Chapter 11 - The Second Date

The date set for the second escape attempt was the 21st of April 1979, a date we had calculated as one when Sergeant Vermeulen would be back on duty after his holiday. This was the date which Denis had conveyed by code to his contact. Our request for a car and driver were the minimum requirements. Our suggestion was that the driver should wear a yellow shirt so as to be easily recognisable in case it was not possible to park the getaway vehicle directly in front of the prison.

No reply arrived by the April date and so without confirmation of outside help there was no choice but to cancel the attempt. A deep gloom set in. Those of us who were in more of a hurry to get out were annoyed in a way that we had agreed to wait for assistance. By doing so we were in effect keeping ourselves in prison. We believed that we were in a position to let ourselves out and had now placed ourselves at the mercy of unknown people outside with whom we had no direct contact.

A letter eventually arrived about ten days after the cancelled attempt explaining that we'd given insufficient time and details for assistance to be arranged. A general meeting of the escape group was called and it was decided that the onus on choosing a date should be passed to those giving the assistance. Another letter should be written explaining that we were prepared to wait until all the necessary arrangements had been made and that all we wanted to know was in which month the attempt should be made. To simplify matters we would take as the date of our first attempt the first Sunday of the month of the choice of the assistance group (a change from our earlier choice of a Saturday). If for any reason, ours or theirs, it was not possible to make it on the first Sunday, we would do it on the second Sunday, and so on. In addition, we should let them know that the escape group had expanded to eight persons but that the previous arrangements remained the same, that is, the minimum requirements and the person with the yellow shirt.

Another letter was sent. Each letter stirred Alex's, Steve's and my further impatience. It took two months from the time a letter was sent off till we received a reply. It was now May - nine months after the first key had been made and three months since we had first considered ourselves ready to leave. The reply would only arrive in July and even then our helpers might not be ready. We felt somehow that we had relinquished to others the initiative of what we'd started. We believed that every step taken should be towards bringing forward our day of departure, not delaying it.

Our impatience to get out was prompted by a number of factors. After April it begins to get cold in Pretoria, and Transvaal winters can be bitterly cold. The approach of the cold season worried us because our civilian clothing was unsuitable for winter use. Our money too was becoming outdated because it was then ten months since the new currency had been introduced. Each passing day also increased the chances of our cache being discovered.

The decision to change the day of escape from a Saturday to a Sunday was another of those decisions which revealed the differences between the participants in the escape group. From an early stage everyone was of the opinion that it would be better to make a break over a weekend rather than during the week because lockup on Saturdays and Sundays at 3.30 p.m. was an hour earlier than on weekdays, but the dog was placed in the yard at the same time - about 5 p.m. This would give us more time to put our contingency plan into operation should it be necessary. Also, on weekdays awaiting-trial prisoners were brought to the prison at about 6 p.m., which meant that we would only have about an hour before the escape was discovered; at weekends no awaiting-trial prisoners were brought in because the courts only operated during the week. We would thus have about five hours before the escape was discovered. This was reduced to three or four hours on some weekends when a particular duty-bound officer would inspect the prison at about seven or eight in the evening.

The basis of our differences regarding Saturday or Sunday departure revolved around this occasional inspection. It had been noticed that if the officer inspected on the Saturday he would inspect again at the same time on the Sunday. Those who favoured a Sunday argued that if the officer came to inspect the prison before 11 p.m. on the Saturday then we would not go on the Sunday but postpone it to the next weekend.

Alex, Steve and I felt that the officer was irrelevant to our plans because he never carried out his inspection before 7 p.m., several hours after the planned time of breakout. A Saturday departure would give us the advantage that the authorities would not be able to get our pictures in the papers the next day. (The Sunday papers were all printed on Saturdays and it would thus not be before the Monday that our pictures appeared, by which time we would be far away. TV did not count because it only operated for five hours in the evening at that time.) We also reasoned that there would be fewer warders around on a Saturday night should there be a general alert and callup. By Sunday night most of those who had been away for the weekend would have returned. A final reason we put forward was that petrol stations were closed on Sundays at that time, due to rationing, but open until 6 p.m. on Saturdays. This meant that we would still have time to refuel the warder's car if it was necessary. Later this argument fell away as petrol stations closed even earlier.

