Literally Flirting With Death
From Lara – The Untold Story That Inspired Doctor Zhivago
by Anna Pasternak
Boris was certainly working hard on his novel. On 12 December he wrote to Frederick, Josephine and Lydia from Moscow, addressing them as: ‘My dear Fedia and girls!’ In the letter he makes it clear that he is doing everything he can to get the first half of Doctor Zhivago, already in manuscript form, to them. Did they know of a good Russian copy-typist? he asks. And if he is owed any money in England from translation work, could they pay the typist to make three copies and check them? He wanted the manuscript to be sent to Maurice Bowra (the eminent English literary historian), Stefan Schimanski (an English critic and translator of Pasternak’s works in Russian) and their friend, the English historian and philosopher, Isaiah Berlin.
‘Printing it – I mean, publishing it in print – is absolutely out of the question, whether in the original or in translation – you must make this absolutely clear to the literary people whom I should like to show it to,’ he continued, updating them about his work in progress: ‘Firstly, it isn’t completed, this is only half of it, needing a continuation. Secondly, publication abroad would expose me to the most catastrophic, not to say fatal, dangers. Both the spirit of the work itself, and my situation as it has developed here, mean that the novel can’t appear in public; and the only Russian works allowed to circulate abroad are translations of those published here.’
Fearing criticism from his sisters, he wrote: ‘You won’t like the novel because it lacks cohesion, and was written in such haste. One reason is that I couldn’t drag it out, I’m not young any more, and anyway, anything could happen from one day to the next, and there were a number of things I wanted to get written down. And I was writing it in my own time, unpaid and in a hurry so as not to overstretch my budget, but to try and make time to get down to some paid work.’
In spite of his self-deprecation with his family, praise was mounting from literary friends to whom he had managed to send the first typescript. On 29 November 1948, he received the following letter from his cousin Olga Freidenberg, from St Petersburg, who was a distinguished scholar and later a university professor: ‘Your book is above any judgment. Everything that you say of history as the second universe can be referred to in your book … It is a special variation of Genesis. It makes my skin tingle to read the philosophical discourses in it. I am just afraid that I am on the verge of discovering the final mystery that one hides inside himself and all his life he wishes to express it and waiting for its expression in art or science and is frightened to death of this, because it must remain an eternal mystery.’
Pasternak felt intense pressure to get his work read by those he respected, as he was inordinately proud of his book. It was his answer to a lifelong dream to produce a long prose work about his generation and its historical fate. All writers are prone to frustrations and fears that their work will not get published, let alone stand the test of time. Pasternak, who had already been working on the novel for thirteen years, knew that he was taking monumental risks in privately distributing the politically controversial material. At first, he had been optimistic about the Bolshevik revolution, believing it would liberate the masses, but when he saw the reality of the war it created, he became a fierce opponent of the Soviet regime. He blamed collectivisation for ruining the rural economy and destroying the lives of millions.
Boris Pasternak could not have made his scorn for the political elite any clearer. As Yury Zhivago states: ‘Ordinarily, people are anxious to test their theories in practice, to learn from experience, but those who wield power are so anxious to establish the myth of their own infallibility that they turn their back on truth as squarely as they can. Politics means nothing to me. I don’t like people who are indifferent to the truth.’
As Pasternak had no idea that Stalin had issued orders to protect him, and ordinary citizens were killed or sent to the gulag for expressing anti-Stalinist views in their own homes, to be circulating his trenchant views in his novel was literally flirting with death.
Pasternak recognised the dangers, describing them in what would be his last letter to his family for almost a decade. (Due to the ‘era of suspicion’, he was forced to halt all correspondence with his sisters; he resumed contact with them in the summer of 1956, during the Krushchev ‘thaw’.) ‘Even if you should hear one day that I’ve been hung, drawn and quartered,’ he told them, ‘you must know that I’ve lived a most happy life, better than I could ever have imagined, and my most solid and stable state of happiness is right now, and in all the recent past, because I have finally learned the art of expressing my thoughts – I possess this skill to the degree that I need it, which was never the case before.’
He wrote this letter at the zenith of his affair with Olga. As his son Evgeny explained: ‘The impact of their happy relations during the first three years was revealed in Lara’s image, her appearance and the lyric warmth of the chapters devoted to her. My father always believed that it was the awakening of “an acute and happy personal impression” that gave him the strength to cope with the difficulties of the work on the novel.’
Little did Olga know that due to widespread knowledge of her affair with Boris, and her unflinching support of the book that he was writing, it was not Boris who would be ‘hung, drawn and quartered’ but she herself who would shortly receive unwelcome visitors.
