fitted tightly round my waist and she placed some of the money there. If she was ever taken away, I would be able to use the money to look after the little ones.
Not far from us lived Mr Ahrbeck, a widower. He and his five daughters were great friends of ours. For some reason or other, probably because he was a foreigner, the English left him alone. Many times some of the girls came to our garden gate and asked to see the baby. And so I would push the pram up to the gate and they would then take the little one for a walk, at first going only a short distance and then returning. The sentry had grown lax and paid no attention to the baby’s pram. I daresay he kept his eyes on the girls.
Mother then made a plan to conceal all sorts of little treasures in the pram underneath the baby with the sun curtains drawn over. The girls would push the pram to their home where they hung up or displayed the items as if they were their own. Later the baby was not even put into the pram and the covering was drawn securely over. For all the sentry knew, the baby was fast asleep under the curtains. More than two years later every single item was returned to Mother. We appreciated this, as these few items were all we ever recovered of our household goods and furniture.
Among the things were photographs and portraits which are today still in good condition hanging in Cornelis’s home. They included two enlargements of Father and Mother (in colour), the photograph of the 1896 Sunday School conference and the big picnic in the Heidelberg Kloof, as well as other family portraits. I think some of Father’s business papers were also included. I know who it was that somehow managed to acquire some of our pretty porcelain and ornaments, but they were never returned to us, so I shan’t name them.
When Elsie Human’s husband, John Spruyt, was killed in battle she was given permission to attend his funeral. He was a brother of General Cornelis Spruyt. She was allowed, as protection, to take a man with her to accompany her. She chose my brother James, then 12 years old. Permission was granted on condition that a petition from the women, begging their men to return home and lay down their arms, was taken through the lines. But not one man returned.
Each time some new prisoners of war arrived under guard at Heidelberg we heard of what was going on in the outside world. Many people also learned about their loved ones still in the field and how they were faring. Even now and then Mother received a letter from Gert on St Helena but there was no word from Father or Cornelis.
After the war we learnt that at about this time the Heidelberg Commando derailed a train. Among other things they captured the mail bags and found inside a number of letters and photographs of friends and acquaintances. In this way the commando learnt where their families were.
Chapter 2
We are taken away in cattle trucks
The families of the men on active service had a very difficult time and most of their furniture and goods were taken away. No one was allowed to earn money or contact friends. What weighed most heavily on them was the absence of news of their menfolk. Neither my mother nor any of the other women ever asked the Khakis for food, clothing or medicines. They suffered much but did not want to be dependent in any way on their enemy. And then when the English sought an excuse to make the women prisoners, they announced that we were “refugees” and in this way better care could be taken of us. We always insisted on giving our name and address clearly as “Women Prisoners of War”.11
Our turn to be taken away came on 5 December 1900 when two English officers stepped into our home and told Mother that she and her six children had to be at the railway station the next morning from where we would be sent away. Where to and for how long? No information was given. The only instruction was that everything in the house was to be left as it was and that only some clothes and a basket of food could be taken. What a dreadful thought that all we owned had to be left behind for the enemy. The uncertainty about the future was unbearable. The poor helpless women, the elderly and sick, and the little children could never dream what misery and wretchedness awaited them.
When Mother asked what was to happen to brother Gert’s things, as he was one of their prisoners of war, she was assured that his possessions would be taken care of. And so on this last night in our home, we moved the best furniture and bedding into his room.
What a waste of our last precious hours. Mother took what little money we had and divided it between us, hiding it in our belts fastened round our waists. She also kept a little spare cash in her bag. We had our last hot bath and ate what there was. What little food we could scrape together – our last hen which we slaughtered and cooked, a tin of ground coffee with a broken copper spoon in it – we packed in our little basket for the journey. I still have the old spoon in my possession.
The railway station was a good distance from the house. Mother rolled the blankets and quilt into a stiff bundle, which she had to carry, while James took a bundle of clothing. This would have to do for us seven. I carried the baby with her bottle and nappies. Just as we set out to walk along the road, Mr Russell came along with his big horse-drawn carriage to pick us up. Our two families had a long friendship and out of the goodness of his heart he came to help us and take us to the station. We six children could never have managed to walk the distance to the station with all the things we were carrying. Poor Mother was so thankful. She quickly went back into the house and grabbed a few things, including a small medicine chest, a big black kettle, a chamber pot, a small Beatrice stove and a candlestick. The little stove, kettle and candlestick can plainly be seen on a photograph taken a month later in the Pietermaritzburg camp. They were our only kitchen utensils.
What a sad spectacle met us at the station. About three hundred women with all their small children stood there, in a state of shock and dismay, weeping and moaning, each clutching a bundle of clothing and blankets. Everybody wanted to know where we were going, where we would get food, when we were returning. All sorts of reports and rumours did the rounds. Some said we were to be taken and deposited near the commandos in the veld. Others said we would be taken to the native towns and dumped there. There were lots of similar stories.
After a long, dreary wait a train eventually pulled into the station, but without passenger coaches. It was a goods train, with trucks from which cattle and sheep had just been offloaded. Each party had to climb into the nearest truck. Most trucks were open but the one into which we were driven had sides and a roof made of corrugated iron. On each side was a sliding door.
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