These were the arguments which we had originally put forward for a Saturday departure and they had been accepted when the group consisted of only five participants. It was one of the new participants who considered the Sunday option to be the better alternative and after intense discussion it was Sunday that won the day.

Towards the end of May one of the comrades was taken to hospital for a minor operation and for a week or two after had to be taken daily to Central Prison for a bath. On one of his trips he spoke to an accompanying warder who claimed to work on gate duty in the street outside the prison. When the comrade asked him what time he came on duty the warder told him that gate duty started at three thirty in the afternoon. On hearing this the comrade immediately announced his withdrawal from the escape project. Some of the others were influenced by what he had been told but the rest did not accept it. No one had ever seen a guard on duty outside the prison at that time of the day and we could clearly hear the gate squeaking and its chains rattling only after six in the evening.

A short while later another comrade announced his withdrawal. He had not lost interest in escaping and would reconsider joining again if it could be shown that the chances of success were greater than they then appeared to be. He asked to kept informed of all developments. We were disappointed at these withdrawals because they meant the loss of valuable participants. They meant that we would have to subject our plans as they then stood to a radical redrafting.

As the two comrades' task had been to assist in overcoming and restraining the night-warder we were forced to think of other ways of doing this. It was not an easy problem to solve because jumping him meant in practice stopping him from using the walkie-talkie he wore on his belt, restraining him and tying him up. The only replacement we could think of for the comrades in this task was the 'pea'. It would, we hoped, be sufficient inducement to persuade the warder to 'co-operate' without the need to use physical coercion. But if his walkie-talkie was fitted with a panic button which he could press to send out a distress signal, the 'pea' would make a very inadequate replacement.

The plan after we'd removed or disabled the walkie-talkie and restrained the warder was to move him either to the 'cage' between doors six and seven where we could handcuff him to a grille, or 'encourage' him to drive us out of the prison complex in his car. A bit farfetched? Perhaps, but who would have stopped a warder in uniform driving around the area with a group of respectable-looking passengers?

There was one major shortcoming with this plan: if we could not get through door six and were forced to put our contingency plan of going through the visiting-room into operation, it would be extremely difficult to get the warder outside to chauffeur us away. This observation made us realise that it was no longer good enough to rely on the hope that one of our keys would open six or that we would find its key in the prison - we had to be absolutely certain that we could open it.

The logical train of thoughts generated by this realisation led us to the conclusion that we had to find a way of testing door six. It seemed a total impossibility. The administration area was sacred, totally out of bounds. Our thinking would not even allow us to visualise ourselves walking through that area, let alone fiddling with or testing the locks. But necessity is the mother of invention they say. For days we strained our brains to bursting point and finally realised that it was just our prejudices that were preventing us from getting any further. The area beyond door four was not inviolable: there had to be a way of getting in there to do what needed to be done.

Separately and on the same night, both Alex and I thought of a plan to get to door six. It was really quite simple. If we came out of our cells shortly before 8 p.m. and hid in the dining-room while the warder was doing his inspection round at eight, we could come out of the dining-room, go through door four and down the passage, open five and test six. Then we could dash back to the dining-room and wait for the warder to return to his office before we returned to our cells.

After arriving at this plan it was only a matter of time before we realised that if we could somehow get to door six before 8 p.m. we could pass through it and test all the doors down the passage on the way to the front door and return to our cells at eight. We could do this right under the warder's nose as door six was a solid door which would obscure us from his view. Not only that, the actual escape could be made without the need to accost the warder at all, allowing us to choose a time of departure that would maximise the time before the escape was discovered.

So ultimately the withdrawal of these comrades gave impetus to the most profound changes in the escape plan. In the same way that it helped us overcome our fears about going down to the administrative section to test six, it allowed us to overcome the idea of having to confront the night-warder to get beyond him. The benefits were enormous and gave the plan for the first time an air of realism. No longer did we need to resort to measures which were more in place in storybooks than in reality.

The plan that emerged out of all this was not complicated, but the way we'd arrived at it reminded us that we could never have dreamt it up before we had the technical ability to carry it out, as some of the comrades had wanted us to do when the first preparations for escaping were being made.