Om Letterlik Met Die Dood Te Flankeer
Uit Lara – The Untold Story That Inspired Doctor Zhivago
deur Anna Pasternak
Boris het gewis hard aan sy roman gewerk. Op 12 Desember het hy van Moskou af as volg aan Frederick, Josephine en Lydia geskryf: “My liewe Fedia en meisies!” In die brief maak hy dit duidelik dat hy alles moontlik doen om die eerste helfte van Doctor Zhivago, wat reeds in manuskripvorm was, by hulle uit te kry. Hy wou weet of hulle van ’n goeie Russiese kopieertikster kennis gedra het? En as daar enige geld in Engeland aan hom verskuldig was vir vertaalwerk, kon hulle die tikster betaal om drie afskrifte te maak, en hulle kontroleer? Hy wou graag hê dat die manuskrip aan Maurice Bowra (’n hoogaangeskrewe Engelse literêre geskiedkundige), Stefan Schimanski (’n Engelse kritikus en vertaler van Pasternak se werke in Russies) en hulle vriend, die Engelse geskiedkundige en filosoof, Isaiah Berlin, gestuur word.
“Om dit te druk – ek bedoel, om die drukwerk uit te gee – is geheel en al buite die kwessie, óf dit die oorspronklike óf die vertaling is – jy moet dit baie mooi aan die literêre mense, aan wie ek dit graag wil wys, verduidelik,” het hy voortgegaan, en hulle op datum gebring aangaande die vordering van sy werk: “In die eerste plek, dit is nie klaar nie, dis net halfpad klaar, daar moet verder daaraan gewerk word. Tweedens, om dit in die buiteland te publiseer, sou my blootstel aan die mees katastrofiese, en moontlik noodlottige, gevare. Beide die gees van die werk, en my situasie soos dit hier ontwikkel het, beteken dat die roman nie in die openbaar mag verskyn nie: Die enigste Russiese werke wat toegelaat word om in die buiteland te sirkuleer, is vertalings van werke wat hier gepubliseer is.”
Omdat hy bevrees was dat sy susters hom sou kritiseer, het hy geskryf: “Julle sal nie van die roman hou nie, want daar is ’n gebrek aan deurlopendheid en dit was inderhaas geskryf. Een rede is dat ek dit nie kon uitrek nie. Ek is nie meer jonk nie en in elk geval is dit moontlik dat daar van dag tot dag enigiets kan gebeur, en daar was ’n paar goed wat ek wou neerpen. En ek het geskryf wanneer ek tyd gehad het, sonder betaling en in aller yl sodat ek nie my begroting oorbelas nie, maar om te probeer om tyd te maak om iets wat betaal het, te doen.”
Ten spyte van sy eie geringskatting by sy familie, was lofbetuiginge van sy literêre vriende, aan wie hy geslaag het om die eerste tikwerk te stuur, aan die opbou. Op 29 November 1948 het hy die volgende brief uit Sint Petersburg van sy niggie Olga Freidenburg ontvang (sy was ’n voortreflike student wat later ’n professor geword het): “Jou boek is verhewe bo enige kritiek. Alles wat jy sê oor die geskiedenis as die tweede heelal, kan in jou boek opgespoor word ... dit is ’n spesiale variasie van Genesis. Om die filosofiese redevoering daarin te lees, laat my vel behoorlik kriewel. Ek is net bevrees dat ek op die punt staan om die finale geheim wat iemand binne homself wegsteek, te ontdek – sy hele lewe lank wens hy om uiting daaraan te gee en wag hy om dit in die vorm van kuns of wetenskap te openbaar en daarvoor is hy doodbang, want dit moet ’n ewigdurende raaisel bly.”
Pasternak het intense druk ervaar om sy werk deur daardie mense wat hy gerespekteer het, gelees te kry, want hy was buitengewoon trots op sy boek. Om ’n lang prosawerk oor sy generasie en die historiese lotsbestemming daarvan voort te bring, was die antwoord op ’n lewenslange droom. Alle skrywers is onderhewig aan frustrasies, en hulle leef in vrees dat hul werk nie gepubliseer sal word nie, wat nog te sê dat dit nie die toets van die tyd sal kan deurstaan nie. Pasternak wat reeds vir dertien jaar aan die roman gewerk het, het geweet dat dit ’n enorme waagstuk was om die kontroversionele politieke materiaal vertroulik te versprei. Aanvanklik was hy optimisties aangaande die Bolsjewieke rewolusie, want hy het geglo dat dit die groot meerderheid van die bevolking sou bevry, maar toe hy die realiteit van die oorlog wat die rewolusie teweeg gebring het, gesien het, het hy ’n vurige teenstander van die Sowjet-regime geword. Hy het kollektivisasie geblameer omdat dit die landelike ekonomie vernietig het en die lewens van miljoene Russe geruïneer het.
Boris Pasternak kon nie sy veragting vir die politieke elite duideliker gemaak het nie. Soos Yury Zhivago verduidelik: “Gewone mense is angstig om hulle teorieë in die praktyk te toets en om deur ervaring te leer, maar daardie mense wat die septer swaai, is so gretig om die mite van hulle eie onfeilbaarheid te bewerkstellig dat hulle hul rûe, so goed as hul kan, op die waarheid draai. Politiek beteken vir my net mooi niks. Ek hou nie van mense wat onverskillig staan teenoor die waarheid nie.”
