Paul Anderson lives in Adelaide, South Australia.

He is
a surgeon who specialises in upper gastrointestinal and
hepatobiliary surgery. Born in Rotorua, New Zealand,
his tertiary education began at Waikato University
before he went on to further studies in Scotland,
California, and South Africa where he completed both a
Ph.D. and a medical degree. The passion for writing has
latently manifested, thanks to the encouragement and
direction of many friends.







Paul G. Anderson


D O E S I T H U R T T O D I E






























Copyright Paul G. Anderson (2014)

The right of Paul G. Anderson to be identified as author of this
work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and
78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.


ISBN 978 1 78455 097 4


www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2014)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LB









Printed and bound in Great Britain









Acknowledgments


With any writing, there are many contributions in many different
forms. They are all extremely valuable and each in their own way
adds to the final story and pleasure of reading. Pre-eminent on the
gratefulness ladder, has to be the family that you have who support
you. They might be biased, but there are days when you love their
bias. Their belief in your writing and its value to others as
entertainment is an invaluable spur when the creative well has only
a few lonely drops left in the bottom.
Gabrielle, a wonderful sister and my favourite son Jordan.
Independently you are both of inestimable value. Gabrielle your
unswerving and consistent enthusiasm always astounds. Jordan has
read so many books it embarrasses his father, but in having done
that provides invaluable analysis and critique. Thank you for the
suggestions, kiddo you are an invaluable part of writing.


Chapter 1

At eighteen years of age, Christian de Villiers had an angulated
coltish appearance. Shoulders that were broad but without
significant muscle definition and rakishly long legs suggested that
testosterone had not yet finished its subtle hormonal sculpturing.
He was a head taller than most boys his age. A leptorrhine nose was
framed within a shock of wavy sun-bleached hair that reached his
shoulders. It was his smile that was most disarming. It assuaged the
impact of his physical presence and drew you to the youthful
inquisition that resided in his eyes. Nearly everyone remarked on
how similar in appearance he was to his father, with one
exceptionhis mother.
Christian had moved to Adelaide from Cape Town in South
Africa with his mother, Renata, when he was four years old. The
beautiful bluestone villa that they lived in for the next fifteen years
was typical of many Adelaide homes. Blocks of bluestone, mined
in South Australia at the turn of the century, had then been
smoothed with chisels and cemented to form solid walls. The
thickness of the walls provided warmth in winter, and protection in
summer from the harsh forty degree heat. The bluestone block in
their villa was set off with an elegant woodwork edging around the
top of a whitewashed veranda, which contrasted starkly the deep
blue corrugated roof. He had liked it from the moment they first
moved in.
Despite the solid walls and its elegance, Christian had come to
understand their villa was not maintenance free. Every few years
the wooden parts of the house needed painting and protecting from
the termites, which were endemic in South Australia. His mother
had insisted from an early age that privilege was earned and not a
birthright. Each time the house was due to be painted there was no
discussion, just the presentation of sandpaper and paintbrush and a
look which demanded compliance. He effectively became a
labourers navvy for the week that it took to complete the treatment
and painting. He hated doing it, but more so the apparent
satisfaction it gave his mother to see him doing menial work. What
he was meant to learn from this he could neither work out nor get
his mother to explain.

Now nearly nineteen years of age, he felt there were other
things he could more successfully do with his time, especially as he
knew his mother could afford to employ someone. However, he had
never been able to change his mothers mind once it was made up
and guessed it would not probably happen now. He knew it was
somehow related to her Teutonic background: some kind of genetic
inflexibility which demanded perfection, a standard which he found
difficult to live up to and deal with at times. He often wondered
how his father had dealt with his mother.
Jannie de Villiers, Christians father, was murdered in Cape
Town just before Christians fourth birthday. Christian knew he
was a surgeon and that he had been the head of the Cape Town
liver transplant unit. He also knew that he had been caught up in a
terrorist attack carried out by a radical black group who wanted to
destroy the apartheid government. His father had survived that only
to be murdered a week or so later. What was particularly strange
about his fathers death was that no one, especially not his mother,
seemed to want to give him any more information about why or
how his father had died. The older that he grew the more it irritated
him that no one would talk about his father.
Over the years, Christian had read on the Internet how his
father had survived the terrorist attack on a church in Cape Town,
in which twenty people were killed and fifty seriously maimed. The
act of terrorism had divided the country. It seemed as a result of
that attack, black people were considered even more unfit for
democracy by the ruling white government. He had read how his
father was seriously injured and had been interviewed on television
and appeared in newspapers. There was, however, very little on his
fathers subsequent killing. The Cape Times newspaper suggested
that it was the unfortunate consequence of a robbery gone wrong.
However, he could not imagine his father not putting up a fight or
there not being a report of his resistance. It all seemed so
incompletea puzzle that needed all the pieces arranged more
neatly, at least in his mind.
Soon after his fathers death, his mother had decided that it was
safer to leave the country. Through a job advertisement, Adelaide
had been chosen because of the work potential for his mother, who
was a medical doctor and pathologist. Like Cape Town, Adelaide
had beautiful surrounding vineyards. His mother often used to

