Living in Strange Lands: The Testimony of Dimitri Tsafendas (1st ed. - 05.27.

03)
Copyright © 2003 Anton Robert Krueger

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“It is through [a] separated form of himself that the being comes
into play in his effects of life and death, and it might be said that it
is with the help of this doubling of the other, or of oneself, that is
realized the conjunction from which proceeds the renewal of beings
in reproduction.”
—Jacques Lacan, What is a Picture?

“…a person experiencing passion forgets the externality of the

object of his passion.”
—Søren Kierkegaard, Two Ages
Cast of Characters
DIMITRI TSAFENDAS
PRISON GUARD

Setting
It is September, 1966 and Dimitri Tsafendas has just been ar-
rested for the murder of Prime Minister Henrik Verwoerd, the
architect of the South African system of Apartheid. Tsafendas
is bruised and bleeding from a beating by the prison guards as
he regains consciousness in his cell.

Production Notes
For the first performances of Living in Strange Lands, from July
to December of 2001, we used a selection of photographs and
press clippings which were projected onto the cyclorama, ei-
ther by means of PowerPoint installed on a laptop computer
or, when the laptop was unceremoniously stolen, by an over-
head projector. These included a photograph taken of Tsafen-
das as a young boy; pictures of the psychiatrists who interro-
gated him in prison; various places where he lived in the
course of his life; and several samples of pieces he wrote whilst
awaiting the verdict of his trial. The original production used
around 60 pictures, but when having to deal with the rather
more clumsy medium of the overhead projector these were
simplified to around 15. These also included press clippings of
the shop where he bought the dagger he used, as well as pho-
tographs of various sizes of the dagger itself; a map of Parlia-
ment which appeared in the newspaper; photos of Verwoerd;
pictures of the body of Verwoerd; photos of Tsafendas as an
old man in prison; and finally, as a parting shot, a collage bor-
rowed from the British magazine Private Eye which shows a
group of jubilant Zulu warriors joyfully jubilating under the
irreverent caption: “A Nation Mourns.”

6
Author’s Note on Language
This play contains several lines in Afrikaans, as well as some
phrases in Greek. I think it would be preferable to use the
original languages, even if the audience doesn’t always follow,
since this would help to capture the spirit of the time and
place, which may be more important than the particular plot
details at these junctures. Having said that, theatres have the
option of using the English translations if they prefer.

Acknowledgements
During a year of research, I spent many hours in the National
Archives in Pretoria and with the microfiche collection of the
University of South Africa. A number of passages in the play
are taken verbatim from the court records of psychiatric inter-
views with Tsafendas. I also learnt details of Tsafendas’ life in
prison from his dentist, Richard Hurwitz, and his guard Theo
Bosch. I consulted William Tanner’s play Tsafendas and met
with documentary filmmaker and director Liza Key, who was
extremely generous with material she had gathered for her ex-
cellent documentary A Question of Madness, which was
screened on SABC3 in 2000. Henk Van Woerden’s award-
winning biography Mouthful of Glass was also an invaluable
resource. Many thanks to Renos Nicos Spanoudes, who played
the part of Tsafendas, for his inspiring enthusiasm and moving
portrayal, as well as for his role—financial, psychological and
spiritual—in the production of the play. Thanks also to Jose
Domingos for his help in the development of the text.
This play is essentially an historical document, though I have
drawn on my imagination for events impossible to learn about
in detail. Though all the people referred to in the play are real,
I have changed a few names to protect the privacy of their
relatives.

7
 LIVING IN STRANGE LANDS
THE TESTIMONY OF DIMITRI TSAFENDAS
by Anton Robert Krueger

(It is 1966. DIMITRI TSAFENDAS is sitting in a prison cell,

shortly after his arrest for the assassination of Henrik Verwoerd. He
has been severely beaten, and is washing the blood off his face when
we see him for the first time. Morning light shines through the
prison bars. The ominous, low chanting of Tibetan monks introduces
the somber scene before fading out.)
TSAFENDAS. I’ve always been alone. I don’t belong to any groups.
I was a communist once, but that was mainly for company. I’m not
a communist anymore.
I’m alone.
(The sound of footsteps walking past the cell.)
I’ve really and truly been meeting a lot of very interesting people
since I’ve been here, I must say…ministers, majors, doctors…
it’s…it’s really been…quite something…a privilege. They’re a better
class of person…educated, I mean… I’ve only ever mixed
with…you know…the poorer classes…and it’s sometimes been dif-
ficult to communicate with them on account of my intelligence, you
know…but these people that I’ve met in here, I tell you what—since
I’ve been in prison I’ve only dealt with top quality!
It’s funny, though, nobody’s ever wanted to listen to me before. My
whole life people have always told me that I talk too much—“Why
you talking so much?” they say, “you always talking, talking, talk-
ing”—but now…now they want to know all sorts of details, very
personal things. I’ve had to think very carefully of every day in my
life…and for my reason for being where I’ve been. I must ex-
plain…and as I’ve started to explain, things have started to make
sense…and I’ve started seeing my life in terms of patterns…and the
pieces seem to fit together now. I can see now how my whole life
has been leading to this…this story.
Like most stories, mine starts with my mother, at the beginning…
This psychiatrist, Dr. Zabow, he seems particularly concerned about

