Black Heart - the story of a racist

 

Black Heart

A complete, free, Coffee Break Tale

by

Hilton Hamann

Coffee Break Tales are complete, free, online, short stories designed to be read whenever you are able to grab a short break, like taking time off for a cup of coffee or a cigarette. They are ideal for mobile phones and tablets.

**

 "I hate blacks," said Arrie Potgieter, his voice laced with venom. "Always have, always will!"

 He blew on the surface of the coffee in a chipped white mug, before taking a sip.

 He drank his coffee strong, black and with three and a half heaped spoons of sugar. The way he took it, provided a constant joke that his white, gold-miner colleagues told when they sat in the tea-room located almost a kilometre below ground.

 The jibe was old and they knew it and Arrie, their shiftboss, was sick of hearing it but that made it even more fun as they knew it got under his skin.

 Arrie likes his coffee the way he likes his women - strong, black and sweet!

 "What is it this time?" asked one of the miners sitting at the next table.

 Arrie stabbed a sausage-like finger at an article at the bottom of the front page of the newspaper spread out before him.

 "A bunch of kaffirs broke into a farm house in the Free State, shot the husband, tied up the wife and stole just about everything."

 His eyes flashed and his brow furrowed.

 "Savages!" he spat.

 He took a small sip of coffee, careful not to burn his lips.

 "1971 and they're still fucking savages every one of them!"

 "Surely you can't mean all blacks are bad?"

 The eyes of the rest of the underground crew turned to face the speaker. The owner of the voice was Taffy, a new team member. He was a bull-like Welshman and had been in South Africa less than a month.

 "There must be some good blacks."

 Arrie smiled. It was the sort of smile adults used when dealing with slow-witted children - or dumb blacks.

 "You'll learn," he said, his voice condescending. "There are no good blacks in this country. They're all the same. They just look human but aren't really, they're another species - a sub-species!"

 The rest of the all-white crew nodded in agreement. In general they agreed with Arrie's frequent racial proclamations, although none were as fervent in their beliefs.

 But then nobody was as intense - or extreme - as Arrie Potgieter, white supremacist and union shop-steward.

 He grew up in a poor Afrikaner family, one of seven children. His father, unskilled and barely literate, had somehow managed to eke out a living farming on a small-holding situated on the outskirts of Johannesburg. But his efforts and the many hardships he faced along the way eventually killed him.

 Often there was no food in the small, run-down house with its leaking roof patched with sheets of plastic and bits of recycled board. But the old man always had booze and whenever he drank he found a reason to use his belt on Arrie's mother and his siblings.

 Arrie was the old man's favourite and the youngster adored and idolized his father. He hung on the old man's every word and listened carefully when his father warned that the country's blacks had only one thing in mind - to steal the whites' jobs and drive them into the sea!

 "If we fail to keep our race pure and fail to resist the blacks at every turn, we are doomed," he told the young Arrie. "And anyone who lies in bed with a black, breaks a sacred command of Almighty God. Does His word not say wine and water do not mix?"

 Old Man Potgieter was a staunch follower of the Nationalist Party government and wholeheartedly supported  its policy of grand apartheid.

 He helped the party recruit and organise voters at election time and spent countless hours discussing and admiring the Nazi's racial policies.

 It pleased him when laws were passed putting in place a series of "scientific" tests that low-level government officials could use, to establish white, racial, purity.

 Government scientists and anthropologists debated and determined the maximum width of a pure white nose so it was then a simple matter for a government official to take a measurement using a pair of steel callipers. Anything wider than the listed standard was an indicator of non-purity.

 There were gum and finger nail tests. Darker gums meant the person concerned was coloured, as did small blue crescents at the rear of the finger nails.

 When a pencil was vertically inserted into a white person's hair, it fell through, something not deemed to be the case with a black or coloured person.

 Any of these tests could result in a person being reclassified as a black.

 And in South Africa, being black was often monstrous! Hundreds of oppressive racial laws made life hell for millions.