remark that McLaren Vale and Barossa Valley reminded her of
Paarl and Stellenbosch.
Christian could remember little of Cape Town or his father,
although at times he would think there was something in his
subconscious related to his fathers death that he could not quite
access. Try as he might, he could never recall more than an uneasy
feeling when thinking of his father. When he first arrived in
Australia, he had had nightmares about him. He would awake
crying out for his mother certain that he could see his father lying
by a pool bleeding. His mother would reassure him until eventually
he went back to sleep. With time, the nightmares became less
frequent, but there was a disquiet that remained somewhere deep
inside. He tried harder to research the murder as he got older,
feeling that the disquiet would only settle once he knew what had
happened to his father.
There were certain other strange things that he could not
account for that he thought contributed to that disquiet. Christian
knew his mother was professionally successful and there was not
much in life that they had to worry about financially, but he had
also been aware that his father had provided an offshore bank
account. He had heard his mother discuss it with friends, obviously
concerned that in some way this linked her to whatever Jannie de
Villiers had been involved with in South Africa, before he was
killed. When he asked his mother about it, she would never answer
other than it was something that he did not need to concern himself
about. That phrase to Christian was one of the most annoying
answers he ever received from his mother and compelled him to
find out more.
That his father had left them an offshore bank account initially
hardly raised too many questions in his mind about where the
money had come from. After all, his father was a surgeon who
travelled abroad. That was until he heard his mother discuss with an
old South African friend whether they should use it at all. Her
friend, anaesthetist Charles Viljoen, had argued that it was their
inheritance and provision for a future life, to which no past guilt
could be associated.
He had not really understood the discussion but knew in some
strange way it was related to what had happened to his father. If it
had just been a straightforward murder, why should there be an
overseas bank account with guilt associated with it. Other small

things also piqued his curiosity about his father. After they arrived
in Adelaide, there were the strange phone calls, which used to
occur monthly. He remembered that they had seemed to frighten
his mother. The phone calls continued for quite a few years before
mysteriously stopping.
His mother had quickly established herself in the Adelaide
medical community and had become a senior partner in a private
pathology laboratory. Within a very short time she became a
sought-after consultant in genetic counselling, an area of pathology
that she had specialised in. As her reputation grew, she became a
sought-after expert witness in profiling for DNA paternity suits.
She would often talk about some of the cases to him, which
intrigued Christian from an early age and helped spur his interest in
doing medicine one day.
The other thing that intrigued him about his mother was why
she had never re-married. She was of medium height, had natural
blond hair which she usually wore pulled back in a bun, was of
slim build and always dressed beautifully. He thought, in a biased-
son-sort-of way, that she was very attractive. Male colleagues from
work would often call in but were never encouraged to go beyond
friendship, let alone stay overnight. That no man had featured in
her life since his father had died was puzzling. It was something he
never really understood. He wondered whether it was because the
love that she had had for his father had run so deep that no one else
measured up to him. The alternative, he sometimes reasoned, was
that his fathers death was so traumatic that she never wanted to be
involved in a serious relationship again. It puzzled him, though,
that she never seemed to want to discuss anything significant about
his father.
Sometimes Christian thought that she had completely forgotten
about the life that they had started in Cape Town. The only times
she really talked about his father was to acknowledge that he was a
great surgeon and had done some wonderful things for the people
in South Africa. This so exasperated him that finally, from the age
of about twelve or thirteen, he had tried to gather as much
information from the Internet about his father as he could. Some of
the comments attributed to his father following the terrorist attack
were racist, but he considered them to be not too antagonistic since
five black terrorists had just shot him. However, racism did not
quite fit with what little he knew of his father and seemed at odds

with the other parts of his life, particularly the oath that he had
taken as a doctor to save peoples lives.
Christian had also read on the Internet his fathers death notice,
which followed a week or so after the terrorist attack.
Accompanying this were acclamations about the great work that his
father had initiated through the liver transplant unit. It mentioned in
particular his courageous decision to do a groundbreaking liver
transplant on a young South African boy called Sibokwe. To
Christian that was all quite impressive and a legacy to be proud of.
Why his mother did not want to talk about that he could not
comprehend. There were too few answers for someone who
desperately wanted to know more about his father.
By the time he turned fifteen the desire to know more about his
father had become overwhelming. The need to at least know what
his father stood for persisted right through into his final year at
school. He determined that he would do well enough in school to
get into medicine, and then take time off to go to South Africa.
During study breaks, he would often Google the terrorist attack
on the church in Cape Town, looking and hoping for a new blog
site or updated information. Occasionally he caught his mother
looking at him from the doorway of the study, unsure whether she
was disapproving or was remembering certain things about his
father. When he did ask her, she had always just turned her back
and walked out of the room.
When he had exhausted gleaning information from the Internet,
he resorted to eavesdropping to try to find out a little bit more about
his father. When friends of his mother came over for dinner and he
heard the conversation turn to his father, he stayed at the dinner
table for as long as he could. That also was not very helpful, as they
tended to talk mostly about the differences between himself and his
father. His mother seemed to be much more delighted that there
were differences than similarities. Not that he could stay at the table
for long when the subject was his father; it was usually suggested
that he should go and study. His mother would constantly remind
him that if he wanted to follow in his fathers footsteps and study
medicine, he needed to work harder. It seemed no one was really
interested in giving him more information. He became convinced
there was a conspiracy of silence going on, which made him even
more determined to visit Cape Town.