No letter confirming that help had been arranged arrived during May and June. Alex, Steve and I became increasingly frustrated by the delay and realised that the longer we put it off the more problems we would have to face. The problems were not long in coming.

On the 20th of June I was taken to hospital for a minor nasal operation. As I was climbing into the prison ambulance outside the front door I noticed some building activity in the street. I did not give it much thought because it looked as if they were digging up the road to repair a broken drainpipe or sewer. Denis happened to be taken out two days later and noticed that the building activity was not going downwards but upwards: a new sentry post was in the process of being built, right outside the front door of our prison in the middle of the street. Several of the others were taken out at this time so we were able to monitor the progress of the new post. Even worse, they reported, the gate in the street was being moved about 20 metres closer to the front door, placing it about 15 metres from the post-in-the-making.

It was clear that the post was going to be a sophisticated one. It was being constructed almost entirely of glass and was to consist of two sections or rooms. We guessed that it would probably also be equipped with phones and sirens. On either side of it were being erected heavy booms that would be remotely operated from inside the post.

Alex, especially, became worried about this development for it seemed logical to conclude that the post was being equipped for a guard to be on duty 24 hours a day. We couldn't help thinking that our jailers knew all about our escape plans and were quietly going ahead with measures to make the prison escape-proof. Alex began to agitate that we had to make the break then, before the post was completed, because it would be our last chance. A meeting of the escape group was called and after much debate approval was given for the three of us to go if we wanted to.

The others were still waiting for word from the contact. Alex, Steve and I discussed the matter between ourselves and decided that we would make an attempt one night during the 8 p.m. inspection round. The plan was based on the scheme we'd just arrived at but it combined elements of the previous plan because we were not certain if we could get through door six. We would move downstairs shortly before eight, hide in the dining-room, and while the warder was upstairs switching off the lights in the stokkies' section we would attempt to make our way through doors four, five and six. If we got past six with our own resources we would have all night to work our way through doors seven, nine and ten. Door eight would have been opened by pressing the button in the warder's office before going through five and six. If we could not get six open we would wait in the warder's office for him to return. Then we would threaten him with the 'pea', tie him up and take his keys if he had any. If he had no keys we would attempt to get into the visiting-room and through it as we'd planned earlier.

We realised that we would have to contend with a guard on duty at the gates in the street, but since the gates even in their new position were a short distance from the front door it would still be possible to exit without being seen. The plan was to use the 'pea' to force the sentry into the prison where we could tie him to a grille.

In the end I decided the scheme was far too risky and refused to participate in it. It was the product of panic, not reason. It would be too risky for the three of us alone to tackle the night-warder, the door six barrier had not been breached and the situation outside the front door was too large an unknown. I could not allow a plan which had been so long in the making to be hinged on the hope that the 'pea' alone would ensure our freedom. What if the warders were not convinced?

Without unanimity the plan was scrapped.

*****

After the great burst of key-making activity in the early months of 1979, the period which followed until the next major phase of the escape was a period of reduced activity on the escape front. The activity did not stop, it just slowed down. We continued to prepare clothing, discuss options and details and work out new plans. The absence of overt preparations led to a general reduction in tensions and an improvement in relations all round.

The activities of the previous period had affected everyone, even those not participating. They were understandably growing weary of the constant fiddling with locks, hiding of gear and talk of escaping. There had been no letup, resulting in an atmosphere of tension settling over the prison. And because everything was so secretive it made prison life very unsettling.

Those who were less determined to get out had tolerated our activities despite the disruption it had caused. But they were not the worst to suffer. Our own merciless drive to get out rebounded on ourselves. Alex's task of generating enthusiasm, of persuading the comrades that we should all participate and that it was possible to get out was far more onerous than my one of making the keys. Clearly it affected him because he would often complain of sleepless nights and regularly walk on his own up and down the court with clenched jaw, furrowed brow and looking down at his feet. Stephen shared Alex's task. Regular visits to the medicine man exposed his response to it all.