 If you were black or coloured you could not vote, live in a white suburb, send your children to a white school, go to a movie, ride in a white bus, sit on a whites-only park bench, swim on a white beach, be admitted to a white hospital, eat in a white restaurant or attend a white university.

 Being black meant having to have a pass to be allowed entry to certain parts of the city.

Meaningful jobs and occupations were closed to you, as they were reserved for whites.

 Arrie Potgieter liked the system and his labour union was determined to do everything in its power to maintain it.

 He glanced at his watch. Five minutes before they returned to their shift. Arrie didn't particularly like Taffy. He was a foreigner and spoke no Afrikaans and he was from the United Kingdom and Arrie hated Brits almost as much as he hated blacks. It was the British who'd oppressed the Afrikaners during the Boer War. It was the British who'd set up concentration camps for Afrikaner women and children and it was the British who stole the gold and diamonds of the Boer Republics. He wasn't born when any of that took place but he carried the grudges of his forefathers.

 He scowled at the Welshman.

 "Okay, tell me one good thing blacks have done...one major discovery or scientific achievement." He paused, his eyes boring into Taffy.

 "Didn't think so. But we, on the other hand... just a couple of years ago changed the course of medical history, when a South African doctor, Professor Christiaan Barnard, an Afrikaner, performed the world's first successful human heart transplant operation."

 Taffy was about to say something but decided against it. Potgieter could make life very uncomfortable in the underground stopes.

 Arrie figured Taffy knew his argument was weak and without foundation. No-one could dispute the facts he presented?

 "I'm just glad, God, in His infinite wisdom made me white," he said. "I'd sure hate to be one of them."

 He pointed to the stream of sweat-sodden, black, miners on their way back to the rock-face after having their tea-break.

 He closed his newspaper, folded it in half and set it on a shelf in the corner. Then he put his coffee mug in the sink along with those of the other miners.

 "Back to work," he said.

**

 It was around an hour later. The teams of black miners were hard at work in the stopes. The ground trembled beneath their feet, as dozens of rock-drills hammered into the ore face. The noise was overwhelming. White miners yelled orders at black underlings, screaming so they could be heard above the din. All the rock surfaces glistened and the air hung wet, like mountain fog, as water was constantly sprayed to control the dust.

 In this arena, Arrie prowled. It was his domain, his kingdom and he ruled supreme, with an unsheathed, iron fist.

 He made sure no one slacked for even a moment.

 They had targets to meet. Each shift had to drill a minimum number of holes in the rock face, into which explosive charges were inserted. The ore-face was then blown into smaller pieces and hauled to the surface for the gold to be extracted.

 If more holes were drilled than the daily target, each team-member got a bonus at the end of the month. It was a payment system that applied to everyone, all the way up to the Underground Manager - exceed targets and earn more!

 But to work there could be no weak links. If rock-drillers failed to meet production targets then blasters could not and so on up the chain all the way to the Underground Manager.

 These were hard men who relied on those bonuses and Arrie knew, if his team screwed up, the shit that rolled down to him would do so with the ferocity of an avalanche.

 No-one cared about excuses.

 So when Arrie was called to a section in 14B where a rock-driller had solidly jammed his drill into the rock-face, he was instantly in a foul mood.

 He knew sorting it out was at least a half hour-long job. The screw-up was almost certainly caused by the driller allowing the water reservoir used to keep the drill bit cool, to run dry. When that happened it overheated and seized.

 "Jesus! Fuck!" swore Arrie. But he tried to calm his rising temper. He had heart problems and took tablets every day.

 The time taken to free the drill bit would almost certainly see them miss their production target today. But the drill could also be damaged and repair costs, if negligence was proven, could be docked from the Shiftboss in charge.

 At the rock-face two black miners tugged at the stuck drill bit, in a gesture everyone knew was a waste of time. More holes would have to be drilled beside it if it was going to be freed.

 "Fuck! Half an hour at least!" Arrie thought.

 There was no way they would now reach their target.