Christian had almost given up but he still kept on checking the
Internet in case one day there might be something new. Shortly
after his graduation from Year 12, he was searching through all his
favourite folders, aware that his mother was again standing at the
study door where she could see over his shoulder. This time she did
not turn and walk out of the room. He was going through the old
YouTube clips of the terrorist attack on the church, partly
wondering why his mother had not yet left. Turning to see if she
was doing something else, he noticed she was staring intently at his
computer screen. On the screen was a picture of his father, one that
he had always liked, showing his strong jaw, high cheekbones and
eyes not unlike his. He could see his fathers wavy hair, similar to
his own. It was obviously the picture that caught his mothers
attention, but then he noticed that underneath it was a new blog site.
Looking more carefully, he noted that it announced that new
documents had been revealed about the church massacre. The blog
had been set up by an old anti-apartheid activist, Kurt Davies, who
had suggested that the attack had been orchestrated by the apartheid
government security services as a way of showing the world that
blacks were not capable of governing South Africa. Then at the
bottom, there was a footnote about Jannie de Villiers, his father,
alleging his involvement with the security forces and the apartheid
regime.
Christian was so shocked he did not notice that his mother had
moved up close behind him. He read the footnote again uncertain as
to whether he should believe what had been written, that the very
well known transplant surgeon Professor Jannie de Villiers had
been complicit in terrorism through his links with the Bureau of
State Security. Christian sat looking at the screen stunned. Surely,
that was not his father, he thought. It could not possibly suggest his
father was involved in a terrorist attack. He turned slowly to face
his mother.
Mum, thats not true, is it? Tell me thats not true.
Christian, Renata said quietly, putting her hand on his
shoulder, its time we had a talk.
Christian never liked sitting when he was talking to his mother,
as she always seemed to stretch herself up to her full height to gain
greater authority, something he assumed again came from her
Flemish background. Although she was a tall woman, her aquiline
features and rigid posture seemed to make her appear even taller.

With her harsh hairstyle, she was the essence of efficiency and
control, and when in a mood he knew from past experience was not
to be messed with. Christian also had learnt that there were ways of
dealing with her controlling inclinationssitting down to address
his mother gave her too much advantage, so he always stood up. He
stood and looked at her, trying to contain his anger that she had
kept this from him for so long.
Mum, did you know about all of this?
Im not sure that Ive ever fully understood what your father
was involved with outside of his surgery. Im not certain whether
the blog that youve just read is true, but neither can I be certain its
not true. I never said anything to you, as I made a conscious
decision that I wanted you to remember him for all the good
things.
But I always sensed that, and its been so frustrating that you
wouldnt tell me anything.
I know, but I thought it was for your own good. I also knew
thered be a time when Id need to tell you as much as I know.
Mum, thats what Ive wanted to talk to you about all these
years. Ive decided Im going to take a year off now and go back to
Cape Town to see where Dad worked and find out more about him.
I dont think he would support terrorism, and someone needs to
clear his name, our name!
Think about this. Youve worked so hard and done so well in
your Year 12 exams. Im sure youll be accepted into medicine.
Dont you think you should go with the momentum? Maybe once
youre qualified you can go back and find out what happened to
him or even work there? I think thats what your father would have
wanted. She paused slightly to ensure she had his full attention
before continuing. And besides which, all that work that youve
done in biometrics and iris recognition software development
during your school holidays may be lost. I believe they were going
to involve you with the new upgraded addition and even provide
you with a salary increase these holidays.
Foul, Mum. Thats an attempt at distraction.
Renata stopped talking and looked at her son. He had Jannies
skin, with its propensity to tan in the summer, and reluctantly
admitted they looked very similar. She had always known that he
had the essence of Jannie within him and that she might, as in this
instance, have to confront the spirit of his fatherthe resilience,

determination, the sense of challenge, the I-want-to-show-you-I-
can-overcome attitude. Christian had inherited many of his fathers
traits and these, she suspected, had partly caused him to be the
achieving teenager that he now was. Perhaps it was true, she
thought, that you can take the Afrikaner out of Africa but you
cannot take the Afrikaner gene out of their progeny. She realised
there was no sense in denying it; she needed to handle it as best she
could.
She looked at him again and laughed in a way that Christian
had not seen for a while.
What, Mum?
Its just that you, at times, are so unbelievably like your father.
Heres the deal, thenIll tell you all I know about him, and then
you can decide if you need to go.
OK. And thanks, Mum. This is the first time Ive heard you
say that Im so much like my fatherthat means a lot to me.
Christian saw tears in her eyes and felt a little embarrassed, but
his mother quickly closed the gap between them and hugged him.
Hey, Mum, this tactic wont work either; you know Ive got to
go.
Renata laughed again dabbing at her eyes.
Can we start now?
Yes, we can. In a way, its the fulfilment of a time that I knew
would come, a time when the Afrikaner in you could no longer be
denied. In order for you to progress to adulthood you need all the
pieces in place that you can find, but they may not be the pieces
that you were hoping to find.
So, how about starting with the terrorist attack? Tell me what
happened, and then fill in whatever else you know. The news only
gives a basic outline and I need to know what it was really like for
Dad.
Come through to the kitchen. I have some books and letters to
show you, and Ill do my best to remember everything that
happened that evening and the events afterwards. However, I warn
you, it may not be what you want to hear. After that, we need to
have a serious talk. Perhaps I should tell you a bit about your father
before we get to the killings in the church