I welcomed the few months of calm as a period of recovery for my nerves, which were beginning to show signs of the strain. I'd never 'settled in' to prison life in the sense of finding some form of non-escape-related activity to which I could devote my attention and which would help me to relax. I'd given everything to getting out, not to making life more bearable inside. Taking an interest in something else helped me understand the unsettling effect of the escape project on some of the others. It was quite easy to become absorbed in something like reading, drawing, music or studying a subject in detail if you had nothing else to do. It also became easier to see how much intellectual and emotional investment could get tied up with such activity and how destabilising it was when it was threatened.

There were many things to do and contemplate if you were not planning and preparing an escape. Prison life was not all work, frantic pacing up and down the yard and lockup. It had its lighter side too. There was sport, books to read, letters to write, visitors to see, and many other things. I would not like to give the impression that life was pleasant and that prison was fun, but to avoid insanity you had to find distractions to take your mind off your immediate predicament.

Each prisoner found solace in different things. I took up drawing, an old interest but one which real life had never provided me with enough time to pursue. I was not allowed to buy my own pencils and paper because I was not 'studying', but to get around this I got Denis to order the equipment for his course work so that he could pass it on to me. There was nothing to inspire artistry so I took to copying pictures from magazines and memories of better times. Drawing was very therapeutic and it helped me overcome the boredom of the long evenings and take my mind off the details of the escape. So many ideas and plans had been rushing through the recesses of my brain for so long that it was not easy to stem their momentum.

The warders did not mind me drawing, even though it was not strictly permitted. A huge portrait of Robin I'd copied from a photograph stood proudly atop my cupboard for a long time; a picture of Karl Marx I drew for Stephen - his 'grandfather' he told them - remained pinned to the inside of his cupboard for months. But when they found a picture I'd drawn of a guerilla with AK-47 and all, they drew the line. All my pencils and drawing books were confiscated and I was put on the carpet. I tried to argue that there was nothing wrong with the picture as it was only a drawing and not a real guerilla. But they were not convinced and threatened the most dire punishments if I drew anything more.

For a month or two I drew no more and took to reading instead. But a budding artist's urges can't be suppressed so I got Denis to order some more equipment and I carried on as before. The only difference was that I had to return the paper and pencils to his cell each morning and dispose of my works of art down the toilet before open-up.

Stephen took to writing poetry and prose, like drawing, also tolerated 'illegal' activities. The authorities believed that unauthorised writing was by definition subversive; in any case he had no cause to write anything apart from letters as he was not allowed to 'study'. Denis was a serious reader and writer but his studies took up most of his time. Tony was totally absorbed by his philosophy course and Dave K spent his time reading trash. Jeremy, Raymond and Dave R, involved themselves in deep 'extra-curricular' studies. Jeremy was also a keen poet and produced some stunningly inspirational poems, considering the bleak environment in which he had to write them. Johnny was a reader but preferred more upmarket titles than Dave K. Alex was the dreamer. He would lie for hours on his bed looking up at the ceiling and dream of freedom. Before Steve and I arrived and introduced the theme of escaping he would smoke himself to death while mulling over his predicament. He gave up that foul habit, thank goodness, when getting out gave his life more meaning.

Books were an essential part of our lives as nothing else removed our minds from our pickle as effectively as they did. But we had a problem - the supply of good books. Each prisoner was brought three per week from the prison's library at Central - meaning there were thirty to choose from - but most were rubbish and ignored by all except Dave K. He claimed to read over three hundred books a year, which is no great feat if you're locked up from 4 p.m. to seven in the morning.

To meet our insatiable demand the warder in charge of library books tried to institute a system whereby we could order what we really wanted from the main Pretoria City Library. This never really worked as there was no system of connecting our orders with the books that arrived at the prison library at Central. There was also no categorisation: the books were just arranged in alphabetical order. At one stage, the older comrades related, practically all the books were categorised under 'T' because so many titles started with 'The'. A warder would sometimes write out a list of the books on the shelves which he thought would be of interest to us. Needless to say he was not much good at judging our preferences.

There were other sources of books: the University of South Africa provided for those allowed to study; the 'A' groupers could buy three books a month; our own library. In our own library were a couple of thousand volumes bought by the comrades over the years. Departing prisoners were not allowed to take with them those they'd paid for so they became prison property. All were of a high quality - a fine collection by any standards - but long since read by those who'd been inside for years. Although our prison censor had a list of banned books it appeared that he kept no record of what had been ordered, for he never removed anything from our shelves.

