A Change of Heart
‘Crossroads’ was one of South Africa’s miserable shantytowns on the outskirts of Cape Town. It was also under the flight path of Cape Town’s international airport and unfortunately for the government it was quite visible by visiting journalists. So Crossroads would be the scene of many bloody riots as the authorities tried to relocate the blacks to another township.
In 1989 black Africans in Crossroads would watch, with a mixture of indifference and amazement, as one tall, well-built white Boer mixed among them, trying in his own way to alleviate their wretchedness. If this sounds familiar of the odd modern missionary hailing from the oppressor’s side, the story of Stoffel van den Berg was certainly not familiar. It was extraordinary.
Stoffel’s ancestors had emigrated from Holland in the eighteenth century and he had never travelled abroad in his life. He grew up accustomed to having black servants who were there to carry out his slightest whims. No one is born with prejudice in their hearts although some are introduced to it at an early stage and this was certainly true of Stoffel. He sincerely believed in his prejudice against the black Africans. At his first primary school this unthinking prejudice was simply reinforced, with classes full of white children being taught only by white teachers. The few blacks he saw cleaned the lavatories that they were not allowed to use themselves.
Stoffel proved to be above average in the classroom and by his final year of school this six-foot-two Boer was a superb, outstanding cricketer. There was talk of his joining the national elites – the Springboks. His cricket career rocketed and he soon captained the team of the university he attended.
Upon graduating, he was recruited by Barclays Bank; it was made clear to him at the interview that his first priority was to ensure that Barclays won the Inter-Bank Cricket Cup. Springboks informed him that he was being considered for the national South African team. So he followed the matches in England with keen interest but eventually this country’s team never played in South Africa for colour prejudice reasons. Stoffel was utterly disappointed but maintained his firm belief in apartheid. Outspoken, he got himself heard publicly.
‘I do not understand why the Government does not hang Mandela and his cronies!’
By the time he was thirty and married, the white National Party had spotted him as a prospective candidate for the coming general elections. He accepted the offer and jumped on the bandwagon of political campaigns and meetings, his racial prejudice peaking to an all time high.
On a Friday 18thAugust 1989, he was late for a meeting and drove at full speed along a road which fortunately was familiar to him. But he misjudged his timing when overtaking a lorry and smashed head-on into an oncoming vehicle. His car bounced violently across the road and ended up in a clump of trees. That was the last thing he remembered.
Stoffel regained consciousness six weeks later to find his wife, Inga standing at his bedside. When she saw his eyes open, she grasped his hand and then rushed out of the room to call for a doctor.
The next time he woke they were both standing by his bedside, but it was another week before the surgeon was able to tell him what had happened following the crash.
Stoffel listened in horrified silence when he learned that the other driver had died of head injuries soon after arriving at the hospital.
'You're lucky to be alive,' was all Inga said.
'You certainly are,' said the surgeon, 'because only moments after the other driver died, your heart also stopped beating. It was just your luck that a suitable donor was in the next operating theatre.'
'Not the driver of the other car ?' said Stoffel.
The surgeon nodded.
'But … wasn't he black ?' asked Stoffel in disbelief.
'Yes, he was,' confirmed the surgeon. 'And it may come as a surprise to you, Mr Van den Berg, that your body doesn't realise that. Just be thankful that his wife agreed to the transplant. If I recall her words,' he paused 'she said, "I can't see the point in both of them dying." Thanks to her, we were able to save your life, Mr Van den Berg.'
He hesitated, then said quietly, 'but I am sorry to have to tell you that your other internal injuries were so severe that despite the success of the heart transplant, the prognosis is not at all good.'
Stoffel didn't speak for some time, but eventually asked, 'How long do I have?'
'Three, possibly four years,' replied the surgeon. 'But only if you take it easy.'
Stoffel fell into a deep sleep.
It was another six weeks before Stoffel left the hospital, and even then Inga insisted on a long period of convalescence. Several friends came to visit him at home, including Martinus de Jong, who assured him that his job at the bank would be waiting for him just as soon as he had fully recovered.
'I shall not be returning to the bank,' Stoffel said quietly. 'You will be receiving my resignation in the next few days.'
'But why ?' asked de Jong 'I can assure you … '
Stoffel waved his hand. 'It's kind of you Martinus, but I have other plans.'
His first move was to go and thank the dead driver’s wife in Crossroads. The blacks watched the tall-fair haired man sullenly as he walked among the shacks.
He finally met the widowed wife.
She refused all the help he tendered.
‘Perhaps you and your child would like to come and live with us.’
‘No thank you master.’
‘I have been blind,’ he told his wife as she drove him back home.
‘Me too, but what can we do about it?’
‘I know what I must do.’ His wife listened to the plan of his short life ahead.
The next morning Stoffel called in at the bank, and with the help of Martinus de Jong worked out how much he could afford to spend over the next three years.
'Have you told Inga that you want to cash in your life insurance ?'
'It was her idea, ' said Stoffel.
'How do you intend to spend the money ?'
'I'll start by buying some second-hand books, old rugby balls and cricket bats.'
'We could help by doubling the amount you have to spend,' suggested the General Manager.
'How ?' asked Stoffel.
'By using the surplus we have in the sports fund.'
'But that's restricted to whites.'
'And you're white', said the General manager.
Martinus was silent for some time before he added. 'Don't imagine that you're the only person whose eyes have been opened by this tragedy. And you are far better placed to … ' he hesitated.
'To …? ' repeated Stoffel.
'Make others more prejudiced than yourself, aware of their past mistakes.'
And so it was that Stoffel returned to Crossroads. He walked around the township for hours before he settled on a piece of land surrounded by tin shacks and tents.
Although it wasn't flat, or the perfect shape or size, he began to pace out a pitch while hundreds of young children stood staring at him.
The following day some of those children helped him paint the touchlines and put out the corner flags.
For four years, one month and eleven days, Stoffel Van den Berg travelled to Crossroads every morning, where he would teach English to the children in what passed for a school.
In the afternoons, he taught the same children the skills of rugby or cricket, according to the season. In the evenings, he would roam the streets trying to persuade teenagers that they shouldn't form gangs, commit crime or have anything to do with drugs.
Stoffel died four years, one month and eleven days after 18 August 1989.
The funeral of the ‘Cross Road convert’ was attended by over 2000 mourners who had travelled from all over the country to pay their respects. The journalists were unable to agree whether there had been more blacks or more whites in the congregation.
* * *
A story based on true incidents?
'A Change of Heart' in To Cut a Long Story Short, Jeffrey ARCHER, 2000
Thanks to Tim Grimsley for sharing this story with me