Chapter 2

Your father was very tall, with broad shoulders and slim hips. He
was quite handsome in a rugged kind of way, as youve seen from
the photographs, Renata said. He was raised on a farm in the Paarl
region, about an hour from Cape Town, and was used to hard
physical work. His father insisted on him supervising and working
alongside the black and coloured workers, and as a result, he was
quite muscular. I often thought that without that background of
hard physical work that he may have chosen a medical specialty
more suited to his awkward height.
Christian looked at her, taking in all that she said. Although he
wanted to ask questions, he decided to let his mother continue in
case his interruption derailed the information he had so long waited
for.
His family were staunch conservative Afrikaners, third-
generation Boers, who had always been farmers. Your father was
the only son and there were expectations that he would continue the
tradition and take over the farm from your grandfather.
So they were against him doing medicine?
Renata nodded.
You have to understand that his parents were passionate
supporters of segregation of the racial groups and early and
vigorous supporters of apartheid, something which they had
constantly instilled into your father from a young age. Afrikaner
sons were not expected to question the philosophy of segregation,
which was something which troubled your father. I remember when
he told me that he first tried to question his father about the basis
for racial segregation he received a backhander that left his ears
ringing and drew blood. As he grew older, he came to realise that
talking about the non-whites as potential human beings was
regarded as heresy, to be expunged from patriotic Afrikaner
families. Legislated separation of the races was considered the only
way a white South African would survive in Africa in the nineteen
fifties and Afrikaner sons like your father were expected to
unquestionably uphold that belief.
That must have been really hard for Dad if he didnt believe in
that system.

That kind of upbringing was very typical for many of the
Afrikaner men of that era. Their families were direct descendants
from the early settlers, and as such, they had to be tough to survive.
Initially, the early settlers were everything from priest to police
officer. Because the blacks that they came into contact with had had
no education, they assumed that they were no better than animals
and thats the way they should be treated. They also saw their role
in preserving their inheritance as ensuring that their sons and
daughters understood, sometimes forcibly, that the only solution for
South Africa was segregation of the races.
Doesnt sound like he had a great childhood, with all that
indoctrination and then being beaten by his father when he
disagreed with him. How did he get away to study medicine,
Mum?
From the time he was about ten years old he decided that
tending vines on his fathers farm didnt satisfy him. It wasnt all
the physical work that was requiredhe quite enjoyed that aspect
of farmingit was the treatment of non-white workers as little
better than slaves that he became more and more uncomfortable
with. He could see that segregation ensured that the family farm
was financially successful, as labour costs were minimal. But he
was most concerned with the way his father treated the workers and
abused them. He couldnt stand seeing them kicked or punched. He
knew he couldnt be part of his fathers succession plan; there had
to be an alternative. He determined his way out after hed had
several conversations with Dr Wauchop, their local general
practitioner, when he came to the farm to do home visits. Although
the visits primarily were to check on his mothers hypertension, the
doctor would find time to talk to your father about medicine. Your
father soon realised that medicine was challenging and about
helping peoplean alternative to what he considered a lifetime of
servitude on his fathers farm. There also didnt appear to him to be
any abuse in medicine. While Dr Wauchop never treated the black
or coloured workers on the farm, your father had noticed that he
always greeted them warmly. From that time he was convinced that
if he worked hard enough, medicine could be the way out for him.
That sounds like he wanted to get away from racism, not
enforcing it through some terrorist act. And it doesnt sound
consistent with what was said on that blog at all.

Honey, thats just the background I wanted you to have so you
could understand where he came from, and the fact that there might
have been deep-seated influences for the decisions that he
subsequently made. It must have been really difficult for him. Then
there was an incident, which Ill tell you about later, on the night of
his twenty-first birthday, when his father told him never to come
back. In addition, he never did return to his family or the farm. That
was incredibly difficult, as he was his mothers favourite, but in the
Afrikaner family the ultimate allegiance was to the husband, and
his father never wanted to see him again.
That must have been awful, said Christian, and so confusing,
going from such a rigid belief system to one where you were
allowed to question whatever you wanted.
It was, honey; there were many days when we all thought he
was making a smooth transition, and then suddenly all that
Afrikaner past would surface. When he made his announcement to
the media after the terrorist attack, none of us really knew which
Jannie was going to speak. We all prayed that he would not revert
completely to his family values and say that blacks were not fit to
govern.
I read that part in the news story.
Yes, it wasnt as bad as we had feared, but then it wasnt as
good as it could have been either.
I understand all that a bit better now, Mum. Can we fast
forward to the terrorist attack, as thats where it seems most of the
questions about my father started?
That was a night Ill never forget. I can describe it almost
exactly as it happened, but there are lots more bits of information
that I need to give you for you to understand him. And I have to
warn you that there may be things about me that you may not like
either.
I cant imagine that, Mum, said Christian, cheekily, relieved
to lighten the discussion.
Very cute, young man, but lets go back to the story. The night
of the shooting, your father was waiting for a call to do a liver
transplant on a young African boy. The proposed recipient of the
donor liver was a young African boy, Sibokwe Tamasala, who had
developed hepatic failure. He was particularly concerned, as this
young boy was an African high school pupil in one of the remote
townships of the Cape Province, which meant he only had a limited