9
10 Anton Robert Krueger

this situation with my mother… Everything starts with the

mother…and I would be only too happy to tell Dr. Zabow all about
my mother…only I don’t know the first thing about her. I some-
times tell people that my mother left home before I was born…
(Giggles.) …Ja…well, it was almost like that… You know, I’ve never
even seen a picture of her. I don’t know what she looks
like…there’s nothing…not even a picture…nothing I can hold in
my hand…nothing…
I once went looking for her grave, there in Lourenco Marques…just
so that I could see something of her, even if it was only a grave-
stone…just something…but…nobody could help me. Between you
and me, I don’t think anybody wanted to help me, no…probably
because, between you and me, she was a “mixed” woman, and
people can get a bit funny about that sort of thing. As if God doesn’t
know how to “mix” a woman properly. I mean, it mixed me up a
bit, I tell you what, the way people kept going on about it.
You see, my step-mother was Greek, so I first thought I was
Greek…but she hated me, that woman… I don’t know why…
Well…now that I think about it…maybe it was because Daddy was
sleeping with the maid… I don’t know…maybe I reminded her of
that, little…interaction…maybe that’s why she didn’t like me…
Shame—my poor mother…mana manoula… (“My mother, my dear-
est mother…”) When she got pregnant my mbaba (“daddy”) fired
her, as if it was her fault…and now nobody even knows where
she’s buried…shame…ah kaimeni manoula…o theos na se sin-
horesi opon k’an vriskese’… (“Oh poor mother—may God forgive your
soul, wherever you may be…”)
So anyway, I thought I was Greek, but one day I was over at Mrs.
Takalous’s house… I was at their house…and I tell you, when I was
young, I really loved music…so much…and I walked into the house
and I saw this guitar on the floor of their lounge…such a beautiful
instrument…gently shaped…like a woman, you know…lovely…
and I wanted to hold it… I felt drawn to it like a child drawn to its
mother… I wanted to put my arms around it and close my eyes and
just—but then I hear Mrs. Takalous screaming in my ear: “Leave it
alone! You just like that mulatto mother of yours! Stupid!” …What?
Mulatto? I didn’t understand. A mule?
 Living in Strange Lands 11

I had to wait a few more years before I found out what a mulatto
was. Ja, I must have been about thirteen or fourteen by then… I was
at school…and…and I didn’t have any friends, really… I wasn’t
good at the games the children played…silly games really…always
having to get this ball into that hole or throw this thing around
that… I didn’t have time for nonsense like that really, you
know…like I say I was more interested in music…and one time
they were going to have this concert at school and I was practising
for the audition during break-time… I was on my own in a class-
room and I started practising my singing and my dancing on my
own…
(He starts to sing tentatively.)
Varka sto gialo…Varka sto gialo… (“Boat in the moonlit harbour…”)
But pretty soon… I forgot about my shyness…and I started to enjoy
the sound of my voice…
(He sings a little bolder.)
Varka me zimbouli, ke vasiliko! (“Boat dancing, boat of celebration!”)
And while I was singing…some children who were walking past
heard me and they came in to listen…and…and they were smil-
ing…enjoying the music…which made me feel happy so I sang
even louder, and soon I was dancing and singing and they started
clapping…
(Greek dance music bursts out. DIMITRI starts clapping his hands,
singing and dancing about, as he is transported to childhood.)
Varka sto gialo! Varka sto gialo! Varka me zimbouli, ke vasiliko!
Everybody was looking at me… “Hey—look at Mimis!” they said
“look, look”… Ja, we were dancing and I was singing…and they
were clapping and we were laughing…
Varka sto gialo! Varka sto gialo!—and…but…then suddenly Benny
Cohen shouts:
(The music cuts suddenly.)
“Mimis is just a stinky coloured!”
And…then…then the other children laughed and ran away…
12 Anton Robert Krueger

…because I was just a coloured…

(Sadly, DIMITRI half distractedly sings a hymn between the lines
spoken.)
—’osi is hriston evaptisthite… (“Whosoever has been baptised in
Christ…”)
And…these boys started hitting me and kicking me…
—’osi is hriston evaptisthite, theon enethistathe… (“…will receive the
Lord our God…”)
…and…Benny was hitting me and…
—allilouia… (“hallelujah…”) he broke my nose, right here…ow…
There was a little girl there…and when they left me alone she said,
“don’t worry, they only doing that because they’re jealous of you”.
That was nice. She reminded me of Helen. It was good that she said
that, but it was still sore, here…my nose…
Funny—you know it’s the same place where the minister broke my
nose that day in parliament, after I…after…it happened…you know
when…
(He begins to demonstrate a vague stabbing gesture, and suddenly
cheers up.)
What a coincidence! To have your nose broken like that! Twice in
the same place! Almost like it means something, hey? You see—
there are patterns. To think that just a few months ago I was no-
body… I was a tramp selling trinkets…and now, now I’m getting
my nose broken by Ministers of Parliament! And talking to majors
and psychiatrists! Yes, they’re definitely a better class of people—
definitely, you can see it immediately.
(The sound of footsteps. A GUARD pushes a tin tea cup through a
grill which DIMITRI eagerly drinks from.)
Ag—Sis! (Expression of extreme revulsion.)
(He spits the mouthful out in disgust.)
Can you believe it? So, anyway, that’s how I found out I wasn’t
white. And that’s how I found out what white people thought
 Living in Strange Lands 13