We also had a vast range of magazines to read. Each prisoner could order several of his own choice and in this way we were able to provide ourselves with a comprehensive selection. The magazines were circulated and when read by all were meant to be returned to the censor, but like everything else if there was anything worth keeping it would be torn out and stored or the magazine just not returned. Magazines were important for keeping contact with the real world, for providing a feel of the times and for keeping up with it. It was no wonder the authorities for so long denied the comrades permission to receive periodicals: they helped keep us alive spiritually.

The censor's main task was to watch out for anything 'subversive' and sexually stimulating. By 'subversive' was meant anything about 'communism', 'socialism' or 'Marxism' or which was critical of the South African 'government' and, naturally, anything which could undermine security such as electronics, chemistry and locksmithing. Censors were not very sharp so there was about a 50 per cent chance that a 'subversive' book would get through if the title was innocuous enough - a chance we considered high enough to justify losing the book if it was not approved. Karl Marx's Capital did not get through, but several 'subversive' books on economics and political theory did.

While we never went without something to read it was a constant struggle to ensure that there were sufficient books of interest and value. Ours was political imprisonment so we had to keep fighting to keep our intellects alive and at bay the darkness they wished imposed.

On the cultural front, apart from books, there was music. Our record collection must have been one of the finest anywhere and contained more than five hundred titles. Each prisoner was allowed to order one record every three months, adding to our collection 40 new records a year. Knowledge of new releases came from magazines and visitors, so we were pretty well informed of the latest developments in the music world.

The records to be played each evening were chosen by those comrades who were interested in music and familiar with our collection. Lists of a week's records would be written up and a copy given to each comrade. Every day the four or five chosen records would be given to the night-warder who would play them on the turntable in his office, in the order in which he was instructed.

Some of the comrades took the music very seriously and would lie for hours on their beds savouring the sounds. Sometimes you could hear someone dancing or singing in their cell or tapping their feet to the beat. The loudspeakers were at first mounted in the passage so if something was not to your taste it was just too bad. Later, when they were remounted inside our cells, you could turn yours off if you could not stand the particular number.

Music had never interested me much, but as paradoxical as it might seem, prison was a cultural experience. Our music collection was of such a varied nature that the comrades could arrange an educational programme to run over several nights. For instance, by selecting jazz records from various periods it was possible to assemble a history of jazz from Ledbelly to the present day.

Denis was the only one who regularly made his own music. He taught himself to play the guitar and after a few years of practice grew quite proficient. One or two of the others tried their hands - or mouths to be more precise - at the mouth organ. On the whole prison is not a good place to learn a musical instrument because you can never find a secluded spot and everyone is forced to hear your first discordant steps.

The music in our cells did serve certain vital functions as far as the escape was concerned: you could be sure that so long as it was playing no one could hear you filing a key or testing a lock, even if your cell was bugged. And the records, because we chose the order in which they were to be played, could serve as a clock for timing certain activities. More about this later.

The films we saw on Friday afternoons should not exactly be placed under the heading of 'culture'. The all came from a hire-shop in downtown Pretoria which we selected from a catalogue. The films were fetched by a warder but invariably the ones we wanted to see would be 'out on loan' and we would end up seeing one chosen by the warder. Our choice was usually for films with some cultural value, films which bored the warders. They preferred junk American cop films and would normally get their way by saying that the film they had brought was all that was left. Many of the comrades got so angry with this that they preferred to stay in their cells and read. There was nothing we could do about it as we were not in a position to question whether the film we'd ordered was really out on loan or not. Nevertheless, over the years some good films were shown and, curious as it may seem, most of us saw more movies in prison than we would have if we'd been outside. But then there are other interesting things to do outside.

Weekends were set aside for sport. Although none of us were fanatical sportspeople, it was an activity valued by all because it provided an outlet for releasing pent up emotions and frustrations. It also kept us fit in body and mind and provided a distraction from our cloistered little world. The main sporting activity was tennis - not real tennis for our court was only two-thirds full size and we only had wooden beach bats. Denis and Jeremy were the champions; I was the worst. Tony did not play because of his co-ordination problem, but Raymond was remarkably good considering he had only one good eye.