window of opportunity to get him to Cape Town and do the
transplant. Your father knew Sibokwe wouldnt survive more than
a few days unless he could receive a new liver. But there were also
other pressures which made the transplant more stressful than it
normally would have been.
What kinds of other pressures?
Sibokwe Tamasala was the son of Thompson Tamasala, who
was falsely suspected of being an anti-government activist and was
killed by the Bureau of State Security (BOSS)the apartheid
states sinister security service. Not only was Sibokwe the son of an
innocent black man who had been erroneously killed, but he was an
incredibly photogenic young African boy, who, for both reasons,
had captured the attention of the nations left-wing anti-apartheid
groups. Your father knew that the transplant meant more than just
saving a boys life; it also meant possibly assuaging a little of the
white nations guilt over the meaningless killing of his father. That
in itself created an enormous pressure to succeed. That was the
lead-up to the terrible night when your father was shot and is really
where his story begins.

Chapter 3

Jannie de Villiers lay stretched out on the king-size bed, his size
twelve feet hanging over the end. He tried to remember when he
had last made love to Renata, and decided it was at least six months
ago. Their relationship, he knew, was deteriorating, and he
wondered whether it was partly the difference in their upbringing.
Renata came from a liberal English speaking third-generation South
African family, while his family were staunchly conservative
Afrikaner farmers. Looking up from the bed at the whitewashed
walls of the Cape Dutch cottage, his thoughts drifted to the family
he had been cut off from. How far, in many ways, he had come
from a farm in Paarl; a place which his father had asked him to
leave and never come back to, brandishing him a traitor to the
Afrikaner because he wanted to go to the liberal English-speaking
University of Cape Town. Jannies success in becoming the head of
the liver transplant unit at Groote Schuur, he knew, was partly to
prove to his father that he could succeed without him. The unit had
become one of the most successful in southern Africa, and now
they were waiting to do the first transplant on a young African
boynot any young African boy, but the son of an anti-apartheid
activist who had been tortured and killed by the security police.
The Groote Schuur team had been waiting several days for a
donor liver, without any success. He knew that unless they got a
liver within the next thirty-six hours, the young African patient,
Sibokwe Tamasala, would probably die from fulminant liver
failure. Strangely, he thought there would be many among the
conservative Afrikaner community who would not be unhappy if
that happened. Africans were not seen as equals in any way,
especially when it came to sophisticated medical care. They were
cheap labour, expendable and replaceable; with his conservative
Afrikaner upbringing, he could identify with that feeling. Jannie
felt the immense pressure to not only succeed but also to fail. He
did wonder to himself what his family would think if he saved this
young African boys life. Having been ostracised for going to an
English-speaking university and marrying an English-speaking
woman, he assumed that they would consider he had completely
rejected Afrikanerdom.

The pager then beeped, interrupting his thoughts. He pushed
the illuminate button on the pager several times but, for some
reason, he could not read the message. The light would not come
on.
He called down the hallway. Renata, I dont think this pager is
working. Can you phone the paging service to ask them to test it?
As he elected to try to fix it, he suddenly noticed Renata
standing in the bedroom doorway, hands on her hips, glaring at
him. Jannie, ever since you were a medical student, you have
thought that the world revolves around surgeons. You think that
everything must be dropped to accommodate youthat whatevers
happening, if not now, shortly, will become a major emergency.
Why dont you just phone them yourself?
Jannie wondered where she had come from. The old Cape
Dutch cottage they owned had long hallways. Although they had
Karakul mats covering the floor, he could still usually hear her
approaching the bedroom. While he thought about the quietness of
her approach and the ultimate meaning of her lecture, his pager
went off again, but this time the light came on and he could read
the message. Donor liver acceptable, HLA and volume match,
hepatitis negative.
I think its working now, he said, somewhere in her direction
as she disappeared down the hallway.
There was no reply, which did not really surprise him too
much. Thinking about whether he should try to say something
again, he looked up and saw one of the Golden Cocker Spaniels
poke her head into the bedroom. Her tail was wagging
energetically, and she had that playful or expectant look on her
face. He was always surprised at how delightful their dogs were;
how much unconditional love they had, and he reflected how much
easier it might be to have a relationship with them compared to
Renata. He stroked Tasha around the ears and noticed her tail
wagged even more enthusiastically, and knew the previous thought
was a bit of a cop-out; it was just an alternative far more attractive
to him than conflict resolution. It was not that he thought that he
deliberately avoided crisis solving, it was just that crises always
seemed to arrive when he had something much more important
scheduled, like now.
The relationship with Renata had initially been both interesting
and confronting to Jannie. Their diverse backgrounds produced