Pasternak was totaal onbewus daarvan dat Stalin opdrag gegee het dat hy beskerm moes word terwyl gewone burgers om die lewe gebring is, of na die goelakstrafkampe gestuur is omdat hulle anti-Stalinistiese sienswyses in hulle eie huise verkondig het. Die sirkulasie van sy eie skerp standpunte in sy roman was dus om letterlik met die dood te flankeer.
Pasternak het dié gevare raakgesien en hulle in die brief, wat vir amper ’n dekade die laaste aan sy familie sou wees, beskryf. (As gevolg van die ‘era van agterdog’ was hy gedwing om al sy korrespondensie met sy susters te staak, en het hy dit eers na die somer van 1956, gedurende die Khrushchev ‘ontdooiing’, hervat.) “Selfs al sou julle eendag hoor dat ek opgehang is, of uitgemergeld of gevierendeeld is,” het hy aan hulle vertel, “moet julle weet dat ek ’n besonder gelukkige lewe gelei het, beter as wat ek my dit ooit kon voorgestel het, en ek is op hierdie oomblik en in my onlangse verlede op my gelukkigste en bestendigste ooit, want ek het uiteindelik die kuns aangeleer om my gedagtes in skrif uit te druk – ek besit dié vaardigheid tot op die punt wat ek dit nodig het, en dit was nooit voorheen die geval nie.”
Hy het dié brief geskryf op die kruin van sy affair met Olga. Sy seun Evgeny het dit so verduidelik: “Die impak van hulle gelukkige verhouding gedurende die eerste drie jaar is onthul in Lara se beeld, haar voorkoms en die liriese warmte van die hoofstukke wat aan haar toegewy is. My pa het altyd geglo dat dit die ontwaking was van ’n ‘akute en gelukkige persoonlike indruk’ wat hom die krag gegee het om die moeilikhede van sy werk aan die roman te hanteer.”
Hoe min was Olga bewus daarvan dat, as gevolg van die algemene kennis van haar verhouding met Boris, en haar onwrikbare ondersteuning van die boek wat hy aan die skryf was, dit nie Boris was wat ‘gehang, uitgemergel en gevierendeeld’ sou wees nie, maar dat sy haarself binnekort onwelkome besoekers sou ontvang.
In the Spirit of Your Destiny
Click Here to Play Podcast
From Lara – The Untold Story That Inspired Doctor Zhivago
by Anna Pasternak
It is almost impossible, by today’s standards of celebrity, to comprehend the level of fame that Boris Pasternak engendered in Russia from the 1920s onwards. Pasternak may be most famous in the West for writing the Nobel Prize-winning love story Doctor Zhivago, yet in Russia he is primarily recognised, and still hugely feted, as a poet. Born in 1890, his reputation escalated during his early thirties; soon he was filling large auditoriums with young students, revolutionaries and artists who gathered to hear recitals of his poems. If he paused for effect or for a momentary memory lapse, the entire crowd continued to roar the next line of his verse in unison back at him, just as they do at pop concerts today.
‘There was in Russia a very real contact between the poet and the public, greater than anywhere else in Europe,’ Boris’s sister, Lydia, wrote of this time; ‘certainly far greater than is ever imaginable in England. Books of poetry were published in enormous editions and were sold out within a few days of publication. Posters were stuck up all over the town announcing the poets’ gatherings and everyone interested in poetry – and who in Russia did not belong to this category? – flocked to the lecture room or forum to hear his favourite poet.’
The writer had immense influence in Russian society. In a time of unrest, with an absence of credible politicians, the public looked to its writers. The influence of literary journals was prodigious; they were powerful vehicles for political debate. Boris Pasternak was not only a popular poet hailed for his courage and sincerity. He was revered by a nation for his fearless voice.
~
There is a Russian proverb: ‘You cannot know Russia through your head. You can only understand her through your heart.’
When I visited Russia for the first time, walking around Moscow was like being haunted, as I had the sense of not being a tourist but of coming home. It was not that Moscow was familiar to me but it did not feel foreign either. I marched through the snow one wintry February night, up the wide Tverskaya Street, to dinner at the Café Pushkin restaurant, acutely conscious that Boris and Olga had used the same route many times during their courtship, over sixty years earlier, treading the very same pavements.
Sitting amid the flickering candlelight of the Café Pushkin, which is styled to resemble a Russian aristocrat’s home of the 1820s – with its galleried library, book-lined walls, elaborate cornices, frescoed ceilings and distinct grandeur – I felt the hand of history gently resting on me. The restaurant is close to the old offices of Novy Mir, Olga’s former workplace on Pushkin Square. I imagined Olga and Boris walking past, their heads bowed low and close against the snow, wrapped in heavy coats, their hearts full of desire.
