebaarde en bebrilde persoon, een van die mees uitstaande mense van die weerstandsbeweging, oorreed om na Kaїro toe te gaan – ten minste totdat dinge bietjie bedaar het.)
’n Ongeluk het ons op hierdie lang nagtelike stapskof getref: Die buikgord van die generaal se muil het gebreek en die ruiter het die steilte afgerol. Ons het agter hom aangehol, en aanvanklik het ons gedink dat sy skouerblad gebreek was. Ons het ’n hangverband vir hom georganiseer en na ’n rukkie het dit gelyk of die pyn bedaar het. Maar vir die res van die reis het sy regterarm in ’n slinger gebly. Dit was ’n benoude oomblik.
Buitekant die klein dorpie Vilandredo, is ons deur ’n goedhartige en entoesiastiese Stathi Loukakis en sy broer, nog ’n Stavro, ontmoet. Hy het ons, wat stokflou, doodmoeg en pootuit was, gelei tot by ’n opgeboude grot wat aan die kant van die berg vasgeklou het soos ’n swaeltjie se nes. Dit kon net bereik word deur met ’n steil leer van wortels en rotse op te klim – ons gestremde gevangene kon slegs deur baie hande en in stadige stadiums bo gekry word.
Maar toe ons die binnekant bereik het, het alles baie belowend gelyk. ’n Gestewelde en getulbande figuur met ’n groot baard en ’n bokvelmantel om hom, het daar in die hoek van die grot vas aan die slaap gelê. Dit was niemand anders nie as ons kollega, Dennis Ciclitira. Ons het by peetbroer Stathi gehoor dat sy draadloosstel net ’n entjie met die vallei op by Asi Gonia was. Yanni Katsias het my by ons rendezvous naby Alones vertel (met opmekaargeklemde tande soos ’n valpoorthek, soos dit die manier was in die suidweste van Retimo en Sphakia – dit veroorsaak dat al hulle L’e in R’e verander – een van die vele eienaardige karakteristieke van die plaaslike aksent) dat hy en sy twee knape die Rodakino-strand verken het, en dat daar nie ’n enkele Duitser daar naby was nie. Terwyl ons die generaal so warm en behaaglik as moontlik toegemaak het, kon ek nie help om die gevoel te kry dat dinge besig was om uiteindelik reg te verloop nie.
Aan die begin het sake regtig heel belowend gelyk. Gerugte van ’n Duitse naderkoms na daardie omgewing toe, het Stathi aangespoor om ons die vorige nag op ’n inmekaargedrukte en ellendige manier weg te steek – soos in ’n arendsnes. Maar die volgende oggend het alles rustig gelyk. Ons het opgeklim na ’n ruim, gerieflike en pragtige rotslys waar die generaal vertroos is vir die foltering van die opwaartse geklimmery deur gekleurde komberse en kussings wat daar deur my peetbroer en Stavro (’n ou drinkebroer van my) onder die blare uitgesprei is. En ook deur die wonderbaarlike feesmaal van gebraaide speenvark en kalitsounias – halfmaanvormige mizithra (
Naby ons was daar ’n vinnig vloeiende waterstroom, en kruie met ’n soet reuk was oral om ons, en die bome was vol nagtegale. Ons het feesgevier en geslaap en gepraat en gesing. Die son het agter die pieke om ons ondergegaan, en terwyl ons luierig en geluksalig onder die maan en sterre op die sagte matte gelê het, het die twee broers ons deurentyd oorlaai met vars wonders. Hulle het heen en weer na die dorpie toe gehaas soos djins. Hierdie skielike verandering in ons omstandighede het vir ons almal so toweragtig voorgekom soos ’n skielike wegvoering na die paradys vir bedelaars in ’n Persiese verhaal.
Maar die volgende oggend het tweehonderd Duitsers in Argyroupolis uit hulle trokke geklim. Die padterminus was minder as ’n uur van ons af.
~
Ons het verskeie kere van wegkruipplek verander na gelang van die Duitsers se bewegings.
Op ’n slag in hierdie onrustige verposing het ’n seun van Asi Gonia daar aangekom met ’n boodskap oor ’n naderende boot by Rodakino. Die tyd, plek en seine sou later bevestig word. Dit het ons opgebeur te midde van ons probleme wat begin het om te verdubbel. Ons het in ’n diep skeur – ons derde skuilplek – weggekruip en angstig op Stathi en Stavro se koms gewag. ’n Hele paar uur ná hulle beplande aankoms, het hulle met onheilspellende nuus opgedaag. ’n Honderd Duitsers het die dorpie omring, sodat niemand in of uit kon gaan nie. In ’n fluisterstem het Stathi ons vertel, terwyl hy na die figuur gekyk het, wat daar in ’n bondeltjie gesit het, dat hulle na generaal Kreipe gesoek en gevra het.
En toe het hulle vertrek.
