Sometimes a miracle takes longer

Bennie Puterman, Johannesburg

Coming towards us, there must have been an impi of several thousand men waving spears, assegais and knives, coming closer, in battle array. At the bus stop three police vans were waiting to take the Indians to safety. However, there was one elderly man with a crippled leg, with his bicycle. He was in a quandary whether to leave his bicycle and get into the police van. They were petrified of the Zulus.

I was watching speechless to act. Eventually I went up to the crippled Indian man and said I would look after his bicycle. He didn’t know me from a bar of soap and said goodbye to his bicycle. He was helped into the police van and they drove off, as the Zulus were within striking distance of us.

I went home with the bicycle, with no information about the owner. He could not believe that a white boy would go to all the trouble to bring back to him his lost bicycle when I traced him the next day.

About 10 years later, about seven o’clock in the evening, six madrichim were taking a long walk, from our bayit, to the North Beach. A curfew was still being enforced because of apartheid.

We walked past the seedy part of Durban central and never met a soul. Around a corner we were confronted by a chanting band of young black people. We were quickly surrounded by them. The leader of the band came up to us and said: “Take me to your leader.” We quickly nominated a leader and he walked to their leader.

Near to where we were walking was the Bantu Recreational Hall. The young men were having a choral festival with various choirs taking part. They were looking for a group of independent judges who would adjudicate them fairly.

We followed them to the hall, which was filled to capacity. Our six madrichim were treated like royalty and given places of honour. It was a wonderful evening and I really felt it wa yet an other example of a miracle happening to us.