A Beautiful Family Read online

  She walked thoughtfully back to her desk. Maybe there was nothing there. But then why had Yair said what he had about his father? Where was he? Time to do some serious research into Mr Alan Silverman and his precious family.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tracy googled “Alan Silverman”, sorted the references into date order and started trawling. The first articles she found were from around the mid to late 1990s. He had obviously employed a good PR person. Most of the early articles were about the imminent listing of Silver Properties. It was touted as the hottest new investment since sliced bread. Silver Properties seemed to be involved in all kinds of developments – residential, commercial and industrial – all over the country. A lot in Gauteng. She was bored. She had no idea what she was looking for, but this wasn’t it. She ploughed on. A headline caught her eye: “Silverman Nominated”. At last, some background on the man himself.

  SILVERMAN NOMINATED

  Silver Properties founder and CEO, Alan Silverman (38), has been nominated for the 1999 Jewish Businessman of the Year Award.

  Silverman, who spent nearly 16 years in exile after refusing to serve in the South African Defence Force, founded Silver Properties in 1995. The company took the local property market by storm, revolutionising the way in which residential, commercial and industrial developments are planned and financed. Silver Properties is to be listed on the main board of the JSE later this year.

  Bloody hell. It was a vacuous piece of PR puff that said absolutely nothing and didn’t tell her anything new.

  She carried on searching. It seemed the Silver Properties listing was a huge success – vastly oversubscribed and the share price rocketed, making the Silvermans rich. Tell her something she didn’t know. Ah, there was an article about the Jewish Businessman of the Year Award. She clicked on the link: Alan Silverman was listed as one of the nominees. He hadn’t won. Shame. She’d thought he had. She hoped Mafuta wouldn’t find out that she’d got that fact wrong in her stories.

  She found several photographs of Alan at functions and events – usually a group picture of him with some ANC luminaries. That skinny white ANC MP, Annette Davies-Smedley, was in quite a lot of them. Brenda Silverman was in a few of them too.

  Tracy zoomed in and examined the couple closely. He really was a good-looking dude. Even in the early poor quality black and white newspaper shots, he looked good… Brenda also wasn’t bad. In fact, she was very cute, with her long, dark curly hair and gorgeous figure. A good-looking couple. No wonder their kids were so gorgeous, especially Yair. From the way they were dressed, they couldn’t have been ultra frum back then. She scrolled down the page. Silver Properties this, Silver Properties that…

  The headline jumped out at her. “Alan Silverman Wins Jewish Businessman of the Year Award”. An article in the Jewish Voice, November 2010. So he had finally got it. Good for him. She examined the accompanying photograph closely. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt and a yarmulke, but he still looked really handsome. Brenda looked a bit frumpy in a black and white, high-necked, long-sleeved jacket; her hair was short and straight, in a sort of reddish colour. Obviously a sheitel. When exactly had the Silvermans become so religious that Brenda had to hide her curls under a wig? And that was a very young Aviva with them. No, it couldn’t be. Avi and Yair would have been about twenty-one in 2010, the same as her. She checked the caption. It wasn’t Aviva; it was Zivah Silverman, who must have been sixteen at the time. She looked about ten. In fact – Tracy searched back to the earlier photos of Brenda Silverman – Zivah was a little carbon copy of her mother, except she was much fairer, and she was also bloody pretty. You couldn’t tell that she was – what was the PC word again? – intellectually challenged. If she remembered correctly, Zivah had been in the remedial class at school. Still, it wasn’t fair how some kids got all their parents’ good genes in the looks department, while she’d inherited only the worst.

  There didn’t seem to be much else on dear Mr Alan Silverman, apart from Silver Property financial reports – the company was obviously doing very well. Hang on, what was that?

  She clicked on a headline “Silverman Insults Palestinians”. It was an October 2011 story from the Muslim Mirror.