challenges in understanding their differing viewpoints. Many of
these, in the beginning, were diametrically opposed, especially
when it came to politics. Renata thought the apartheid government
was destructive and inhuman. She believed that all peoples,
irrespective of colour, should have equal rights. Jannie, on the other
hand, thought that while equality should be improved, having
blacks run the country was tantamount to anarchy and chaos.
There were many animated discussions during the early part of
their courtship, and he had been surprised initially that he had been
able to adapt to Renatas more liberal views on certain aspects,
especially integration. However, as the demands of being the head
of surgery and the liver transplant unit escalated they had less time
for discussion, and it seemed more time for disagreement. Now,
with their first ever child liver transplant looming, their
relationship, he realised, was under significant strain.
Renata, the pager is working, he repeated, on entering the
bathroom, where she was now undressing Christian, pushing
repeatedly the illuminate button on the pager so that he could read
the message about the transplant.
Yes, I heard you the first time.
Well, why didnt you say so?
You know, Jannie, for a supposedly intelligent man, you
sometimes display a remarkable lack of insight.
Now is the time to keep quiet, he told himself. If you have any
intelligence, keep your mouth firmly shut. This had all the signs of
a championship fight. There was something clearly irritating her
and this was going to be an excuse to discharge it. Sadly, it was a
fairly familiar scenario for them nowadays, but the pre-fight
manoeuvring was still enough to sadden and depress him.
Forget it, Renata. Im sorry I spoke.
Isnt that just typical. You refuse to face the problem and then
you make out as though you were the martyr. Its all well and good
when its one of your precious transplant patients, but when it
comes to us as a family, well, we can just wait.
The outburst from Renata was inviting. He was not sure
whether it was his Afrikaner background, but it was rare that he
would back away from a skirmish, be it in his private or
professional life. There was something in his genetic makeup that
did not tolerate other opinions easily, and he was constantly ready
to debate them. The pager beeped again and distracted him from a

reply to Renata, and possibly further irretrievable relationship
damage.

Chapter 4

Jannie reached for the phone next to the bed. The transplant was
going ahead, and the argument with Renata would have to wait
until later for an attempted resolution.
Mike, is that you? Jannie whispered down the phone.
Yes, replied Mike, but why on earth are you whispering?
Its Renata, said Jannie. Shes in one of those moods and
thinks my main love is the transplant programme. Can you prepare
Sibokwe and tell him that we might need to go to the hospital
tonight.
Thats fine, weve already had a talk to him and Sian has his
bag packed.
Mike McMahon was the coordinator of the non-operative side
of transplants at Groote Schuur Hospital. He looked after the
anaesthetic and intensive care needs of the transplanted patients. He
was almost the same age as Jannie, and they had known each other
for what seemed a lifetime. Sometimes he infuriated Jannie. Mike
was an English-speaking liberal who believed firmly in integration
and loved to challenge ideas; in many ways, he was the complete
opposite of Jannie. Despite their differences, however, they had
become good friends. Jannie also thought he was an excellent
anaesthetist and gratefully acknowledged that he had been a critical
force in setting up the liver transplant programme.
Mike had always been very encouraging, understanding how
difficult it was trying to succeed in the shadow of Christian
Barnards famous heart transplant unit. The success of the first
heart transplant in 1967 still cast itself into the corners of the
smallest room at Groote Schuur Hospital, the persona of its premier
surgeon seeming to come alive whenever the hospitals name was
mentioned. Jannie knew he would always be competing with that
memory and that it was a record that would never be matched.
Despite thator in spite of that, he was not quite sure whichhis
desire was still to create the best liver transplant unit in the
Southern Hemisphere.
Mike interrupted his thoughts. Jannie, to speed things up why
dont you let Susannah take the donor liver out?

Good God, Mike, you seem to have a very short memory. I
thought you wanted this transplant programme to succeed!
You cant do everything. People, other than you, sometimes
make mistakes. It wasnt her fault that the last liver wasnt
maintained at the right temperature.
Look, Mike, if she had been really switched on she would
have picked it up. Why does she want to do transplant surgery
anyway? Why doesnt she do plastic surgery, or if she likes a bit of
drama, paediatric surgery? Ill gladly give her a reference.
The conversation was going the way of many past
conversations, towards an issue that Jannie knew Mike was
passionate about: equality of the sexes, a subject that equally
irritated Jannie coming from a background of Afrikaner male
dominance. With his background, he had always seen the womans
primary role as being a mother and carer to children. Being a
specialist surgeon, he could not see how a woman could meet the
demands of surgery and motherhood. It had been difficult enough
for him adjusting to someone like Renata, but at least they had
found common ground to accommodate his beliefs, and she worked
part-time when Christian was born. What annoyed him most now
was that Mike did not seem to have any understanding of when
things could be discussed and when they could not. He did not
believe Susannah had the ability to harvest the donor livernot
primarily because she was a woman but because she was not as
capable. Part of him wanted to pull rank as head of the transplant
unit and tell Mike to shut up, when Mike cut into his thoughts
again.
Jannie, either you give her another chance, or you can find
yourself another anaesthetist. Im not going to be drawn into a
discussion about the merits of women in surgery. Susannah is very
talented, if you would only give her half a chance.
Whats got into you? You sound like youre having an affair
with her. Jannie heard the phone click at the other end. Damn, he
thought as he redialled.
Mike, its Jannie. Dont hang up. Im sorry. Its a bit of a
stressful time for all of us. I know youre not having an affair with
Susannah, but your remark about not making mistakes got to me a
little, and I retaliated by saying something that was way out of
line.

Youre going to have to start giving a bit more responsibility
to others. Youre going to have to accept that others are not perfect
or as talented as you, and that people learn from their mistakes.
I understand that, but there is an awful lot riding on this
transplant. Sibokwe has become something of a cause clbre
among the liberal left. They see him as a chance to redress years of
injustices. The chancellor is saying that this is our opportunity to
justify a First-World practice just when there is a groundswell of
opinion for Third-World community medicine. You know that, and
we havent done any kids. Weve only done eleven adults, for
Petes sake, and if we stuff this up, were finished.
Youre over-dramatising, Jannie.
Maybe, but Id prefer the other junior consultant, Peddington,
to harvest the liver. Susannah can do the back table.
I think thats a mistake. Peddington is already an egotistical
sod, and hes Susannahs junior. If you put him above Susannah in
the transplant team, hell be unbearable, not to mention what it will
do to Susannahs feelings, said Mike.
Jannie struggled to control his sense of frustration. A
frustration brought on by his friends inability to dissect out the
important factors. He surprised himself.
OK, Mike. Well have Susannah harvest the liver, but Ill get
Peddington to go with her. Yes, yes, I know they dont get on, but
we need two brains there; theyll just have to get on for a few
hours. Will you explain the situation to Susannah, and Ill phone
Peddington?
There was silence at the other end. Jannie wondered whether
Mike had hung up again, but heard no telltale click.
But I think it would be better coming from you, or Hannah,
the transplant coordinator, said Mike.
Thanks, Mike. Ill do that and tell them that the donor is in
Port Elizabeth and that the Red Cross will fly them up as soon as
theyre ready. Ill chat to Hannah and make sure that everything is
ready to go as soon as theyre back.
Thatll be at least seven hours. What are you going to do?
said Mike.
I thought Id go to church and pray.
Mike knew better than to comment. Despite his friends
intolerance of others and other character misdemeanours, he was
someone who went to church most Sundays. In many ways, he had

traits consistent with Christian belief, without the firm convictions
that helped you live out those beliefs. Mike knew that part of that
was Jannies strict Dutch Reformed church upbringing, but he also
wondered whether it was just because he had not found a better
explanation for life. He had often quizzed Jannie on what he had
believed in and why he felt the need to go to church. It was the only
time he could recall that he had received a single sentence reply
from Jannie.
After a short silence, Jannie added, I still need help each day
in understanding why Im here.
Mike thought that if anyone knew why he was here, it was
Jannie, but, then again, even good friends fail to understand the
depths and complexities of each others personalities sometimes.
Jannie put down the phone to Mike, and then in succession
talked to Hannah, the chancellor, the theatre coordinator and the
minister of health. By the time he finished it was a quarter to eight,
and he could hear no sounds coming from the rest of the house.
Christian must be asleep. Renata obviously had put him straight to
bed. No goodnight, Daddy was a frequent form of punishment
when he was in her bad books.
Christian too tired to say goodnight, was he? said Jannie as he
walked towards the front door.
Save your sarcasm, Jannie. While it befits you and the surgical
profession, it contributes little to humanity.
Well, if thats your attitude, Im going out. He deliberately
did not tell her it was to church, lest it provoked more comment on
the inconsistencies in his life.

Chapter 5

Jannie shut the front door more loudly than he usually did, mostly
as an exclamation mark to his last statement to Renata. He stood on
the step for a minute and wondered to himself if they should really
go for counselling, or whether the relationship was beyond
reprieve. He had thought about it many times before and knew that
if they were to survive, something had to be done, but then
something such as the transplant would intervene. As he walked
down the front steps towards the car, the rain started. He had
brought an umbrella and quickly put it up. As he hurried towards
the car, a gust of wind blew it inside out thoroughly soaking him. In
disgust, he threw the umbrella into the back of the car and sat
thinking that this obviously was an omen. Either Susannah would
stuff up the donor liver or it would reject within thirty-six hours.
He started the car and drove slowly towards the church,
convinced that no amount of praying was going to prevent a
disaster with the transplant. As he got closer to the church, the rain
became heavier and he had to drive even more slowly, struggling to
see through the windscreen. The road that led up to St Andrews
Church was poorly lit, and because of the rain, he was not
expecting the scrum of cars. They lined both sides of the street.
Damn, Jannie muttered to himself.
Not a place to park within eight hundred metres and an
umbrella that did not work properly meant he would be wringing
wet by the time he reached the church. There were two alternatives,
he thought, go home or brave the rain. That thought was quickly
replaced by another; that going to church, even wringing wet, was
infinitely preferable to having to deal with Renatas mood.
Getting out of the car, he half ran, half walked to the old stone
church, wondering why it had suddenly become so popular. There
would be nearly a thousand people there that night if it was
consistent with the other nights that he had recently been. It would
be overflowing from the original presbytery into the new wing, and
some of the congregation would be blacks and coloureds, which
made it quite unusual for a church even in liberal Cape Town.
Coming from the background that he did, which demanded
segregation even in church, St Andrews fascinated him. Its

services were almost like being transported to some foreign
country. Not that he ever told Renata, as it was at her insistence that
he had first come to St Andrews and he did not want her to think
that desegregation worked, even in a church.
As he ran he held the umbrella half in front of him, his fingers
holding the spokes to ensure that it did not blow out again. Peering
over the top to ensure that he did not run into anyone, he barely
noticed several men sitting in a green bakkie in the church car park.
A quick glance in their direction unnerved him a little; they seemed
to be dressing in the bakkie. Moreover, they were black; a thought
he then quickly dismissed as insignificant, as perhaps they were
part of the service that night. St Andrews he knew was attempting
to reach out to the black community and often had services
featuring blacks. Perhaps that was the reason for its popularity; it
was experimental and different, although it was also the message of
love that they preached that seemed to attract so many, he
thoughta concept he had struggled with. How did you love those
you did not feel were your equal? He had tried, unsuccessfully, to
imagine some of the workers on his fathers farm. Nevertheless, it
still fascinated him that people wanted to try. He was sceptical, but
at the same time curious, that black and white people could
intermingle and treat each other with equal respect. As his umbrella
blew out again he focused on the final fifty-metre dash to the
church.
Once inside, one of the ushers tried to show him to a seat in the
front row. Most nights he sat at the front, the pastor insisting that
someone of his stature be a focal point of the congregation.
However, the way he was feeling tonight, he wanted to just melt
into the congregation, so he smiled politely at the youth group
usher, and made his way halfway up towards the back of the
church. The church was able to accommodate about two thousand
worshippers and was two-thirds full. The innovative design meant
that the seating was graduated up towards the back of the church,
meaning those at the back were seated approximately ten feet
higher than those in the front row.
As he sat down and tried to put Renata out of his mind, he
wondered whether he could ask God to help ensure the success of
the transplant. He then thought that that was self-interest and
hubris, which even with his rudimentary biblical knowledge he
knew God did not like. As he was contemplating the relative merits

of the thought, the choir began with a song that he had always
liked: God, how great thou Art. His affection for the song was
partly because he had struggled to understand the concept of a
loving, giving God when there was so much poverty and
unhappiness in the world and partly because many of the people
who led that praise were those who had the least to praise God
about.
This evening, though, it was not the words so much that
commanded his attention as a voice so pure singing it. The young
woman standing in front of the choir could only have been sixteen
years of age, but she had a voice so pure, the notes so crisp that he
felt the hairs on his neck rising as she sang.

When we reach that heavenly home, we will fully understand
the greatness of God, and will bow in humble adoration, saying to
Him, O Lord my God, how great thou art.

He was so taken by the pureness of the notes that he only
partially registered the vestry door opening. It was just off to the
left of the stage. That in itself was not unusual. Quite often St
Andrews would have performers make a quiet entrance and take
the stage to give a surprise rendition as a way of introducing the
sermon. Jannie looked again, as this did not feel the same as other
nightsthe person coming in through the door wore a mask. He
could see in the spaces around his eyes that he was black. It was not
his colour that disturbed him. This was, after all, a growing
multiracial church attempting to meet the needs of all racesa fact
that Jannie had struggled with for quite some time but had adjusted
to with Renatas persuasion. More recently, he had had to admit to
himself that if integration was ever going to happen, then this
church provided something of a model. However, he reminded
himself that despite the fact that religion was interwoven with
politics, politics was bereft of the love that seemed to make a
church such as this work.
The first man in a black hooded mask was quickly followed by
a second in a balaclava and overalls. They were both carrying what
appeared to be semi-automatic weapons, with pouches tied around
their waists bulging forward at the front. Behind the first two,
Jannie could now catch a glimpse of three others pulling on hoods.

The thought that this was a novel way to introduce a sermon
was shattered as the first black man shot the youth group usher and
then turned the AK-47 towards the beautiful young singer. As if in
slow motion she stumbled backwards as three shots were fired from
direct range, finally collapsing, with blood pouring from her neck
and abdomen, her white dress slowly turning scarlet. Someone in
the congregation then began clappingapplauding what they
thought was a dramatic staged introduction to the sermon.
Jannie was transfixed. Uncertain still of what was happening,
he watched as the other gunmen quickly entered. Two years of
army service suddenly flashed before him. From his gun
classification classes he recalled that their guns were AK-47s. They
were highly inaccurate over twenty metres but deadly at close
range. This was not a staged introduction to a sermon; these were
real AK-47s and they were firing live ammunition.
The first gunman was by this time twenty metres into the
church, his weapon on semi-automatic, firing indiscriminately at
the congregation. People were crying out at the realisation that
something horrible and terrible was evolving. There was no
applause now, just an eerie silence surrounding gunshots, and the
dawning of disbelief that this was a terrorist attack.
Jannie could feel the fear building, a sense of helplessness
through being unable to defend himself, a feeling that he had not
experienced before. Some people were scrambling to get out of the
line of fire while others climbed back over pews to get away from
the advancing gunmen. As he tried to process his options, the voice
in the back of his mind was screaming at him to get down. He flung
himself to the floor behind the pew immediately in front of where
he was sitting.
Lying on the floor, he began searching through the feet in front
of him. The second terrorist was advancing in his direction. His
firearm was an Uzi not an AK-47, short and snub-nosed, which he
held in one hand. With his other hand, he reached into a bag around
his waist and pulled out a hand grenade. It was not the normal type
of hand grenade that Jannie had seen often on the practice range
during National service. This hand grenade was crowded with nails
that had been crudely stuck to the outer casing, the intention to
maim as well as kill. Whoever they were, he thought, they were
aiming for maximum damage and quite possibly a massacre.