Five years later, on another visit to Moscow, I went to the Pushkin statue, erected in 1898, where Boris and Olga frequently rendezvoused during the early stages of their relationship. It was here that Boris first confessed the depth of his feelings to Olga. The vast statue of Pushkin was moved in 1950 from one side of Pushkin Square to the other, so they would have started their courtship on the west side of the square and moved to the east side in 1950 where I stood, looking up at the giant bronze folds of Pushkin’s majestic cape tumbling down his back. My Moscow guide, Marina, a fan of Putin and the current regime, looked at me standing under Pushkin’s statue, envisaging Boris at that very spot, and said: ‘Boris Pasternak is an inhabitant of heaven. He is an idol for so many of us, even those who are not interested in poetry.’
This reverential view echoed my meeting with Olga’s daughter, Irina Emelianova, in Paris a few months earlier: ‘I thank God for the chance to have met this great poet,’ she told me. ‘We fell in love with the poet before the man. I always loved poetry and my mother loved his poetry, just as generations of Russians have. You cannot imagine how remarkable it was to have Boris Leonidovich – his Russian patronymic name – not just in the pages of our poetry, but in our lives.’
Irina was immortalised by Pasternak as Lara’s daughter, Katenka, in Doctor Zhivago. Growing up, Irina became incredibly close to Boris. He loved her as the daughter he never had, and was more of a father figure to her than any other man in her life. Irina got up from the table we were sitting at and retrieved a book from her well-stocked shelves. It was a translation of Goethe’s Faust which Boris had given her, and on the title page was a dedication in Boris’s bold, looping handwriting in black ink, ‘like cranes soaring over the page’ as Olga once described it. Inside, Boris had written in Russian to the then seventeen-year-old Irina: ‘Irochka, this is your copy. I trust you and I believe in your future. Be bold in your soul and mind, in your dreams and purposes. Put your faith in nature, in the spirit of your destiny, in events of significance – and only in such few people as have been tested a thousand times, and are worthy of your confidence’.
Irina proudly read the final inscription to me. Boris had written: ‘Almost like a father, Your BP. November 3, 1955, Peredelkino.’
As she ran her hand affectionately across the page, she said sadly: ‘It’s a shame that the ink will fade.’
In Die Gees Van Jou Lotsbestemming
Click Here to Play Podcast
Uit Lara – The Untold Story That Inspired Doctor Zhivago
deur Anna Pasternak
Dit is amper onmoontlik, gemeet aan vandag se standaarde van roem, om die vlak van beroemdheid wat Boris Pasternak vanaf die 1920s en later in Rusland bereik het, te begryp. Pasternak mag baie beroemd wees in die Weste omdat hy die Nobelbekroonde liefdesverhaal, Doctor Zhivago, geskryf het, maar tog word hy in die eerste plek in Rusland as ’n digter erken, en word hy daar steeds besonder hoog aangeskryf en gehuldig. Gebore in 1890, sy reputasie het gedurende die vroeë dertigerjare toegeneem, en gou het hy ouditoriums met jong studente, rebelle en kunstenaars wat opgedaag het om na voordragte van sy poësie te luister, volgepak. Wanneer hy stilgebly het – vir effek of vir ’n kortstondige geheueglips – het die hele gehoor daarop voortgegaan en die volgende versreël gelykluidend vir hom uitgebasuin, net soos hulle deesdae by popkonserte doen.
“In Rusland, meer as enige ander plek in Europa, was daar ’n opregte kontak tussen die digter en die publiek,” het Lydia, Boris se suster, oor daardie tydperk geskryf. “Die kontak was baie groter as wat ooit in Engeland denkbaar was. Digbundels is in enorme uitgawes gepubliseer, en hulle is binne ’n paar dae ná publikasie uitverkoop. Oral in die dorp is plakkate aangebring wat byeenkomste saam met digters aangekondig het, en almal wat in die digkuns belanggestel het – en wie in Rusland het nie in hierdie kategorie geval nie? – het na die lesingsaal of forum gestroom om na hulle gunsteling digter te luister.”
Die skrywer het ’n ontsaglike invloed op die Russiese gemeenskap gehad. Gedurende tye van oproer, toe daar nie geloofwaardige politici was nie, het die publiek op hulle skrywers staatgemaak. Die invloed van literêre joernale was geweldig; hulle was kragtige mediums vir politieke debat. Boris Pasternak was nie net ’n gewilde digter wat vir sy moed en opregtheid gehuldig is nie – hy is ook deur ’n nasie vereer vir die feit dat hy sy stem vreesloos laat hoor het.
~
Daar is ’n Russiese gesegde: “Jy kan Rusland nie deur jou kop verstaan nie. Dít kan jy net deur jou hart doen.”
