rivoniaunmasked

There was Lionel (Rusty) Bernstein, a Johannesburg architect, sandy-haired, quiet and mildmannered;
but van Wyk knew that this slightly-built, inoffensive-looking man was in effect a fanatical
Communist who had to report to the police every day. Van Wyk knew Bernstein of old: a year or two
previously he had detained both him and his wife under the emergency regulations then in operation.
Bernstein was one of the men whom Kennedy had arrested in the thatched cottage. The other two
were a Bantu, Raymond Mhlaba, who was a stranger to van Wyk, and Bob Hepple, whom he knew
well by sight. Hepple was a prominent Johannesburg lawyer, and van Wyk had often encountered him
in the courts.
Hepple subsequently chose to turn State witness. He himself typed a statement to the police in
which he admitted to being a member of the Communist Party, but added that he had tried more than
once to detach himself from it. 'But once you have joined the Communist Party, your associates make
it impossible for you to break away. I know, because I have tried, not once but many times.'
Glancing over the group of detainees, van Wyk picked out another old acquaintance in the person
of a tall Bantu named Govan Mbeki. Mbeki was a journalist by profession and had formerly been on
the staff of New Age, the organ of the African National Congress in Port Elizabeth. Van Wyk recalled
that in those days Mbeki had always been very well dressed. Now, however, he was wearing a cap and
grimy overalls and looked like an ordinary farm labourer. He had aged considerably since he had last
seen him and his hair was grizzled.
Some eighteen months previously this Mbeki had been charged, along with two others, Joseph Jack
and Harold Strachan, with a contravention of the law on explosives, but had been acquitted. Van Wyk
remembered the case well, because he had been a witness at the trial.
Beside Mbeki stood a tall man with a mop of red hair. Van Wyk could not remember ever having
seen him before. "Who is that red-haired fellow?" he asked.
Catching the detective's eye on him, the man smiled; and in the same instant van Wyk recognised
him. That smile was unmistakable!
"Good heavens! Kathrada!"
Kathrada laughed aloud. "Yes, sir!" he said cockily. "How d'you like my coat?" He indicated his
absurdly long jacket which flapped about his knees.
Kathrada, who had been active in politics since the age of eleven, (at this time he was 45), was a
past master in the art of disguise. On this occasion he had completely changed his appearance by
letting his hair grow longer and dyeing it red. A heavy moustache and a pair of dark glasses completed
his disguise. This accounted for van Wyk's not having recognised him sooner, although he and
Kathrada were old acquaintances.
Now they had met again– in circumstances which Kathrada, alias Pereira, would have some
difficulty in explaining away.
But Bernstein, Hepple, Mbeki, and even Kathrada, were comparatively small fry beside another
man in the group– a somewhat undersized, light-skinned Bantu with a thick thatch of pitch-black hair
and a small Hitler moustache. Van Wyk's heart gave a bound when he realised who this was. Hearing
footsteps behind him, he half turned round, to see Mr Dirker coming round the corner of the house and
towards the group of persons in the yard.
"Mr Dirker! Conic and see whom we have here!"
Dirker, a powerful, rather stout man weighing in the vicinity of 240 Ibs, jogged himself into a trot.
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