The tennis court also doubled as a volleyball court: the net posts were tall enough to support the net at the correct height for the game. Despite it being a popular game we were seldom able to play because of the difficulty in mustering sufficient players to make up two equal-sized teams. Prior to Stephen's and my arrival volleyball used to be played every weekend because the prison staff, including Captain Schnepel, joined in. But they must have received instruction not to play sport with the 'communists' as they suddenly stopped participating. There was to be no fraternising with the prisoners - if friendships developed it could lead to a member of staff wanting to assist the prisoners in their seditious activities.

Everyone took to 'jogging' in the prison yard. This may sound impossible to outsiders, as jogging usually conjures up images of leisurely runs through leafy parks. Our 'track' must have been no more than 100 metres per lap and for most of the way hard concrete. Every morning before breakfast most of us would don our running shoes, T-shirts and shorts and run anything from five to 100 laps. More than that would be too much of a strain on the ankles. One week we would run clockwise, the next counter-clockwise - to prevent boredom!

The monotony of running round and round the yard was countered by the knowledge that we were doing it to keep fit - an essential prerequisite for escapers. And certainly it did keep us fit. It provided us with much of the stamina we needed to keep in sight our goal, the front door. It's surprising our jailers suspected nothing fishy in our keenness to run every morning, come rain, frost or burning sun.

Aside from the aspects of prison life which made it just bearable, there were two others which allowed you to keep your sanity: letters and visits. Without these conduits to the outside world you could easily forget you were a human being with wishes, hopes and desires; you could become thoroughly institutionalised and see the world entirely in terms of the prison. This is why for some long-term prisoners without relatives their saddest day is the day they are released. Their world collapses: they have nowhere to go, no one to receive them and everything they have built up is left behind.

Letters were a very important component of our lives as they were one of the few ways we could maintain contact with reality. Letters, university communications and library books were collected from the censor at suppertime by Dave K while the rest of us would wait expectantly in the dining-room in anticipation of what he would bring. Every day you'd hope for a letter although you knew that you only got one, two or three a month depending on your grading. If nothing arrived you'd feel miserable and swear they were deliberately withholding your post.

Prisoners who had just arrived in prison, like Stephen and myself, were classified as 'C' group prisoners and only permitted to send and receive one letter of 500 words per month. 'B' group prisoners were allowed two letters per month and 'A' groupers three. Denis was allowed four letters as a special dispensation for being a life prisoner. If more than your allotted number arrived they would usually ask which one('s) you wanted.

Five hundred words a month sounds very little but when you have nothing to write about it seems an awful lot. A 500-word letter written to you, on the other hand, seemed very short. People outside had so much to write about, did so much, led such exciting lives - they didn't appreciate their freedom!

The censorship of incoming letters was not overly severe. Perhaps this was because our correspondents had become circumspect over time. They knew that all letters, in and out, were thoroughly perused by the security police and the prison's censor. This knowledge enforced a self-censorship on the writers, in both directions.

If a prisoner wrote something 'unacceptable' he would simply be handed the letter back and told to rewrite it. This routine could be exploited if you wanted to pass a little message to the chiefs: you could write something directed at them, something you would like to say but could not do in any other way. I took advantage of this once, after a fly-past on 'Republic Day' by a formation of jets spewing out vapour-trails of the much-despised orange, white and blue colours of the apartheid republic. I wrote in a letter that the sight had made me vomit and that I hoped they would not come and pollute the clear blue sky above our prison again. The next day I was on the carpet to face the wrath of a red-faced Captain. That I had provoked such ire gave me great satisfaction.

It took them nine months to figure out that my correspondent 'Makaira Herscheli', or 'Molly' for short, was Robin (the name was concocted out of the scientific terms for the bird 'robin' and the fish 'marlin' - which was her surname). It must have come as a shock to them to find out that my letters were, in effect, going direct to the ANC office in London, where Robin was still working. I was hauled up again and told discreetly that I could no longer write to this person. I did not argue the point and meekly accepted the instruction, knowing that I'd still be able to write to her using another false name that I had for her. At the next visit I wistfully reported to my mother that I was no longer allowed to write to 'Margaret', whom she understood to be Robin, and asked her to get me the address of my other London friend, 'Sally'. A month or so later I had a new address and resumed the unbroken communication I'd had with Robin.