 He checked the drill's water reservoir.

 Empty!

 This fucking coon was going to cost him money and, in addition, cause a shit-storm!

 A red mist swirled before him, becoming brighter and more intense all the time. In a deep recess of his mind a little voice called: "calm down" but the blood that roared in his ears and the pulse that pounded in his temples drowned it out.

 His breathing grew rapid and short. His fists balled without his realising it, his chest tightened and his eyes locked like lasers onto the guilty rock-driller.

 "You fucking, no good, useless piece of shit!" he screamed and attacked the man with all the fury and ferocity he could muster.

 A punch in the black miner's face broke his nose and floored him and then Arrie was on him, stamping and kicking in a blind rage.

 "Useless! Useless! Useless!" he bellowed, as he continued to kick his now-helpless victim with both feet.

 Potgieter would likely have killed him, had he not, at that moment, suffered a massive heart attack!

 As he flailed away he became vaguely aware his chest was tightening and his left arm suddenly felt strangely numb. He imagined he felt a cold sweat trickle down the back of his neck. Then nothing. Just the blackest of darkness until he woke up in the intensive care unit of a Johannesburg hospital, tubes down his throat and machines connected to him.

 When he slowly opened his eyes, his wife and son were there and it was obvious both had been crying. He tried to speak but couldn't because of the pipe down his gullet.

 "Arrie," said his wife and clasped a hand in both of hers. "We were so worried. We thought you were dead. Actually, you were. They say your heart stopped for almost two minutes before they got it started again!"

 She felt a tear slide down her cheek.

 "Why do you let those blacks get you so upset? You could've died because of that stupid Kaffir."

 He squeezed her hand weakly and nodded. He felt feeble and frail as a worn out dog. He struggled to keep his eyes open.

 "Sleep," she said and kissed him on his forehead. "Don't worry about a thing. Everything will be fine."

**

 London-trained, Doctor Alan Podinsky was one of the country's top heart specialists and knew the only way Arrie Potgieter would survive and recover was to have a heart transplant operation.

 "Without a new heart, I doubt you'll live to see the end of the year," he told Arrie one day, when he pulled up a chair and sat beside his patient's hospital bed.

 "The damage to your heart is huge and no surgery or medicine will ever repair it. Your only option is a heart transplant."

 Arrie lay propped up in bed in the High Care unit of the facility. The pipe shoved down his gullet was gone but his throat was so raw and inflamed he found it painful to talk. He remained attached to a variety of machines monitoring his vital organs and he wore an oxygen mask.

 He appeared twenty years older and the skin on his face was almost transparent.

Arrie knew about heart transplant operations. After all, the first successful procedure was done in South Africa and he'd followed the news, his chest puffed up with South African pride.

 He pulled the oxygen mask from his face so he could speak but even that left him gasping and feeble.

 "How successful are they... heart transplants?" he asked in a weak voice.

 "It's still a new field and there are risks," replied Podinsky, leaning forward so Arrie could better hear him.

 "I won't lie to you, there are dangers and, even if the surgery goes without a hitch, your body may reject your new heart - assuming they are able to find a suitable donor-heart in time."

 He paused, allowing Arrie to process what he'd just said.

 "I'd rate your chances of surviving the operation and going on to live a normal life at around 50 - 50 but it's the only shot you have."

 Arrie closed his eyes and sighed.

 "Will you do it here?" he whispered.

"No, in Cape Town by Professor Chris Barnard. He's the best in the world.
 Arrie smiled.

 "Okay," he said. "Let's do it."

**

 It was 24 days since Arrie Potgieter arrived at the hospital in Cape Town after being flown from Johannesburg by air ambulance.

 The surgical team was worried. If they could not find a suitable donor-heart soon, it would likely be too late.

 Every day Arrie's condition deteriorated.

 Then, late that night, they caught a break. A 23 year-old man, a resident in a black township, arrived at the hospital after he was shot in the head by a mugger. He was still alive but considered brain-dead, kept alive by machines. Two, separate, specialists confirmed to his grieving parents the youngster no chance of recovery.