Toe ek Rusland vir die eerste keer besoek het, was dit betowerend om daar rond te loop, want ek het gevoel dat ek nie ’n toeris was nie, maar dat dit ’n tuiskoms was. Dit was nie dat Moskou bekend gevoel het nie, maar eerder dat dit nie vreemd was nie. Op ’n winterige Februarie-aand het ek in die wye Tverskayastraat deur die sneeu aangestap om aandete by die Café Pushkin-restourant te gaan geniet. Ek was deeglik bewus daarvan dat Boris en Olga gedurende hulle hofmakery, baie keer dieselfde roete gestap het – meer as sestig jaar gelede – op presies dieselfde sypaadjies.
Terwyl ek daar te midde van flikkerende kersligte in die Café Pushkin gesit het, het ek die hand van die geskiedenis sag op my voel rus. Die styl was dié van’n Russiese aristokraat se tuiste, van so om en by 1820 – daar was galerye teen die mure van ’n biblioteek wat volgepak was met boeke, fyn afgewerkte gewellyste, geskilderde plafonne en onderskeidende prag. Die restaurant was naby die ou kantore van Novy Mir, Olga se vorige werksplek by die Pushkin-plein. Ek kon my voorstel hoe Olga en Boris daar verbygeloop het, toegedraai in swaar jasse want dit het gesneeu, met hulle koppe omlaag en naby mekaar, en hulle harte vol begeerte.
Vyf jaar later toe ek Moskou weer besoek het, het ek na die Pushkin-standbeeld toe gegaan wat in 1898 opgerig is. Dit is waar Boris en Olga, aan die begin van hulle verhouding, mekaar gereeld ontmoet het. Dit was ook hier waar Boris die diepte van sy liefde aan Olga bely het. Die ontsaglike standbeeld van Pushkin is in 1950 van die een kant van Pushkin-plein na die anderkant verskuif, en dus sou hulle hul hofmakery aan die westekant begin en in 1950 na die oostekant verskuif het, waar ek nou gestaan en opgekyk het na die brons voue van Pushkin se majestueuse skouermantel wat teen sy rug afgetuimel het. My Moskouse gids, Marina, ’n bewonderaar van Putin en die huidige regime, het na my gekyk waar ek onder Pushkin se standbeeld gestaan het. Sy het Boris op presies dieselfde plek gevisualiseer en toe gesê: “Boris Pasternak woon nou in die hemel. Vir so baie van ons is hy ’n held, selfs vir daardie van ons wat nie eers in poësie geïnteresseerd is nie.”
Hierdie siening vol eerbied was net soos dié van Olga se dogter, Irina Emelianova, wat ek ’n paar maande gelede in Parys ontmoet het: “Ek dank die Here vir die kans om hierdie groot digter te kon ontmoet,” het sy aan my gesê. “Ons het verlief geraak op die digter voor ons die man ontmoet het. Ek het altyd van poësie gehou en my ma het van sy poësie gehou, net soos geslagte van Russe. Jy kan jou nie voorstel hoe merkwaardig dit was om Boris Leonidovich – sy Russiese vadersnaam – nie net op die bladsye van ons bloemlesings te kon hê nie, maar in ons lewens.”
Irina is deur Pasternak onsterflik gemaak as Lara se dogter, Katenka, in Doctor Zhivago. Toe sy groter geword het, het Irina baie na aan Boris geword. Hy het haar liefgehad soos die dogter wat hy nooit gehad het nie, en hy was meer van ’n vaderfiguur vir haar as enige ander man in haar lewe. Irina het van die tafel af opgestaan en ’n boek uit haar volgepakte rakke gaan haal. Dit was ’n vertaling van Goethe se Faust wat Boris haar gegee het. Op die titelblad was daar ’n toewyding in swart ink in Boris se sterk handskrif, vol draaie en lussies “soos kraanvoëls wat oor die bladsy sweef” het Olga dit op ’n slag beskryf. Aan die binnekant het Boris in Russies aan die sewentienjaaroue Irina geskryf: “Irochka, dit is jou kopie hierdie. Ek glo in jou en ek glo in jou toekoms. Wees moedig in siel en gees, in jou drome en voornemens. Glo in die natuur, in die gees van jou lotsbestemming, in gebeurtenisse van belang – en glo slegs in daardie paar mense wat reeds ’n duisend keer getoets is, en wat jou vertroue werd is.”
Irina het met trots die finale inskrywing aan my gelees. Boris het geskryf: “Amper soos ’n vader, Jou BP. November 3, 1955, Peredelkino.”
Toe sy haar hand liefderik oor die bladsy gevee het, het sy in ’n droewige stem gesê: “Dis ’n jammerte dat die ink sal verdof.”
Baking under the Ash
From Leipoldt's Cellar & Kitchen
by C Louis Leipoldt
First published in Die Huisgenoot on 28 July 1944
The old way of preparing food, by baking or roasting it under the ash, is not, as many assume, a genuinely Afrikaans custom. It is found in the cooking of every nation. Some of those who take the trouble to investigate the habits of our forefathers maintain, albeit with some reservations, that a certain ritual meaning used to attach to the custom of preparing food ‘under the ash’. It originated, they say, from secret gatherings of the druids, who used to roast human flesh at clandestine meetings in the lanes of the priests – always lanes of oak trees. If this were true, the custom of ‘roasting under the ash’ would have come to us from England. In fact, it came direct from France, where in the district of Perigord, it is today still regarded as one of the noblest ways of preparing food. Historically, we have inherited many customs from the border area that used to be English and where, during the time of the English occupation of the south of France, English customs became deeply entrenched.