about coloured people. And that’s when I found out that I would
probably never have any friends. Which I don’t.
I never ever did kiss a girl, you know…which is all I ever wanted to
do…just to kiss…maybe Helen…yes…I would have liked to kiss
Helen…just once…things might have been different.
(Footsteps.)
GUARD. Ligte Af! (“Lights out!”)
(Darkness. The GUARD enters and we hear a scuffle in the dark.
The GUARD empties a bucket of water over DIMITRI.)
GUARD. Stafendas! Kom hier jou onnosel doos! Kry jy nie skaam
nie? Kry jy nie skaam! Hey? Dis mos lekker in die tjookie, ne?
(“Stafendas! Come here you idiotic cunt! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?
Where’s your shame? Huh? You think we’re here for some fun? How’s
this for fun, you like it?”)
(DIMITRI cries out. When morning shines once more through the
prison bars he is wet and shivering, a blanket wrapped around him.)
TSAFENDAS. I didn’t want to sing anymore…after what hap-
pened… So I thought maybe I must learn to fight back…and I de-
cided then that I was going to be a boxer. I was only fourteen, but
every day, when I came home from school, I would train. I would
work hard, so that they couldn’t hurt me anymore, so that I could
fight back.
And I would have been the best…but…but ah—I got sick…you
see… I had this tape-worm in me which was making me thin. It was
eating all the food that I ate. I would eat and eat, but I would be just
as thin…sometimes at night when I was lying in my bed I could feel
this worm in my stomach…making me hungry…eating my food…
Then, this doctor gave me medicine and when I squatted down, it
came out—a long, thin worm, about two, three feet long—sis, it was
ugly…but I was so glad, I swear…and…and the doctor said we
must keep it to show him because he wanted to see if the head was
out…but…but…my stepmother didn’t want to…and she flushed it
away… and I screamed (In a child’s voice:) “No!”… because…
because…the doctor said we must keep it—he wants to see if the
14 Anton Robert Krueger

head is out!…but now it’s gone…we must keep it…now he won’t

know if we’ve got it…
And it was because of that…the head of that worm was not out…I
know it…it stayed in me…and when it couldn’t find anything to
eat…it would start eating me.
You know, it’s funny now remembering all these things I’d forgot -
ten over the course of my life…I never would have remembered
this if Dr. Zabow hadn’t been asking me question after question… It
really is very kind of him to make an effort like he does…you can
tell he’s really interested
(Chains crash and a severe interrogation light pins him before a huge
image of Doctor Zabow.)
Yes, Doctor Zabow, maybe it was because of the worm. No—the
worm never told me to do it, no…but still, you know…even if it
did, which it didn’t…then what’s to say there wasn’t a worm inside
the worm, telling the worm what to do? I mean, where do messages
start? Where does language begin? Does it start with you, Dr.
Zabow? Isn’t all language a kind of message…but from whom?
(The bright light goes off. He returns his attention to the audience.)
Ja—Dr. Zabow’s always looking at me intently, sitting on the edge
of his seat with his eyes wide…waiting to hear what I’m going to
say next…definitely a person of quality, you can tell.
This Major Rousseau has also been asking a lot of questions, but
between you and me, he doesn’t really care about my mother, or the
tape worm, or Mrs. Takalous. What he wants to know is all about
organizations and associations—what groups I belong to. And I
could tell that the poor man was very disappointed to learn that I’m
not anything. I mean, I’m not Anarchist, Communist, Liberal, Left-
wing or anything—I’m nothing. Like I say, I was once a communist
for a very short time, but I’m not anymore. Now I’m nothing.
Alone.
I don’t know why it is. Maybe there are a lot of reasons for it. For
one thing, I was always moving around, so I suppose I never stayed
in one place long enough to make friends and get to know people.
 Living in Strange Lands 15

I’m what you might call a “displaced” person…I went to ‘dis’