Prisoners were also allowed to receive photographs from their correspondents, and have photo albums to keep them in. These were not allowed to have more than 12 pages. What the authorities had in mind were albums with six leaves, with two or three photos neatly pasted on each side. When the album was full you were supposed to hand in surplus pictures so they could be held in safekeeping until your release. But everyone wanted all their pictures, not just the latest ones - old ones carried memories. So to get around this restriction the comrades, instead of ordering normal photo-albums, ordered loose, clear plastic pockets that could be put into ring binders. A sheet of white paper was inserted in each and the pocket literally stuffed with pictures on each side of the sheet. In this way you could keep dozens of pictures. Whenever the warders demanded that we hand in some of our pictures, we pointed out that our albums were the regulation 12 pages and that it was not specified how many pictures you could have on each page. Their pettiness knew no bounds (neither did our deviousness, they would have said).

For your birthday and at Christmas you were allowed to receive 12 cards. Twelve cards were more than any of us had ever received for our birthdays, but at Christmas it had long been a tradition for sympathisers both in South Africa and abroad to send cards to political prisoners. The officers were never quite sure how to cope with this annual flood of greetings and salutations. They would try various ruses to prevent us knowing of their arrival and of how many had arrived. With monotonous predictability they would each year at first deny that there were any cards at all, and then let us have them very slowly to give the impression that there were very few. Some years they would keep them all until Christmas day or after and then give you eight or so and say that there was none more.

But we knew that hundreds of cards arrived for us. One year the censor, after receiving a complaint of being tardy with our letters, forgot himself by complaining about the sacks of envelopes he had to go through. Another year the censor, who had resigned and was about to leave, decided to allow us to choose our own cards from the bundles that had arrived. He called each of us to his office window in turn, and read out the name of the sender of each card from the pile he held and then asked if we wanted it. Of course each prisoner said 'not that one' until he'd read out every name. In this way we were able to find out who had sent the cards and get some idea of the numbers that had arrived.

Visits, like letters, were regulated according to your grading. 'C' group prisoners were allowed one visit by one person per month, lasting 45 minutes. 'B' groupers one visit per month by two people at a time and 'A' groupers two visits by two people. There were some exceptions to this rule: those who had no family in South Africa, such as Dave R, Dave K, and Alex, could receive several special visits over a week or couple of weeks if they had relatives visit them from overseas. Visits were strictly non-contact except for those who had small children (such as Alex and Dave R during our time). They were allowed short contact sessions with their children under close scrutiny in one of the administration offices. This applied until the children reached about six years old. After that - verbode (forbidden).

I placed visits below letters in order of preference because I found them intimidating. The visiting-room was very small: the same size as a cell but split down the middle by a chest-high counter and thick glass panes. There were three positions in the room with stools on each side. For us politicals only one visit took place at a time; for the stokkies three at a time. A warder sat on each side to make sure nothing 'illegal' was said and visitors were pre-warned that they were only allowed to discuss 'family matters'.

Your voice carried through to the other side via holes in the pegboard panels on each side of the window. Inside the panels microphones were hidden which recorded every word spoken. We weren't supposed to know this but were aware that recording took place because Denis was once taken into the main office while the door to the small office next to the visiting-room had inadvertently been left open. In it he saw tapes turning while a prisoner was having his visit. When they saw him looking at the tapes the door was not very discreetly slammed in his face. The cryptic language used by the comrades in trying to extract news from their visitors must have confounded the warders in attendance and big brother who listened to the tapes afterwards. They must have thought they were unearthing all sorts of 'terrorist' plots and conspiracies.

This was the setting in which you had to conduct your conversations. What could you say when you knew that your every word was being listened to and then sent to security police headquarters for detailed analysis? I also found it embarrassing to sit in front of my family in my prison uniform, with my cropped hair and in such an uncongenial environment. Others did not feel as intimidated and looked forward to their visits with great anticipation and excitement.

