ANCHIEN TROSKIE
AS ELBIE LÖTTER
The State Vs
Anna Bruwer
translated by Edwin Hees
KWELA BOOKS
In writing It’s Me, Anna I was able to get rid of a certain anger in myself and commit a (fictitious) murder. At the end of the story Anna has blood on her hands. And then I started to feel guilty. Because I now do have the “normal” life I desired so intensely as a child. I have a husband who is interested not only in my body; I have two wonderful children. What does the fictitious Anna have? What happened to her after the murder of her stepfather? This question was echoed by many readers of It’s Me, Anna.
After Die besoeker (The visitor) I did research for a new manuscript. I was in fact ready to start writing it. But the question remained in my mind: What had become of Anna? It kept on bothering me. So I put the research I’d done aside and started again on the fictitious Anna. She is not me. But I could have been her – if I had lived out my fantasy.
And now I dedicate this Anna to all the readers of It’s Me, Anna. And especially to those of you who asked the question and prompted me to think of an answer.
Also to Antoinette Louw – because you gave such an excellent portrayal of Anna in the stage version of the novel.
And to Lafras, Chris and Joice – thank you for giving me the space to do what I must do.
The author
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
– W. E. Henley, “Invictus”
When we are struck at without a reason, we should strike back again very hard; I am sure we should – so hard as to teach the person who struck us never to do it again.
– Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
1
My legs begin to quiver as I stride up the garden path to the front door. My hands shake as I ring the bell. I hear footsteps. I hear him approaching.
“Who’s there?”
It is an old man’s voice.
“It’s me, Anna.” As I cock the pistol.
“Me, Anna.” As he unlocks the door, opens it.
“Me, Anna.” As I aim the pistol at him.
“Me, Anna.” As I shoot and shoot and shootandshootand shootandshoot.
“Me, Anna.” As the world around me turns red.
I am Anna.
No one will ever do that to me again. He will never be able to do it to anyone else. May God forgive me – and also him.
He falls in front of me. The red vases behind him have been shattered. The sharp smell of urine rises up at me as I watch the dark stain on the leg of his pyjama pants spread. Under normal circumstances I might have felt sorry for him, it occurs to me, but I am enjoying every moment of his humiliation. His discomfort, his fear, the desperation in his eyes. I’m enjoying it.
He turns slowly until he is lying on his back, draws up his legs in a pathetic attempt to hide the shameful stain. Throws up his hands and looks at me, pleading, “Please, Anna, please!”
I keep the pistol aimed at him. “How many times did I ask you that? Please don’t, please, it hurts. Please, please, don’t do it. How many times did you hear Carli ask? Did you listen to us? Did you ever feel sorry for us? Why do you think then I should have any sympathy for you?”
I aim, straight at his head, between the eyes. My hand shakes so badly that I have to use my other hand to steady it. All I have to do is pull the trigger again. That’s all. I can even shut my eyes if I want to, because I cannot miss, not from where I’m standing. All I must do is pull the trigger. I tighten my grip on the pistol.
I cannot do it.
I cannot pull the trigger. I cannot even hold the pistol aloft any longer.
I cannot commit murder.
As I lower the weapon, I see my mother. She has appeared in the doorway behind him.
“Anna?”
How old she has become, is my first thought. I can see it even through my tears. Carli’s death did leave a mark on her, after all.
The woman I love and hate at the same time, in equal parts; that is my second thought. Love because she is my mother. Hate because she had the power to stop him and yet chose not to.
I want to ask her, I want to know how she could have allowed him to defile her daughters. How she could have looked the other way for all those years. But I can’t. I don’t have the strength any longer. I just stand there – overwhelmed. He has once again managed to turn me into a crying, pleading eight-year-old.
He must have realised this; it seems to have given him courage. He tries to stand up.
“No,” I say, “stay on your knees.”
He does.
“Put your hands behind your head – and keep your fingers linked together.”
He does.
I look at my mother. “I don’t want to shoot you. I don’t even want to shoot him. But I will. If either of you tries something, I will. So help me God.”
She stands absolutely still, eyes shut.
“You have a choice,” I say to her. “Turn around, go to the bedroom, lock the door. Or stay where you are. I honestly don’t care any more.” I raise the pistol again. “But don’t try to stop me.”
She remains standing, fists clenched at her sides, her mouth pulled tight in fear. But she stands there.
I look down at him again. “Why did you do it? How could you have? Your own daughter?”
He does not answer, just lifts his head towards me. He is no longer frightened, that I can see clearly. Why not? Because I’m crying? Because my mother is there?
Fear, that’s all I want to see. In his eyes, on his face. The same fear that Carli and I felt every time he opened the door of our bedrooms. That’s why I’m here. To smell that fear.
“I