place…I went to ‘dat’ place… (Giggles.)
All over the world I travelled, always searching, restless, working
here and there when I could. Oh, I’ve seen this old world inside and
out, let me tell you what… I know what’s going on…but it wasn’t
long after I left that view of Table Mountain behind, as a young
man…it wasn’t long when it stopped being exciting, living this sort
of adventurous life…and, to be honest, actually…I only really
wanted to come home, most of all…that was all…to come back to
South Africa…to start a life here…maybe find somewhere nice to
live…buy a house, with a garden…maybe open up a shop, or
something…maybe get married…watch my children go through
school…watch Helen growing old beside me…and me growing
slowly old with her…just live…you know…I wanted to live…I
wanted to take life…
But…the South African government didn’t want to let me come
back. No. I tried over and over again. In every new country I got to
I would go to the embassy, again and again…in ’46, ’47, ’48—they
said no. ’50, ’59, ’62—forget it. It was probably because I joined that
bloody communist group in Cape Town, and they had my name
down, so I was really in exile, you know, an outcast…and…and I
got so tired…just trying to stay alive…finding work…
I got desperate. But isn’t it funny, how, when you get more desper-
ate, when you really need help, then people want less and less to do
with you? It’s crazy. Maybe when you get scared, your fear scares
them as well and they just want to get away from you. You’d think
it might be the other way around, that the more desperate you got
the more concerned they’d be, the more they’d see that you needed
help—but no—not the South African government, not people. You
know, it’s one thing when another person rejects you, but when a
whole country rejects you —that’s not nice.
Ja, anyway, I always wanted to get in, for so long. And now here I
am. Now I am well and truly in, no? Nou is ek diep in die kak!
(“Now I’m deep in the shit!”) …Now I can’t get out—it’s funny hey?
…I may be in here forever…that’s not so funny.
(Footsteps. The GUARD pushes another tin tea cup through a grill.)
16 Anton Robert Krueger

Ah—thank you.
(He takes a sip of tea, but again spits it out in disgust.)
Sis! Why must they do that? What have I done to him? I didn’t hurt
him. Did you see me hurt him? No. I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve
only ever wanted to do good.
I’ll give you an example—before I started working as a messenger
in the houses of Parliament, I worked on a diamond ship there on
the coast…and often at night I would stand up on the deck, feeling
the salt sea in my face…hearing the breaking of the waves and the
wind howling…and I would imagine… I would think of what it
must have been like…to be Wolraad Woltemade…out in that terri-
ble storm, in that blistering wind… I would imagine all those peo-
ple stuck in the shipwreck, and how he came riding through the
waves on his horse…ah…he had a big, strong horse, yes…through
the treacherous water to rescue the people from the storm… I
would see myself on a big, strong horse—saving those souls from
the sea.
(The sound of a storm has gradually been building. DIMITRI jumps
on the bed, rocking it around as if it’s a storm-tossed ship. He reaches
out to save people on all sides as he relives the experience.)
“Here. Hold on! Take my hand, my friend. Don’t drown! I’ll get you
out. Hold on to my horse. Here. Hold on! Hold onto my horse! I’ll
save you! We can live. I’ll save you! Come on!”
(As the wind subsides, he sinks to a sitting posture, legs folded in
under him. There is a long, awkward silence before he returns from
his reverie.)
(Mutters:) One of the sailors on the diamond dredging ship saw me
and…and…after that the boss called me in and said…he said I
couldn’t work there anymore…but…I was only playing…
I was very upset…especially because of a stupid job like that.
Something anyone can do. I always ended up with these stupid,
menial jobs my whole life, like being a waiter or clerk; boiler-maker
or salesman…never something proper…like teaching. I can speak
many languages, you know…many, many…I can’t even tell you
how many! Probably about twelve languages! Seriously! Did you
 Living in Strange Lands 17

know that? And I could easily teach languages…or I could also

teach from the Bible…and I did sometimes teach from the
Bible…only…only people didn’t really notice…sometimes they
would just ask me to go away…without even a please and a thank
you, you know… I only wanted to explain…the truth… Ja…these
words (He pages through the Bible) I would have been dead long ago
if it wasn’t for religion… Yes…this Bible…these passages have a
personally deep meaning for me. They mean something which
doesn’t mean probably anything to other people, which other
people just call a lot of rubbish. It enlightens me…it puts me in the
same situation…
You know, I thought maybe if I could be a teacher, or…a hero…or
something, like Wolraad Woltemade…if I could do something to
help…then maybe people would stop worrying about…about the
other things. I mean…you don’t get people being bothered because
of the colour of Jesus’ skin, because…I mean—he wasn’t really
white, was he? But he’s a hero, you know… Yes…I think those
Semitic people are a bit more dark skinned, aren’t they?…a bit like
the Mediterraneans, yes?…a bit like me…
But if you’re not a hero, if you’re nobody—just a wanderer wan-
dering, then people make much of your race, your colour. The trou-
ble with me is, I’ve got something of everything, but not a lot of
anything in me. I’ve got some German, Greek, Changaan, Portu-
guese, and I don’t know what else, in me, you know. So I’ve some-
times looked like a different race in a different part of my life in dif-
ferent parts of the world—which has made things…very strange.
And also…the trouble with that sort of arrangement, is that now
neither the whites nor the blacks want anything to do with
me…because now I’m not in their group…I’m not one of “their
people”, you know. It’s this bloody group nonsense. Why must it
always be about the group? Why? What does it matter?
(The interrogation light goes on. A clash of chains and now he sits
before Major Rousseau.)
Yes, Major…quite a few people have asked me about how I got to
Cape Town…and I gave quite a few versions…but…my memory
went a bit bad as to how I got to Cape Town and one of the influ-
encing factors was…a group…the Church of Christ… I received a
18 Anton Robert Krueger