But the historical aspect is not our primary concern. We are interested in the method by which it is done.
Baking or roasting under the ash used to be easy on a traditional, open fireplace. Today it is very difficult. So please do not try to ‘roast under the ash’ with electricity – I take it that my reader is serious enough about the culinary art to regard it as something noble and edifying, and would therefore not wish, thereby, to dry out his food.
As we no longer have open fireplaces, we have to make do with the dry heat of the oven. Yet roasting under the ash is something we can do on an outing in the veld – food prepared in this way is also at its best in such an environment. What is more delicious than a lamb chop, braaied on a grill over renosterbos smoke? Or what is juicier and tastier than a pheasant roasted beneath the warm ash? Not to mention a meat dish roasted in an anthill oven. Many of my readers may never have the opportunity of experiencing something like that, but should they get the chance, leg me beg them to roast a sheep’s head, a large Muscovy duck, a turkey or a little lamb in it. One of my not-to-be-forgotten memories is of the first time – it was on the occasion of a Dingaan’s Day feast – I tasted an ox-head that was roasted whole, with the horns and skin intact, in an anthill oven. The meat of the cheeks and the palate – well, I can only make a gesture like that of the Coloured Elder when he spoke of the juice of the vine in his sermon.
Despite our current difficulties in the kitchen, we do not have to deny althgether the rightful place of ‘baking under the ash’. In a good Swedish oven, even the expensive kinds in fashion these days, you can bake very well. I find potatoes baked in an oven like that just as tasty as those baked under the ash, and the same goes for sweet potatoes. The connoisseur will perhaps claim that it depends on the kind of ash you use. I am prepared to concede this when it comes to taaibos ash, which may have a real, although minor, influence on the taste of a sweet potato. But that could simply be one’s imagination, for when you roast or bake beneath the ash, you do not get the direct blending of food flavour with smoke flavour that you do, for example, when you braai a piece of meat on the grill over a wood fire. By roasting in an anthill oven, you can, of course, influence the food being prepared in it. I know of an old tannie who, after the oven was nice and warm, cast a handful of the leaves of a certain bush into it – the bush had a strong herb-like smell, and the meat roasted in that anthill oven was particularly delicious. I never managed to find out what the bush was, however, as the tannie was very secretive about it.
We should ‘roast under the ash’ much more than we do.
One can use this method of cooking for potatoes, sweet potatoes and a number of other vegetables, and – of course – for any kind of fish or meat. Larger fish do not even have to be wrapped in paper or dough – just as in the case of the ox-head, its skin can be used to temper the heat.
Possibly the best galjoen I ever tasted was one – an enormous one – that had just been caught and was baked, there and then, on the beach, under the ash of seaweed lying on the beach. Time and again I have tried to make as delicious a galjoen in my own kitchen, but always without success – perhaps because it is only under such conditions that one able to achieve the same taste, flavour and juiciness.
The serious preparation of food under the influence of dry heat from above, below and around is what ‘roasting or baking under the ash’ is all about.
It is one of the noblest and finest methods of preparing food.
Onder Die As Bak
deur C. Louis Leiplodt
In Die Huisgenoot op 28 Julie 1944 eers uitgegee
Die ou manier om kos gaar te maak, deur dit onder die as te bak of te braai, is nie, soos baie mense veronderstel, ’n eg Afrikaanse manier van doen nie. Dit word in die kookkuns van elke nasie beskryf. Die snuffelaars wat alles wil weet omtrent die gewoontes van ons voorouers, beweer – hoewel met ’n sekere mate van voorbehoud – dat daar ’n rituele betekenis verbonde was, aan die gebruik om kos “onder die as gaar te maak”. Dit stam glo in die eerste plaas af van die geheimsinnige vergaderings van die Druïdes, wat op geheimsinnige samekomste in die priesterlane – almal van eikebome – mensvleis gebraai het. As dit waar is, dan stam die gebruik om “onder die as te braai” uit Engeland. Direk kom dit na ons uit Frankryk, waar dit vandag nog as een van die edelste maniere van kosbereiding beskou word in die wyk Perigord. Geskiedkundig kry ons baie gewoontes uit daardie grensdistrik, wat oorspronklik Engels was en waar Engelse gewoontes in die tyd van die Engelse besetting van Suid-Frankryk diep ingeburger het.
Maar die geskiedkundige sy is bysaak. Hoofsaak is weer die manier van doen.
Onder die as bak of braai, was maklik op ’n ouderwetse oop vuurherd. Vandag is dit besonder moeilik. Moet dus nie probeer om “onder die as te braai” met elektrisiteit nie. Buitendien neem ek aan dat my leser ernstig genoeg is om die kookkuns as iets groots en skoons te beskou en dus in die algemeen nie daarvan sal hou om sy kos uit te droog nie.
Daar ons vandag geen oop vuurherde meer het nie, moet ons tog vir droë hitte die oond gebruik. Onder die as braai kan ons in die veld doen as ons op ’n uitstappie gaan, en onder sulke omstandighede en in so ’n omgewing is kos op so ’n manier klaargemaak dan ook die heerlikste. Wat is lekkerder as ’n lamskarmenaadjie wat op die rooster onder renosterrook gebraai is? Of wat is sappiger en geuriger as ’n fisant wat onder die warm as gebraai is? Ek hoef niks te sê van ’n vleisgereg wat in ’n miershoopoond gebraai is nie. Baie van my lesers sal miskien nooit die geleentheid hê om so iets te probeer nie, maar as hulle wel die kans kry, laat my hulle dan smeek om daarin ’n skaapkop, ’n groot makou, ’n kalkoen of ’n lammetjie te braai. Een van my nooit te vergete herinnerings is van die eerste maal – dit was by geleentheid van ’n Dingaansfees – dat ek ’n oskop wat kompleet met horings en vel in ’n miershoopoond gebraai is, geproe het. Die wangvleis daarvan en die verhemelte – ek kan maar net ’n gebaar maak soos die Kleurling-ouderling toe hy in sy preek oor die sap van die wynstok gepraat het.
Met ons hedendaagse moeilikhede in die kombuis hoef ons darem nie “onder die as bak” heeltemal van sy regte te ontsê nie. In ’n goeie Sweedse oond, selfs die veel duurder nuwerwetse modelle wat daar nou is, kan ’n mens uitstekend “bak”. Ek dink aartappels wat in so ’n oond gebak is, is net so smaaklik as dié wat onder die as gebak word; patats ook. Die kenner sal miskien beweer dat dit afhang van die soort as wat ons gebruik. Ek gee toe wat betref taaibosas. Dit het miskien ’n werklike, ofskoon baie swak, invloed op die smaak van ’n patat. Maar dit kan ook maar net verbeelding wees. As jy onder die as braai of bak, dan kry jy nie die direkte samesmelting van kosgeur met rookgeur soos wat gebeur as jy bv. oor hardekool ’n stukkie vleis op die rooster braai nie. Deur in ’n miershoopoond te braai, kan jy natuurlik invloed uitoefen op die kos wat daarin gaargemaak word. Ek weet van ’n ou tannie wat, nadat die oond goed warm was, daarin ’n handvol blaartjies van ’n sekere bossie gegooi het; die bossie het ’n sterk, kruieagtige reuk, en die vleis wat in daardie miershoopoond gebak is, was besonder lekker. Ek kon egter nooit uitvind wat die bossie was nie, daar die tannie besonder geheimsinnig daaromtrent was.
Ons behoort baie meer “onder die as te braai” as wat ons vandag doen.
Ons kan hierdie manier van kos gaarmaak gebruik vir aartappels, patats en vir tal van ander groentesoorte, en natuurlik vir elke soort vis or vleis. Die groter visse hoef ons nie eens met papier of deeg te omhul nie; net soos die oskop kan ons hul vel gebruik om die hitte te temper.
Miskien die beste galjoen wat ek ooit geproe het, was een, ’n yslike grote en net pas gevang, wat op die strand onder die as van seebamboes gebak is. Keer op keer het ek daarna in my eie kombuis probeer om ’n galjoen net so lekker gaar te maak, maar verniet. En dit is moontlik dat dit net onder sulke omstandighede kan geluk om dieselfde smaak, geur en sappigheid te verkry.
Die ernstige klaarmaak van kos onder die invloed van droë hitte bo en onder en rondom is wat “braai of bak onder die as” beteken, en dit is een van die allerbeste maniere van kos gaarmaak wat ons in die kookkuns het.
The Most Dramatic Division I Ever Attended
From No Outspan
by Deneys Reitz
General Hertzog, in the course of his lengthy speech to the Cabinet, had indicated that on Monday 4 September he was going to move a resolution in Parliament declaring South Africa to be neutral in the war.
He was such an autocrat by nature that I verily believe he had never paused to consider whether he could carry his motion through the House. In the past, his method had been to walk into our caucus and lay down the law with a slap of his fist on the table. He brooked no opposition, and at any hint of criticism he would threaten to resign and appeal to the country.
This generally sufficed to bring his own immediate followers to heel, and on our side Members had more or less let him have his way for the reason I have already indicated – they had accepted General Smuts’s advice not to precipitate a break on minor differences.
I am convinced that he thought he could walk into Parliament in the same way on the Monday morning and force his neutrality motion on us by sheer domination of his personal prestige. Relying on this ascendancy, he had never troubled to count heads, and he had no idea how Members were likely to vote on a fundamental issue such as this. Had he done so, an interesting, but not reassuring, problem would have faced him.
The South African House of Assembly consisted of one hundred and fifty three Members of Parliament, of whom all but six were now in Cape Town. Of those present, a hundred and forty seven in all, a hundred and four belonged to the United Party, twenty-nine were Nationalists forming the official opposition under Dr Malan, a dour old Calvinist, seven were Dominionites (the British equivalent of Malan’s Afrikaner extremists) under Colonel Stallard, a Tory of the mid-Victorian school, four were Labour Members, and three were so-called Native Representatives.
On paper, therefore, General Hertzog had a large majority against all comers, but his snag was that of the hundred and four United Party Members serving under him, sixty-six were supporters of General Smuts, and he could only rely on a personal following of thirty-eight, a fact he had never seemed to realise during the six years of his reign.
On the other hand, the twenty-nine Nationalists, all violently anti-British, would vote for anything anti-British, and they would support a neutrality motion. With his own tail of thirty-eight, and with the twenty-nine Nationalist recalcitrants, he commanded sixty-seven votes against our sixty-six, but we knew that the seven Dominionites, the four Labour Members and the three Native Representatives were with us, giving us a majority of thirteen.
We had made a preliminary canvass, and we were sure of our ground, but General Hertzog in his blind arrogance thought that he had a majority in the House and that he could carry his neutrality motion. Indeed, he had told both the Governor-General and General Smuts so, and now he had blundered into a pit for his own undoing.
That evening, Gerneral Smuts and I, and the five Cabinet Ministers who had supported us at Groote Schuur, met in the Civil Service Club in Cape Town and drafted a counter-resolution, which General Smuts was to move the next day.
By the Monday morning, dame rumour had been busy. The House was to open at ten-thirty, but from nine o’clock onwards Members were thronging the Lobby, and we were eagerly questioned. Was it true that the Cabinet had broken up? Was it true that General Hertzog was to introduce a Neutrality Motion? What right had we to decide without consulting the Party? And so on, and so on. They were understandably indignant, for General Hertzog should at any rate have consulted his wing of the Party. But that was his affair, and we left him to explain things to his own people, while we hastily ranged for battle.
The Speaker droned the stereotyped prayer, and the Bill to extend the life of the Senate was passed. Now came the real business before us. The public galleries were crowded, and there was breathless silence when General Hertzog rose to put his motion for neutrality. He spoke for a long time, and he repeated the arguments he had used on us at Groote Schuur – Hitler was justified, the British connection would always drag us into wars, and we in South Africa should remain out of the conflict.
Then General Smuts put his counter-resolution. He briefly stated our case for participation in the war. A long debate followed which lasted until nine o’clock that evening, and then the bells rang for the most dramatic division I have ever attended. The tellers took a long time to check their lists, but we did not need them to inform us that we had won the day.
I watched General Hertzog where he sat across the floor of the House. His face was ashen, and it seemed to me that only now had it dawned on him that he was staring at defeat. The other five Cabinet Ministers who had voted with him looked angry and perturbed, and I gained the impression that they were furious at the way their leader had bungled himself into an impasse.
But it was too late. The tellers completed the talley of the votes and handed the lists to the Speaker. He stood up to announce the result: ‘Ayes in favour of the Honourable the Prime Minister’s Neutrality Motion – 67; noes, in favour of the motion to enter the war – 80; the noes have it.’
We had won by a majority of thirteen.
It is possible that General Hertzog might have secured a small majority had it not been for his blundering tactics in eulogising Hitler, and had it not been for the forceful and powerful speech by General Smuts in reply, which brought round many waverers.
The decision was quietly received, for during the count we had sent a whispered message to our side: ‘Men, don’t rub it in – let there be no gloating.’ We felt that it was too grave a crisis for noisy demonstrations, and now all the Members filed out, most of them deep in thought, for the full significance of what had taken place had scarcely come home to them as yet.
Firstly, it meant that we were at war with Germany and that we might soon be at war with the Italians.
It meant, too, that General Hertzog was beaten, and that he would be obliged to hand over the government of the country to General Smuts.
Only that morning General Hertzog had called on the Governor-General, Sir Patrick Duncan, to tell him that he was introducing a neutrality motion, and that he had a majority for it in the House. Now, a few hours later, he went to Government House to resign his office after having been Prime Minister of the Union for fifteen years. With all his faults, we were sorry for him, but we rejoiced that General Smuts was at the head of affairs once more and that South Africa would have his wisdom to guide us, instead of being at the whim of a man who – though possessed of great qualities – was too obstinate, and too erratic and illogical, to be relied on in times like these.
The Governor-General immediately called upon General Smuts to form a new Cabinet. From the voting in the House it was clear that we held a majority only by the grace of the Dominionites, the Labour Members and the Native Representatives, all of whom had sunk their party differences in the common cause.
General Smuts therefore decided to create a National Government.