  SILVERMAN INSULTS PALESTINIANS

  Jewish property tycoon Alan Silverman snubbed a high-level Palestinian delegation at a function organised by the Support Free Palestine organisation in Sandton last night.

  This was after his wife, Brenda Silverman, grabbed the microphone and unleashed a torrent of invective and curses after a man who had just asked guest speaker, former Minister Ronnie Kasrils, a question from the floor.

  Silverman and his wife then stormed out of the function, which was attended by high profile members of the ANC, Cosatu and the South African Communist Party.

  After the event, the Support Free Palestine committee issued a statement condemning Mr Silverman’s actions.

  A Cosatu spokesman said it was clear Silverman no longer supported the policies of the tripartite alliance.

  ‘It’s always sad when a struggle veteran loses his way like Alan Silverman has done,’ he added.

  Wow. That was hard to believe. Quiet, petite little Brenda Silverman cursing and spitting invective in public? Now she was getting somewhere. She changed her search to “Brenda Silverman 2011” and up came the same story, plus one from the Jewish Voice. The large dailies, like the Daily Express, had clearly ignored the story. The Jewish Voice’s story was a lot longer.

  BRENDA SILVERMAN TAKES ON HOLOCAUST DENIER

  A Holocaust denier at a Support Free Palestine function held in Sandton last week got a lot more than he bargained for when Brenda Silverman, wife of property mogul Alan Silverman, took him to task.

  A freelance journalist who was at the function, which was held to raise funds for the “oppressed Palestinians”, has provided Jewish Voice with a recording and an account of the incident.

  During question time, a member of the audience stated that Israel had been created on a lie. The speaker claimed that the “so-called Holocaust” never happened.

  He said that there was documented proof that there weren’t anywhere near six million Jews in Europe before the Second World War. He said the Holocaust was a giant propaganda exercise dreamed up by the Americans to suppress the Arabs and punish Germany.

  Mrs Silverman then raised her hand and was handed a roving microphone. This is what she said:

  ‘Do you know what the number 46664 is? That’s Madiba’s prison number. Do you know what the number 1643729 is? No? It’s a number I saw every day, growing up. It was printed in blue on my mother’s left forearm.’

  The recording indicates that members of the audience started hissing at her, but she carried on, raising her voice to be heard above the noise.

  ‘My mother survived Birkenau. For those of you who don’t know, that was one of the Nazi death camps. Her little sister, my aunt, didn’t. She was sent to the gas chambers when she got too sick to work. She was 16 years old.

  ‘You say the Holocaust is a lie. If it is, then where is my aunt? Where is the rest of my mother’s family? My mother was one of eight children. What happened to my aunts and uncles and my grandparents? Why did my mother have a number tattooed on her arm?’

  The Jewish Voice understands that the microphone was then snatched out of Mrs Silverman’s hand and she was instructed to sit down and be quiet. She left the room with her husband.

  After the uproar died down, the master of ceremonies apologised to the “guests of honour” – a visiting Palestinian delegation – as well as to the Holocaust denier for Mrs Silverman’s “unacceptable behaviour”. He added that, in future, people “like them” would not be admitted to Support Free Palestine events.

  It’s understood the Silvermans were invited to the function by a prominent member of the ANC.

  When asked why he and his wife had attended, Mr Silverman told Jewish Voice, ‘I have an open mind. I wanted to hear what the Palestinian delegation had to say. Like many Je
ws, I yearn for peace in Israel.’

  He added, ‘My wife was understandably upset by the denial of the Holocaust and she challenged it, as was her right in a country that believes in free speech.’

  The ANC declined to comment.

  Tracy printed the articles and took them to Kingmaker.

  ‘So that’s why,’ he said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Why Alan Silverman has fallen out of favour with the powers that be. He’s become too much of an embarrassment. The ANC loves Jewish money, as long as it’s quiet and not too Jewish, if you catch my drift.’

