The Life and Times of Esther Cronje , livre ebook

The Life and Times of Esther Cronjé
Cyril Fox
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-02-28
The Life and Times of Esther Cronjé The Life and Times of Esther Cronjé Copyright Information © Introduction Chapter 1 Kuruman, 21st March, 1957 Chapter 2 The Photograph Chapter 3 Bakerville Days Chapter 4 Alexandersfontein From a Letter to Hanna, Circa 1950 Chapter 5 Hurry from Hell Chapter 6 Visagie’s Good Fortune Chapter 7 The Widows’ Benevolent Society Chapter 8 The Princess of Wegdraai Chapter 9 Our Lady of the Brandberg Chapter 10 Revelations
Cover design by Nadia Blanco
nadiachloeblanco@hotmail.com
Copyright Information ©
Cyril Fox (2020)
The right of Cyril Fox 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 unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528939461 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528969949 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
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‘The past is another land, unreachable in its distance, and what can be recovered of it, what can be held of it, you carry with you.’
(’ Die verlede is ‘n ander land, onbereikbaar in sy verte, en wat daaruit herwin kan word, wat daaruit behoud kan word, dra jy met jou saam.’)
Karel Schoeman (1939–2017)
Introduction
After the passing of my aunt, Esther Cronjé, in 1959, just a week before her 88 th birthday, I collated her letters (mostly written to me in the fifties) as well as what remained of her journals and diaries going back to 1901, and resolved to publish this material as a record, not only of her interesting and varied life but also as an epitaph to the South Africa which existed in the first half of the 20 th century. Included with her personal papers were a handful of picture postcards, several of which I’ve chosen to illustrate in this book.
A surprising discovery for me, of which I had no inkling at all, was that Esther was a proficient speaker and writer of French. I can only speculate that her parents, both of Huguenot descent, tried through Esther to perpetuate their heritage by teaching their daughter French. This was entirely uncharacteristic, as history informs us that the South Africans of Huguenot descent made little attempt to cling to their French culture.
The first six decades of the 20 th century was a simpler and harsher time, but nonetheless, a time not without honour and goodwill; an era often ignored today in the clamour of racial and political tensions in my country.
My aunt, or Tannie Esther as I called her, loved to write both long detailed letters and journals, and this love of writing captured for posterity some of the more significant events of her full but humble life, as well as something of the soul and essence of the South African nation, especially the tensions which once existed between Afrikaners and their British masters.
This collection of sketches (which does not pretend to be a complete biography) takes us on a journey – sometimes arduous and painful, sometimes openhearted and humorous – from the savagery of the Anglo-Boer War to the isolation of a mining camp without running water at a near-forgotten place called Lohatla, somewhere in the camelthorn wilderness of the southern Kalahari.
I have taken it upon myself to change some of the names of the people in these chronicles in order to protect their families and friends; for example, Bezuidenhout was not the actual name of the Boer traitor who had a secret meeting with the enemy in Basutoland.
The chronicle opens on 12 th April 1901, when the pregnant Esther Cronjé and her little boy, Piet, are forcibly removed by British forces from their farm in the Warrenton District of the Northern Cape and taken to Warrenton Station for transportation to the Kimberley Camp, just one of more than some dozens of such concentration camps operated in South Africa by the British invaders during the Anglo-Boer War. While at Warrenton Station, Esther meets and has herself photographed in the company of Miss Emily Hobhouse, the well-connected English activist for the rights of Afrikaner women and children (Emily Hobhouse was so respected by the Afrikaner women of South Africa that they took up a collection for her some years after the war and raised enough money to buy her a house in St Ives, Cornwall).
From the Anglo-Boer War, Esther moves on to Alexandersfontein to Johannesburg, back to Warrenton, then to Bakerville and Lichtenburg in the Western Transvaal and finally, to Lohatla, a place without a church, a public bar or a general store, yet, according to Esther, ‘A place which had a certain ugliness which works its way into your soul.’
Esther’s story takes us to faraway places and times, to events coloured with a palette of drama, love, loss, laughter and good humour. Her personal criss-cross trek of the diamond fields of South Africa and her time in Johannesburg during the Great War are recounted here through a series of vignettes, both poignant and personal. Just when we think we know everything about this honest and resilient Afrikaner woman, we discover new dimensions to her character, ranging from her distaste for the British Empire, to her deep dismay with men who desert their families to go to war and, not least, to her unwavering love and open-handedness for those who share her journey.
I am greatly indebted to Miss Zilla Zevin of Lichtenburg for allowing me to read Tannie Esther’s letters, written to her sporadically over thirty years, and for clarifying several historical points. I would also like to thank Sergeant Gustav Maritz of the South African police for his perspective on the chapter, Our Lady of the Brandberg. In compiling these chapters, I have travelled far and wide in search of verification and context, from buzzing Loveday Street in Johannesburg to the eerie wasteland of Bakerville, once the diamond capital of the world.
To the men of Lohatla Manganese, men as strong and gritty as the manganese they extract from the sands of the Kalahari, thank you for your limitless help with the verification of detail. Sadly, Mr Jim Botha, by all accounts a large man in a large country, and my cousin (and Esther’s son), Piet Cronjé, both left this world in 1958, the year before Esther’s passing, with the result that I was unable to solicit their help in compiling this book.
Finally, I would like to thank Dr Magda van der Stel, Esther’s daughter and now a lecturer in veterinary science at Onderstepoort, Pretoria, for her insight and endless encouragement.
Johanna (Hanna) Bosman
Kakamas – December, 1963
Chapter 1

Kuruman, 21st March, 1957
‘Lohatla? It’s not really a place. Just a mine and a mining camp out there in the unwilling country, on the road to nowhere.’
The postmaster looked enquiringly at the elegant woman across the counter at the Kuruman post office. Such elegance couldn’t pass unnoticed in this dusty and sweat-stained town.
‘Only half a handful of people live there, Miss…’
‘Van der Stel, sir… Magda van der Stel.’
‘May I ask who you’re looking for, Miss Van der Stel?’ he asked, his inquisitiveness urging his tongue. ‘I know the names of everyone at Lohatla. Every week for the past thirty years, their mail has been picked up here from this post office by the water contractor.’
‘Sir, I’m looking for my mother. I’m trying to find Mrs Esther Cronjé.’
Chapter 2

The Photograph
It was a Friday.
12 th April, 1901.
Danie was away with De la Rey. Somewhere in the Transvaal.
I can’t forget that it was Friday because I had loaded the cart with vegetables to deliver to Venter, the produce agent in Warrenton. The blue and bloodless fingers of the autumn air were still drawing figures on the pane of the morning when our dogs went berserk barking in the yard. Then followed the unmistakeable clackity-clack of numerous hooves on the hard earth. A group of half a dozen uniformed men rode onto our property and there was no mistaking those ridiculous tunics with their shiny brass buttons. British troops. No doubt coming to mind our business.
I waited for them at the door, little Piet at my side. He was just three years old. In my belly was Piet’s little brother or sister, just starting to grow; the bump not yet obvious.
Our dogs backed off from the approaching horsemen and the detachment halted half a dozen yards from where I stood. For a moment, there was a loaded silence. Then the leader of the pack spoke.
‘Is your husband here?’ he asked, not bothering with the courtesy of a greeting. He was a big man with a big voice and the biggest moustache I’d ever seen. And very little manners.
‘No,’ I answered, trying to show no alarm.
‘Would I be correct, missus, in saying that your husband is away with the Boer forces?’
Carefully I replied, ‘I am not entirely sure where Danie is –’
‘Never mind! Spare me any lies. I am here to tell you that you have half an hour to gather some necessities. Then you and the boy are coming with us. Do I make myself clear?’
Somewhere I found the courage to say, ‘What if we refuse? We have work to do here.’
‘Missus, if you are foolish enough to disobey a lawful order, we may have to shoot you for insurrection – starting with the boy.’ I had no idea if the threat was real, but I did know that I was really afraid. Mostly afraid for Piet, and that was enough.
I located a couple of cleanish potato sacks and rushed to stuff some clothing into them. From the top of the wardrobe, I removed a carved wooden box contai