 Professor Barnard quickly went to see the parents.

 "You can't save your son's life," he said gently, "but he can save many other lives. He can live on in others and give them life.

 "Right here, in this hospital, as we speak, there is a man who will die but, if we give him your son's heart he will live, healthy for many years. Please consider making this gift."

 Without hesitation the parents nodded.

 "It is what he would have wanted," his mother whispered, tears streaming down her face.

**

 Ten days after the transplant operation, Arrie was making remarkable progress. There'd been no signs of rejection and he felt better than he had in years. Professor Barnard was convinced he would make a full recovery and live a normal life.

 In the meantime he'd become something of a celebrity. Newspapers, both local and overseas, loved the story about a white supremacist and white-union boss, getting the heart of a black man.

 At first Arrie was apprehensive. He was sure he should feel different - black somehow. But he didn't. He felt the same, except healthier. And he had not developed any unusual urge to act differently. It was all very strange and confusing.

 A few members of Arrie's team took time off from work and travelled to Cape Town to visit him.

 "How long before you get back to work?" asked one.

 "I should be out of here in a week or two and then another six months recovery at home and I'll be good to go.

 "I hope you are keeping up with the production targets and not letting the Kaffirs slack off while I'm away."

 They smiled at him.

 "We're doing what we can but, let's be honest, no one's as tough as you."

 Arrie grinned.

 "Yeah, I've told this new heart there'll be no slacking off - it works for a white man now!"

 They all laughed so loudly that the duty nursing sister came to see what the ruckus was about.

 "You must calm things down or I'll have to ask you to leave," she said, her voice stern and clipped.

 "Sorry, M'am," said one of the miners, trying to suppress a giggle. "We'll behave ourselves."

 "You'd better," she said, peering over the rim of her spectacles.

 "Better keep it down guys," whispered Arrie, before snorting with laughter again. Hell it was good to see the guys and he couldn't wait to get back to his home and job. It was going to be wonderful when things were once again back to normal.

 The guys chatted for another half an hour before the duty sister once again left her station.

 "You must go now," she said. "Professor Barnard is doing his rounds shortly."

 They shook hands with Arrie.

 "We'll give your regards to the rest of the guys and tell them you'll soon be back to wield the whip."

 "Good bye," said Arrie. "See you soon."

 They turned and filed out of the High Care unit but, at the door, one of the miners stopped and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.

 He withdrew a white envelope and handed it to Arrie.

 "I almost forgot," he said. "The bosses asked me to give this to you."

 "What is it?" asked Arrie.

 "I don't know. Probably a letter wishing you a speed recovery, I would guess."

 And with that he left and raced after his colleagues who were already waiting at the elevator.

**

 Arrie awoke a little later. Professor Barnard had arrived a few moments after his visitors left and his examination, together with his workmates' visit had left Arrie worn out. He dozed off and slept for an hour.

 After drinking a little water, he remembered the letter.

 The envelope had the mining organisation's crest printed on the front and the return address at the back.

 He slipped his right index finger under the glued flap, tore open the envelope and began to read.

Dear Mr Potgieter

 It is with regret I must inform you, your employment has been terminated with immediate effect.

 We have been informed by Government, that, at an emergency meeting of the Cabinet, it was decided, because of your receipt of the heart of a black man, your racial classification is to be changed to "Black."

 The Cabinet felt it could reach no other decision, as the heart is the essential essence of any human being. Thus, if you have a black heart, you are, in effect, "black".

 Accordingly, to comply with the laws of the land, as well as the rules of your union, as a black man, we may no longer employ you in your current position. In addition, your occupation of the house, owned by the mine and located in a white area, is accordingly deemed unlawful.

 You are therefore regrettably instructed to vacate the property within 30 days of the above date.

 The Human Resources Department will be contacting you to assist in making the necessary arrangements.

Yours faithfully

Andrew Harvey - General Manager

The End

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