  She made herself comfortable on Kingmaker’s desk. She knew that look in his eye. He was going to give her a lecture. He always did. His lectures always sounded plausible, but she knew that most of the time he was only speculating. However, she had to admit that, in the short time she’d known him, a lot of his speculation had turned out to be spot on.

  ‘Alan has obviously become too Jewish and too noisy,’ Kingmaker said. ‘Jews like Ronnie Kasrils – the cheerleaders of the Israel bashing brigade – they’re tolerated. They’re useful. Whoever invited our friend Alan to the event was probably hoping he could take over from Kasrils. I mean, Ronnie boy isn’t exactly ideal for his deployed role as ANC spokesman for the Jewish community, now is he? Especially as the Jewish community loathes him. Alan, on the other hand, flaunts his religion, so he would be absolutely perfect to use as the new pro-Palestinian poster boy. But poor Brenda put a spoke in that wheel. And embarrassed the ANC – and Cosatu – in front of their foreign guests. Bad move. Bad, bad move.’

  ‘That couldn’t be the only reason the ANC has cut him out.’

  ‘Agreed. But it can’t have helped his cause with them,’ Kingmaker said.

  ‘Do you think it had anything to do with her death?’

  ‘Who knows? We’ll find out at the inquest. Maybe.’

  Her heart sank. She knew there was something more to this story. There had to be. However, so far, she’d come up with a big fat nothing.

  ‘Why don’t you contact Annette Davies-Smedley?’ Kingmaker asked. ‘She seems – or seemed – awfully cosy with our Mr Silverman. She probably knows a lot about him, and Brenda. They’re in enough pics together. And she was at the funeral.’ Kingmaker scrolled through his contact list and copied down a number. ‘Here.’ He gave her the scrap. ‘I used her in a story I did last year, on overcrowding in the jails or something. She’s quite outspoken about that, especially for an ANC MP. Call her.’

  Tracy hurried back to her desk and dialled.

  A woman answered and identified herself as Annette Davies-Smedley.

  ‘Afternoon, Ms Smedley. Tracy Jacobs here from the Daily Express. I’m working on a story about Brenda Silverman and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.’

  Tracy held her breath. The silence reverberated down the telephone line. Then she was told, ‘I’m very sorry about Brenda Silverman’s passing. I knew her, a long time ago. But I hadn’t seen her for years, so I don’t think I could help you in any way. I extend my sincere condolences to Mr Silverman and the family.’ The phone went dead.

  PART 2

  ANNETTE

  CHAPTER 1

  London, 1985

  Annette fingered the brown envelope suspiciously. It was addressed to her.

  Miss Annette Davies,

  c/o WOAH/Anti Apartheid Movement,

  Charlotte Street,

  London

  There was no return address. The post mark said Sydney, Australia. She didn’t recognise the handwriting and she didn’t know anyone in Australia.

  ‘You sure this has been checked?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. You know all our mail is checked,’ Aunt Sally said.

  Annette reached for the letter opener and slit the envelope at the bottom, just like the security men had shown them. If it was a bomb, the explosives would be at the top flap. Usually. She held her breath and exhaled with a wry laugh when nothing happened. Clearly the apartheid government’s dirty tricks department had decided she wasn’t worth the effort of a nasty little surprise. Still. One could never be too careful. The “Remember Ruth First” poster on the wall was testimony to that.

  Another envelope and a piece of paper fell out. She read the note on the paper.

  Dear Annette.

  You don’t know me, but I met your friend on my travels. He asked me to post this letter to you from my home in Australia “for security reasons”. I don’t know what that means and he didn’t tell me. I hope this reaches you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Roger

  She stared hard at the handwriting on the smaller, white envelope. Her heart thumped in her head. After all these years.

  She ripped the envelop open and pulled out the letter inside. There was no address, but, turning to the last page, her eyes sought the signature at the bottom. “Rockspider”. She grinned. Only he knew her pet name for him. She started reading.

