TWENTY-NINE

Hugh Thompson was tall and as stooped as a secretary bird. He looked like a caricature of the court lawyer he once had been.

Thompson had an interesting background. At a high point in his life he was considered the best attorney in Queenstown, where he grew up.

Then one morning, during a trial in which he was defending a local celebrity on an allegation of attempting to shoot his wife’s lover, Thompson walked out of his house having carefully checked the case files in his briefcase.

What he neglected to check was his own attire. Stark naked, he was apprehended by an orderly as he was about to enter the magistrate’s court.

When the same thing recurred twice in the next week, he was charged with indecent exposure. Hugh Thompson pleaded temporary dementia, though that was not a normal defence, and was cautioned. Then, less than a month later, after he was found wandering down the main street without his trousers, the same magistrate committed him to Queenstown’s Komani mental hospital and ordered that he be struck off the role.

Thompson spent two years in the asylum, was given a certificate of discharge and decided to move to Umtata. There he was able to boast that he was the only person in town who could actually prove he was sane, having a document that said so.

Although not able to practise himself, he soon found a job with the firm of Martin and De Villiers. The partners were delighted to have someone of his experience and expertise, a fully qualified lawyer at the price of a clerk.

Traders and businessmen in the area began to make use of his services on the side. Thompson did their tax returns, prepared all varieties of legal documents and counselled them on matters of civil law.

Since Hugh Thompson was Tug Wood’s legal adviser, and erudite to boot, Wood had asked him to chair the public meeting about Margaret Buhl.

The meeting that Friday had to be held in the Scout Hall, adjacent to the Rec, because the town hall was occupied, being made ready for the next morning’s activities.

Before the meeting, there was activity on the Rec too, as volunteers of the fire brigade set the kindling in place for the bonfire that would incinerate the world’s Enemy Number One the following evening. Jack Maker had made the torso of boxwood, painted black, the head of papier mache. The moustache and forelock were unmistakable. Adolf was placed in position on the top of the pyre.

There were about thirty people in the Scout Hall – with few exceptions, relatives of the Transkei’s prisoners-of-war.

Hugh Thompson stood and told the audience, ‘Margaret Buhl needs little introduction. Many of you have done business with her over the years. Some of you may have known her for a long time. Some may even consider her a friend.

‘Already I’ve heard people say: “Margaret Buhl? She’s a nice woman. Harmless. And she’s a South African. Leave her alone.”

‘But that attitude misses the point,’ Thompson added, ‘which is that the nice, friendly Mrs Buhl’s husband is working for the Nazis. And, worse, that he’s working to keep young Transkeians, our young Transkeians, captive in one of those awful camps. While his wife lives free, here among us. So, ask yourselves. Is that right? Is that justice?

‘Now, there are institutions and institutions. I know, because I’ve been in one.’ Hugh Thompson waited for the laughter that came in a smatter and then grew. ‘The internment camp that Margaret Buhl should – and, we hope, will – be sent to is a far cry from Stalag VII. Or the Komani loony bin. Because we have humane leaders in this country. They know how to treat people decently.’

The audience applauded.

‘There’s another point I wish to make,’ Thompson went on. ‘We are all aware of the espionage activity happening around the Transkei. For obvious reasons, some rumours suggest that Mrs Buhl might be involved. Who can tell if that’s true or not?  Nobody yet. But we are a just nation. Unlike Nazi Germany. We have a legal system which says that a person must be regarded as innocent until proven guilty. So the last thing I wish to do is to prejudge Margaret Buhl.

‘But let me just say this. Margaret Buhl may be entirely innocent in the situation. If she is, how long can she remain so? Willingly or not, her husband is working on the side of the enemy. How long can it be before she is dragged in too? If she hasn’t been already. And if she should try to resist the approaches of the Nazi spy masters, what do you think would happen to her? Do you think for a moment they’d say, “All right, Mrs Buhl. Go back to your garage business then”?

‘The prospects for her would be too awful to contemplate. And so we say: In Margaret Buhl’s own interests, she must be removed from this scene, this place which could become extremely perilous for her!’

‘That’s exactly it!’ said Tug Wood, springing to his feet. ‘Extremely perilous for her. She must be interned! In her own interests! And in everyone else’s -’

‘You can’t do that! You must not do that!’

The cry, deep but anguished, came from the back of the hall. The audience turned and gasped.

Three years before, Jeff Hall had been a star lineout jumper for the Pirates rugby team. Now he battled merely to stay upright, leaning with one hand on the shoulder of his wife. TB had sucked the flesh from his frame. His face was like a deflated balloon, his cheekbones cast a shadow around his mouth. But his voice, though it seemed to rise through levels of pain, was clear enough.

‘You people don’t understand,’ Jeff Hall said. ‘Fritz Buhl is on our side. Fritz is the best thing that could have happened to our boys. The camp commanders don’t know he’s from here. So he gets away with murder.’

There was a pause while Hall sought breath.

‘Fritz Buhl wangled it so he’s the senior guard in charge of our huts. And he’s made life a lot easier for us. Our blokes get extra rations. He brings in cigarettes, sweets. Fritz has found sports equipment for us where there wasn’t any before.’

Jeff Hall went into a spasm of coughing and was handed a handkerchief by Susan Hall. ‘But best of all, his German bosses think he’s a real taskmaster, so they leave him alone. He pretends to send chaps to the brig, to solitary. They think that’s the reason why our huts are so disciplined, because he’s tough. And it’s a two-way arrangement. When the four of us decided to go under the fence, we did it when Fritz was on three days’ leave. Because we couldn’t put him at any risk.’

Hall turned to face the audience. ‘I know some of you have relatives in Stalag VII. If those relatives were here, they would say exactly what I am saying. Leave Margaret Buhl alone! Leave Fritz Buhl alone!

‘Anyway, the only reason you here know that Fritz Buhl is in that camp is because he wanted it to be known. He wanted his wife to know that he was safe, alive. And so he got Bob Dudley to send those messages in a code that they worked out between the two of them.’

Hall fought to control another cough. ‘If Margaret Buhl is interned, if she is put into one of those camps, the Nazis would be bound to hear about it. They would make the connection with Fritz and he would be transferred somewhere else. Worse, they might come to realise what he’s been up to, how he’s helped our chaps. Knowing the Germans, I’d say they could even kill him.’

Jeff Hall addressed Hugh Thompson and Tug Wood. ‘You mean well,’ he said. ‘You think you’re trying to do the right thing. But you’ve got it wrong. Please believe me!’

He sat down abruptly. There was a silence lasting several seconds before the meeting began to break up. Then all those present lined up to shake Hall’s hand.

‘Sorry, Jeff,’ Tug Wood told him. ‘We didn’t realise. Well, we couldn’t have done, could we? But I’m sure we all feel a lot better now. About our chaps over there. And about Fritz Buhl, and Margaret.’

The lights went out in the Scout Hall and over the small gate that was the entrance to the Recreation Ground. But the action and drama were not over for the night.

Not an hour later, three figures emerged from the shadows, silently making their way to the centre of the ground, to the great pile of firewood.

And within seconds, Adolf Hitler in effigy was ablaze, lighting the sky with the radiance of day.