letter through someone in my church, through a person in my

church, through one of the people, a pastor. I mean, through some-
one… It was not posted to him, it was brought, it had…it had no
stamp on it. It was brought to him… I wanted to come to Cape
Town for many reasons, you see…there were reasons…not bad rea-
sons, but…but this letter was a reason…and it was because of this
letter the pastor received in the mail that— Oh, there’s a mistake
there. Excuse me, I’m sorry.
GUARD. Ligte Af!
(The interrogation light goes off.)
TSAFENDAS. No—it wasn’t the worm which told me to murder
the prime minister…and it wasn’t a group either…it was a different
sort of voice altogether. The voice of reason…the voice of sci-
ence…of evolution.
(He strikes a match and lights a candle.)
You see—Dr. Henrik Verwoerd was forever going on about purity,
you know, and how things must stay the same. How one shouldn’t
mix races. But you know what? You can’t have evolution if you’re
too pure. You must have new blood for things to change… I mean,
purity is like incest, isn’t it? It makes you weak, sick, deformed.
And I’ve known this for a long time. One time I was in Mozam-
bique in 1964, trying to get into South Africa from that side…there
was a time there when I was feeling very positive about the
future… I was in this bar…and…and then…I don’t know why I did
it, but suddenly, I felt all funny, like light in the head…and…and I
understood something…it all became clear to me…and I stood up
there on the table…just there in the bar and I started speaking to the
people…and I said:
(He stands on the table and begins his speech at top volume.)
I said, “One day a time will come… One day all of this will end…”
GUARD. Hey, wat gaan aan daar binne? Bly stil Stafendas! (“Hey,
what’s happening in there? Shut up Stafendas!”)
TSAFENDAS. We are Africans!
GUARD. Hou nou fokken op om te praat! (“I said shut the fuck up!”)
 Living in Strange Lands 19

TSAFENDAS. (Slightly more timid:) We’ll have a flag with a rain-

bow on it.
GUARD. As jy nie NOU ophou nie, dan kom maak ek jou ophou!!
Here God! (“If you don’t stop that shit right now, I’m coming in there
and, so help me, I’ll make you stop! Jesus Christ!”)
(Extremely afraid, and yet resolute, DIMITRI continues speaking in
an urgent whisper.)
TSAFENDAS. I said “That rainbow represents the many colours of
our nation”, yes I said that to them…I did…and I showed those
blacks my hair and I said, “Look at these curls my friends, that’s
why the whites don’t want me… That’s why they won’t have me
near them… But one day there will be a mixing of all the
races…white, black, yellow, pink, brown, everybody…the answer is
in coming together, not staying apart…we must all fall into bed to-
gether…we must all inter-breed, we must all conceive a new race to
which we all belong!…It is the only way forward! To integrate! To
become one race! To mix our flesh and blood so that one day every-
body will be Bastards! Yes! Everybody! That’s evolution!
That was a good day! I was feeling free. And I wanted to set those
people free. But there were people there who didn’t like what I said.
And they slammed their glasses down and, I swear, they wanted to
have at me… I had to run. They also reported it to the police. But I
didn’t care, because it was the truth.
(He blows out the flame. The Tibetans chant in the darkness, before a
dim dawn light arises.)
Ja—this question of being whatever colour I’m supposed to be. This
has really caused problems in my life. Because, like I say, first I was
classified coloured, because of my manoula, and then later I got to
be classified white, because of my schooling in the Transvaal. And
this would have been fine, I mean, ideally I always wanted to be
blonde. But then something happened which changed everything.
Helen happened. She was so beautiful…Helen Daniels.
(The daylight gradually grows stronger throughout his story about
Helen.)
20 Anton Robert Krueger

Just before I met her, it seemed that finally things were changing. I
was finally allowed back into South Africa, I don’t know if they
made a mistake or what happened, because I applied at the
embassy and for some reason the person there didn’t check the
black-list (or the half-coloured list) and I actually got in—it was an
accident! And I came back.
How glad I was to see Table Mountain again, after all those years
away. I felt that things were finally about to change. I got work as a
clerk in Durban, and I found a group who I could talk to about the
Bible. They were called the Church of Christ…perhaps the first in-
visible crowd I belonged to—Christians. And it was through them
that I started writing to a young woman in Cape Town, a young
woman called Helen Daniels… Ja…we started writing to each
other…long letters we used to write…first every few weeks, then
every few days, then every day…we had so much to say to each
other… It felt like for the first time in my life I had someone I could
explain things to…somebody who I could tell about all the things
going on in my mind…and about my feelings…and I was always so
happy to hear from her…and I was always so happy to read her
flowery sweet-scented handwriting…you know how you can al-
ways tell a girl’s handwriting? Beautiful!… I was middle-aged by
then, but I felt like a new world was opening up to me… I felt like a
young man… I felt full of courage…like I could do anything!
And then one day…after I prayed about it…I decided to propose to
her. Yes—can you believe it? In a letter, I asked her to marry me… I
wrote that letter so many times… I had to get it just right…but
finally I posted it…and I was so nervous, I can tell you… It felt like I
could hardly breathe while I waited for her answer… I could hardly
pay attention to anything else… I was living in…kind of…like, a
haze…like I couldn’t feel myself… I was walking lightly… I felt as
if I was floating in thin air…as if I was not quite always walking
solidly on the floor…and then…finally…finally the post arrived
and there was a stamp with Table Mountain on it…a long brown
envelope from Cape Town for me… I was so nervous…my hands
trembling as I opened it…inside…I recognised the smell of her
letters—soft, delicate…and there…written in her lovely, soft hand-
writing was only one word…yes. Yes!
 Living in Strange Lands 21

I was so happy! I could hardly believe it was true! Helen was going
to marry me! I quit my job at once, packed my bags, and left for
Cape Town, where I was going to live with the Daniels family
before the wedding. You see, I had never actually met Helen in per-
son…only our minds had met, our language, our feelings…and
now, full of anticipation I arrived there with everything I had in the
world squeezed into two old suitcases and a few brown boxes tied
up with string…having said goodbye to my life in Durban I arrived
full of confidence at Cape Town Station as arranged…and I stood
on the platform…and I waited.
(Pause.)
But the day grew long. First, I thought, they must have just got
stuck somewhere, or missed the bus, but then the sun set and now
it was getting dark. I had nowhere to stay in Cape
Town…because…because it was all arranged…it had all been
worked out…so where could they be? Why weren’t they here…my
new family? And then I started to get scared… And it was getting
cold… The moon rose.
(Pause.)
But, you know, you won’t believe me… You know what happened?
They didn’t forget me…no… It was just that…they were waiting for
me on a different platform…because, believe it or not, Helen
Daniels…was a coloured…just like my mother!
Can you believe it? When we were writing letters to each other we
had never discussed what we were…you know…we had never
thought it mattered to mention that we might be quadroons or
poltroons or a little bit mixed up, you know…because I’ll tell you
something strange… You see, when I was a little boy I’d looked a
lot like a coloured, but now that I was an adult I looked Greek, and
you wouldn’t really have been able to say that I was of mixed
blood, you know…don’t ask me how it works but that’s what hap-
pened…so when I was older I had been reclassified as white…and
for some reason I thought that Helen Daniels was also white…
So you can understand my surprise to discover that the Daniels
family were thoroughly coloured…and when the Daniels family
finally found me by accident at the Whites Only waiting area, I
22 Anton Robert Krueger

could see that they were a bit surprised too…but they were still
friendly to me and they still took me home with them. On the way I
very quickly explained to them that I used to be coloured.
Of course, there was now no question of me, with a white identity,
being able to marry Helen. But I said to them that it was no prob-
lem. You see, I’d changed before from a coloured classification to a
white registration, so I could just change back again. It was just a
matter of paperwork, really. And I went as soon as possible to the
department of Home Affairs to have a talk with them there about
my situation.
While I was waiting for my appointment at the department of
Home Affairs, I was sitting outside in the waiting room, on these
government plastic chairs, wiping the dust off the plants there,
when I suddenly thought—why? I thought, “Why must I now get a
book which says black or white or coloured or whatever? Can’t I
just have an open identity?”
This sounded like a very reasonable solution to me, so when it was
my turn, I explained it as clearly as I could to the gentleman there in
the department of Home Affairs, this business of an ‘open identity’,
and how I would really prefer not to be classified as this or that, as
one or the other, you know.
He was a funny, short man with big glasses, sitting behind a plastic
desk there in the Department of Home Affairs. And after I had fin-
ished explaining, he looked at me very intently for a long time, al-
most like Dr. Zabow, sitting on the edge of his chair, his eyes
wide… And he looked at me at me very very closely…like he was
scrutinising my face for some sort of madness, or something… And
then he takes off his glasses…he stands up…and now…now he
really looks at me.
He starts tapping his head like this…with his finger…like this…and
he says, “You want to cause problems?” he says…and I say, “No
sir, certainly not sir”…and I explain to him that to get a good job I
want to stay white, but to marry the woman I love I must be
coloured, so he can understand my situation, I thought.
Then this little government man in the Department of Home Af-
fairs, he puts his glasses back on, and he sits down again behind his
 Living in Strange Lands 23

plastic desk and he says…nothing… He doesn’t say a word. He

starts working on some papers lying there on his desk…shuffling,
signing and filing… Very strange… I feel a bit funny. I stand there
for a very long time, just standing there, but he carries on doing
what he’s doing and saying nothing…after I stand there in 5, 10,
maybe 15 minutes of silence, there seems nothing more to be done,
so I decide to leave… Just before I get to the door I hear him behind
my back, from where he sits, and he says, “Nou hoekom wil jy met
’n meid naai, in elk geval?” (“Now why would anyone want to fuck a
maid, anyway?”)
And I couldn’t move. I couldn’t turn around. I couldn’t say any-
thing. My throat was stuck. I couldn’t breathe. I fled down the
stairs. I ran. All the time, in my head these images… I kept thinking
about my mother, and…and how she had to clean my father’s
house out everyday—wash his socks, sweep his floor…and how
maybe she loved him, and thought maybe he loved her, but when I
was born he just threw her away…and…and now she doesn’t even
have a grave. No place to rest. And I thought of Helen. And the
wind dried my tears as I ran.
When I told the Daniels family about what happened, Mr. Daniels
sighed a deep sigh and said, well, maybe I should also find another
place to live, because it was illegal for me to continue living under
his roof. They could all get into trouble.
So what must I do? There’s nothing to do. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t
complain, couldn’t do anything…just leave quietly…one grey
Thursday morning. And, you know, I never saw her again…my one
love…my one hope.
And…you know…the one thing I regret more than anything is that
I never even kissed her… If only I could have kissed her… Just
once.
And now…now I really started to get upset. Maybe none of this
would have been necessary…and…maybe I could have even, you
know, have been happy, or living somewhere…free…
because…freedom…you know…to be free…you can’t have these
restrictions…this ID book nonsense…it’s not right…no…it can’t
be…that you can’t kiss…
24 Anton Robert Krueger

Maybe things would have been better with a different government.

Maybe everything would have been different. I must admit that,
from the start I never liked this Dr. Verwoerd, on account of his
being a foreigner and all—why can’t we get a South African to run
the country?
(Footsteps. The GUARD pushes tea through the grill. DIMITRI
takes a wary sniff of the tin tea cup, but doesn’t drink.)
Hello—guard! Hello! Please…can I please have some proper
tea?…please?
GUARD. Wat? Dink jy dis n fokken hotel hier’ie? (“Christ! You think
this is a fuckin’ hotel?”)
TSAFENDAS. Ek’s jammer…nee…ek het dit nie bedoel nie…
(Briefly aside to the audience:) Ek weet dis nie ’n hotel nie, anders sou
daar te minste skoon linnegoed gewees het. (“I’m sorry…no…I didn’t
mean that… I know it’s not a hotel, otherwise there’d at least have been
some clean linen.”)
GUARD. Wat was dit! (“What was that!”)
TSAFENDAS. Niks! (“Nothing!”) No nothing…sorry… Actually,
you know, I don’t blame him for being cross. He’s stuck in here just
as much as I am. He also has to stare at the wall all day. It would
drive anyone crazy.
(GUARD pushes some nasty looking gruel through onto stage.)
GUARD. Room Service!
(DIMITRI takes up the food and commences gobbling at a breakneck
pace.)
TSAFENDAS. I’m hungry…and the worm is hungry too. Remem-
ber the head of the worm…which I’ve never been able to get out?
Which I’ve tried so many times to shit out, but which has stayed in
me all these years, since I was a boy? Sometimes…this worm has
caused…such…a heavy heart…in me…when I was really hungry,
and I was often hungry…the worm became angry…because now
the worm was hungry too, and it would make my stomach go into
spasms so bad I had to go to hospital for the distress…many
times…when I was cast out…when I couldn’t find work…there…
 Living in Strange Lands 25

when I was in Germany…when I couldn’t find a country…the

worm would writhe…and slide…
Although it caused me terrible suffering…if I didn’t have the worm
I’d probably only be living for myself…I would not know what the
rest of the world was like…what other people thought…their diffi-
culties…so maybe it made me…turned me into…I don’t know…I
mean…somebody good…because…it even says there in the
Bible…“I am a worm, Oh Lord…I am a worm”…and despite all
this, I was able to do…something necessary…even though…even
though I…I regret it…though, I think sometimes…I’m sorry…
(He comes to the very brink of tears, but then regains his composure.)
When the world is ugly it makes me angry…and scared…and when
I feel…there’s nowhere to go…then it’s difficult to be sensi-
ble…when things are not what you think…and you hope so much
in what you think is true and real and sure, but then…it
changes…then the family asks you to leave…to pack your bags…so
often, I’ve been living in strange lands…even here…South Africa…
it’s been like another country…I feel like a stranger…everywhere—
(In a sudden burst of anger he throws the tin plate to the floor. But
his rage passes as quickly as his despair returns.)
Sometimes the ugliness closes in…sometimes it surrounds me and
creeps inside of me…this loneliness which won’t let go…it seeps in
my pores…it pours into my mouth like the night…my ears are open
to it…a silence like a sickness… I can feel the loneliness settle in my
stomach…where it becomes bellyache…and I want to shit it
out…get rid of it!…ugliness…everything…smells…bad…I want to
push it away…push it away…throw it away…this hor-
ror…horror…always, that…inside, at the edges of the inside…but it
comes back…and…the loneliness hardens like a scab on me…like a
shell… and then…when people talk…I can’t hear them… they seem
so far away… and I have to keep talking… just to hear…
something…walking…moving…have to keep on moving…
There was never any love at home. No. When I was little, my step-
mother tried to take away my masculine qualities. She got her
brother, my uncle…to…he raped me over the table.
26 Anton Robert Krueger

(The interrogation light goes on. This time he faces the audience. An
eerie electronic noise, like the writhing of a worm, is heard.)
Sometimes…I don’t feel myself at all…I can’t feel my body…I don’t
feel myself…I am walking…I just don’t feel myself… There are
times when I…more or less feel…my body…but there are periods
when I don’t feel myself… I feel I am walking lightly… I feel as if
I’m floating in thin air…
(The interrogation light goes off.)
You know…I’m so…tired all the time…and…so… I’m so unsure of
many things…like…I don’t if that really happened… I don’t know
where to go next… When this little business is over…I doubt I’ll
live in Cape Town again…no…and if they ever offer me a job in the
houses of Parliament again…I don’t think I would accept it…no. I
don’t find the people in Cape Town very friendly.
After what happened…with Helen…I was still living in Cape
Town… Yes…well…I got work in the houses of Parliament. I was
living now in a boarding house and I started developing these
spasms in my stomach because of not eating and also the unhappi-
ness… I was living alone in this boarding house…in a room…
And I would be sitting alone in my room…nobody ever knocked on
my door…no letters were pushed onto my floor…no telephone calls
for me…because nobody knew me…nobody knew I was
there…nobody knew I was alive… I lived all alone, in my pain, in
my room…and some days, for the whole day, I wouldn’t be able to
move… I would just sit there…paralyzed…afraid…
(Pause.)
And then…then I woke up one morning…and I saw this beam of
sunlight streaming through the window… I saw this clear ray of
light warm on the linen with a million, tiny, shining specks of dust
moving through it…like all the worlds in the universe, there in this
sunshine…and something became clear to me and I found that my
fear was gone.
And suddenly…I knew what I had to do… Everything became very
clear… And I realized that I was suffering because of my mother,
and because of Helen…and because of me, because a paper said we
 Living in Strange Lands 27

were different… And I realized where that came from, that piece of
paper, that identity… It didn’t come from God…no… It came from
one man who had called us by name, who had told us who we
were…who had decreed that we would have forever written in our
identity books, that we belonged to this group or to that
group…this invisible crowd. We were named by Dr. Henrik
Frensch Verwoerd.
And I realized that if this man continued splitting people up, if he
kept on separating identities…then soon there would be no more
unity in the world. Every group, every pair, everyone, would
eventually, by the force of this action, be split apart into separate
identities. And these single entities would then strike other groups,
other unities…and in a chain reaction cause them also to split
apart… What would happen would be like an explosion…like an
atomic reaction affecting the entire world…and I realized that this
was evil…because there must be a coming together…there must be
unity…there must be groups—families, friends, countries, people
together…I realized that it is not right for man to live alone…
Now I am not a violent person. In my whole life I have never raised
my hand towards man or beast. Though I have been beaten many
times, with fist and foot and blade—I’ve never even fought back.
I’ve never lifted a hand. I’ve never handled a knife before. But what
I realized, was that there was no other way to stop this man, this
man who kept dividing up the people—he was too strong. And I
knew then what I must do. It called for sacrifice. There was no other
way. Like Wolraad Woltemade, who saved all the people he could
before the waves closed in over his head. Like Jesus. This was what
I must do.
(The Tibetans again begin their lowdown chanting, at first very
faintly, but gradually gaining intensity, until they’re so loud they
almost drown out his voice when he relives the actual killing.)
Things became clear, I was okay… I knew what I must do, I lost all
fear…because there was nothing to be afraid of… It was clear that I
must stop this man who sought to separate the words of the world
into a million tiny little fragments until there was nothing left but
millions of particles of dust floating in the air.
28 Anton Robert Krueger

So I got together all the money I had in the world and I immediately
began to move…my fear was gone…and I opened my door and I
walked out all the way into town… I walked straight into the city of
Cape Town and I waited patiently there for the shops to open, be-
cause I could not wait a minute more… But when the shops opened
they refused to sell me a gun, on account of I needed a permit…but
this news did nothing to shake my resolve and so I bought two
daggers instead… I needed two just to be sure…one from Raw-
bone’s and the other from City Guns in Cape Town…and I put
these daggers here under my shirt, and I went back to the houses of
Parliament, where I was employed as a messenger…and that
morning I had a very important message to deliver…a message for
Dr. Henrik Frensch Verwoerd…from Dimitri Tsafendas.
(The Tibetan cymbals crash and the femur trumpets howl.)
When I got back to Parliament the bells had already started ringing
for the afternoon session…the bells started ringing to call the people
back in…and I can remember the bells were still ringing when I
followed him in…the messengers aren’t really allowed into the
chamber, but I walked right in…focused…calm…it was time to
talk…to deliver…it was now… I walked in bold and began to fol-
low him to his seat and I reached for the knife as I walked…it was
now…but then the dagger became stuck…there was this lock or a
click, but I couldn’t stop to think…it must be now…and I’m strug-
gling with the blade as I’m walking, walking…following the prime
minister and people have started staring as I’m struggling while
he’s sitting…and the seconds keep on passing like the slow turn of
an ox wagon wheel while still I’m walking…and at last—I pull the
dagger out! And I push down behind the blade… I go Down!
Down! Down! In the Neck. Shoulder. Lungs. Heart… Bastard!
Where’s that Bastard! Why’d you have to take her away from me!
(Blackout. A stark close-up of the murdered prime minister is pro-
jected onto the cyclorama.)
GUARD. Ligte Af!
(Blackout.)
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