  Dear Annette.

  ‘Who’s it from, dear?’ Aunt Sally asked.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope it’s not bad news. You’ve gone as white as a sheet, dear.’

  ‘I don’t know what it says. I haven’t read it yet,’ Annette snapped, and retreated to the small back room, flopping down onto the threadbare brown sofa to decipher his illegible scrawl undisturbed.

  She felt immediate remorse. Aunt Sally was a nagging pain sometimes, but she meant well. She’d apologise to her after she’d found out what he wanted.

  Dear Annette.

  I hope you get this.

  Typical. Why write that? If it didn’t reach her, she wouldn’t be reading it, now would she?

  She forced herself to focus. Her heart returned to her chest.

  Dear Annette.

  I hope you get this. After you left South Africa, I completed my honours, but they wouldn’t give me any more deferment and, when my call-up papers arrived, I just couldn’t go. It seems you had a bigger influence on me than either of us suspected, so I managed to get out of the country just before I had to report to Voortrekkerhoogte. My father told me the military police came looking for me soon after I left, but I don’t know what’s happened since. I haven’t been in contact with my folks for about three years now because they say that I’m a coward, so I stopped phoning them and I’ve been hanging around overseas. Anyway, things have happened and I have to leave where I’ve been living for the last few years and I will be coming to England. I plan to travel by ferry from Belgium and I expect to arrive in Dover sometime in early July. When I have a better idea, I’ll try to drop you a line or send a telegram or something.

  I know it seems a hellava cheek asking you for help – but I’m asking. Sorry, but there’s no one else I trust enough to ask. I remember you once said that your aunt was with this group and that they were connected in some way to the Anti Apartheid Movement? Do you think they would be able to get me refugee status in England? Based on the fact that, if I go back to SA, I’ll be court martialled as a deserter and, as my pa was at great pains to tell me, deserters get shot. Well, maybe they do and maybe they don’t, but whichever way you look at it, all that’s waiting for me in apartheid land is a jail cell for a long, long time.

  I look forward to seeing you soon. I’ve thought about you a lot over the years. Have you thought about me?

  Much love,

  Rockspider.

  After all these years. He’d been thinking of her. Had she thought about him? Did it rain in London? He was all that had kept her sane – in solitary confinement and here. For months after she had first made it to England, she’d played their relationship over and over in her mind. Why had she been such a frigid fool to keep him at arm’s length? He’d told her often enough that he wanted more from her than friendship. That one night when they had made love had been amazing – she hadn’t been as drunk as she’d pretended. Now she only thought of him about once a day, maybe only every second day in a good week. She’d even learned t
o keep him out of her bed when Charles stayed over. Well, most of the time.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ Aunt Sally’s voice floated anxiously through the closed door.

  Plastering a smile on her face, she walked back into the front office.

  ‘Good news, Aunt Sal. Sorry I snapped. It’s from an old varsity friend. He’s been on the run from the military police for the last few years and he’s heading for England.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Annette. Does he need our assistance? What can I do? Give me his name and I’ll get right on to the Home Office. When is he arriving? Does he have any accommodation? Should…?’

  She hugged Aunt Sally. ‘You are an amazing lady. Just amazing. There’s no ways PW and the apartheid government can last much longer with you on our side. His name is Alan Silverman.’

  ‘Old boyfriend, is he? What’s Charles going to say?’

  ‘Old friend, just a friend. Look, I think I have a photograph of him somewhere.’

  She paged through the pocket photograph album she kept in her bag. There were photos of her parents – Mom, looking remarkably like her older sister, her little brother, and her beloved Labradors, both long dead. She knew exactly where to find the photograph of Alan. The one she’d taken that magical day at a braai at someone’s house. She couldn’t remember whose. He was wearing old jeans and no shirt; his shoulder-length reddish blond hair was ruffled by the breeze. He was smiling at her with his perfect white teeth, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners.