does it hurt to die by paul g. anderson

8/11/2019 Does It Hurt To Die by Paul G. Anderson

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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.


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Paul G Anderson

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


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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 claimsfor 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

LondonE14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain


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Acknowledgments

With any writing, there are many contributions in many different

forms. They are all extremely valuable and each in their own wayadds 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.


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Chapter 1

At eighteen years of age, Christian de Villiers had an angulated

coltish appearance. Shoulders that were broad but withoutsignificant 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 youthfulinquisition 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 yearswas typical of many Adelaide homes. Blocks of bluestone, mined

in South Australia at the turn of the century, had then beensmoothed 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 intheir 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 tounderstand 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 treatmentand 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.


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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 wassomehow related to her Teutonic background: some kind of genetic

inflexibility which demanded perfection, a standard which he founddifficult 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 aterrorist 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 hisfather 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 ofthat 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 Timesnewspaper suggestedthat 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, whowas a medical doctor and pathologist. Like Cape Town, Adelaide

had beautiful surrounding vineyards. His mother often used to


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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 quiteaccess. Try as he might, he could never recall more than an uneasy

feeling when thinking of his father. When he first arrived inAustralia, 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, obviouslyconcerned 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 answerother 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 initiallyhardly 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 somestrange 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


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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 privatepathology 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 indoing 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 inher 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 elsemeasured 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 attackwere 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


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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 hisfather had initiated through the liver transplant unit. It mentioned in

particular his courageous decision to do a groundbreaking livertransplant 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 hisfather 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 shewas 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 theytended 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 convincedthere was a conspiracy of silence going on, which made him even

more determined to visit Cape Town.


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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 didnot turn and walk out of the room. He was going through the old

YouTube clips of the terrorist attack on the church, partlywondering 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 mothersattention, 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 hadmoved 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 gaingreater 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.


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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. Hestood 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, butneither 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 goodthings.

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 inyour 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 attentionbefore 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 reluctantlyadmitted 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,


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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 youcannot take the Afrikaner gene out of their progeny. She realised

there was no sense in denying it; she needed to handle it as best shecould.

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 thenyou 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 bedenied. 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 onlygives 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


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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.


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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 hadno education, they assumed that they were no better than animals

and thats the way they should be treated. They also saw their rolein 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 hewas most concerned with the way his father treated the workers and

abused them. He couldnt stand seeing them kickedor punched. He

knew he couldnt be part of his fathers succession plan; there hadto 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. Yourfather 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, notenforcing it through some terrorist act. And it doesnt sound

consistent with what was said on that blog at all.


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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 ofhis twenty-first birthday, when his father told him never to come

back. In addition, he never did return to his family or the farm. Thatwas 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 fastforward 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 towarn 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 haddeveloped 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


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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, whowas 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-apartheidgroups. 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.


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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-apartheidactivist 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.


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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 isworking. Can you phone the paging service to ask them to test it?

As he elected to try to fix it, he suddenly noticed Renatastanding 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 toomuch. 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 importantscheduled, like now.

The relationship with Renata had initially been both interesting

and confronting to Jannie. Their diverse backgrounds produced


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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 otherhand, 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 anyintelligence, 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 orprofessional 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


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reply to Renata, and possibly further irretrievable relationship

damage.


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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? Janniewhispered 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 hadbecome 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?


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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 surgeryanyway? 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 maledominance. 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 whenthings 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 ascapable. 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 adiscussion 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 alittle, and I retaliated by saying something that was way out of

line.


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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 clbreamong the liberal left. They see him as a chance to redress years of

injustices. The chancellor is saying that this is our opportunity tojustify 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 fewhours. 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


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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 hadbelieved 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 replyfrom 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 hewalked 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.


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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 notexpecting 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


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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 fingersholding 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 barelynoticed 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 servicesfeaturing 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 couldintermingle 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 groupusher, 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 ofthe 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


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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 peoplewho 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 takethe 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. Hecould 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 tohimself 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 aroundtheir waists bulging forward at the front. Behind the first two,

Jannie could now catch a glimpse of three others pulling on hoods.


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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 neckand abdomen, her white dress slowly turning scarlet. Someone in

the congregation then began clappingapplauding what theythought 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 closerange. 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 theline 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 tomaim as well as kill. Whoever they were, he thought, they were

aiming for maximum damage and quite possibly a massacre.

does it hurt to die by paul g. anderson

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