I said everything there was to say about the place at my very first visit; after that I didn't know what to say. Most times I would put in a few good words about the prison - to give the impression that I was quite happy and that I'd be the last person to be so rash as to contemplate anything like escaping. Occasionally I'd even 'brag' about the impenetrability of the place to make my watchers think that I was totally intimidated by the security measures. After saying my bit I would get my visitors to do the talking. Most of us made a point of saying things to confuse the warders as it was agreed that we should always take advantage of every opportunity to present ourselves in a light other than the correct one.

All visits had to be conducted in one of the two 'official' languages - Afrikaans and English. The only person affected by this ruling was Alex, whose mother - who visited him twice a year from France - spoke Greek and French but only a little English. Boris, his son - who came with her - spoke only French. The Captain didn't mind this too much as he reckoned that Alex couldn't say too much to a young kid that would be a security risk. Little did they know...

Marie-Jos, Alex's wife, was permitted by the prison authorities to visit him but she could not get a visa to enter the country as she had been deported to France shortly after their detention in 1972. Every year she applied for a visa and ritually the application would be turned down. This perverse prohibition drove Alex to desperation and at the end of February 1978 he went on a hunger strike to try to force the authorities to change their minds. The prison authorities claimed to be in sympathy with him, but said they could do nothing about the visa as it was out of their hands. Alex soon realised the futility of the exercise and terminated his fast after ten days.

Denis's wife Esm, too, had problems obtaining a visa. She had visited him once or twice but for many years had been refused entry from Britain, where she had been living from shortly after his imprisonment. Dave R's wife, Sue, had also been deported and was likewise refused a visa to enter South Africa. Dave K's ex-wife, Norma, could get a visa but she considered it too risky to go to South Africa.

There were other visitors apart from our permitted one or two per month - priests, envoys, judges, big-shot prison officials, lawyers, doctors and government ministers. Apart from the priests and doctors, these visits were not frequent.

Although all of us were atheists, we all, apart from John and myself, saw priests, ministers or rabbis. This was not because we wanted to atone for our 'sins' but because we became so desperate to see faces other than those of our captors that we were prepared to put up with all it involved in being 'religious'.

The 'Jews' - Denis, Dave R and Raymond - had it best. Their rabbi seemed to be an interesting chap but the chief benefit came from the organised way the Jewish community cared and catered for Jewish prisoners in general. Twice a year each of them received huge food hampers containing cold meats, biscuits, dried and fresh fruit, tinned goods and the like. As with everything else, these were shared with everyone.

The 'Catholics' - Tony, Jeremy and Steve - invariably returned from their visits swearing that it was the last one they would be attending. Monseigneur McGuinness was a musty old bore who insisted on reading passages from the bible and engaging in long prayer sessions. As hard as they tried, the 'Catholic' comrades were unable to persuade him to organise food hampers.

Dave K was the 'Anglican'. He visited the minister because the two were old friends who had known each other outside. For Dave religious visits were like an extra visit. They would start off the session by discussing the bible and end up by discussing ordinary lay matters.

John and I did not see religious practitioners because we could not decide what religions we were and did not feel the benefits were worth it. When I first arrived at Pretoria I tried to sign on as a Jew, after the others had advised me of the advantages. But they would not fall for that one. Then I thought I'd be a Catholic because I didn't want to see a priest on my own. Finally I decided against having a religion when I suspected that the Catholic priest was a bore. When the prison chaplain came around to sort out my 'religious needs' he could not understand when I said that I had no religion. He could understand my not wanting to see a spiritual adviser but was incapable of understanding that anyone could not believe in God. He had a form to fill in and could not leave it blank. Eventually I was classified Anglican, I think, because I said my father was a member of that church at one stage.

The 'foreigners' - Dave R, Alex and Steve - were from time to time granted the 'privilege' of seeing envoys from their respective countries. The French envoy would always tell Alex that he was doing everything in his power to secure his release and get permission for his wife to visit him. Alex grew cynical about these claims since nothing ever happened, but he continued to see the envoy as it amounted to another visit from an outsider and he could ask questions about France.

Stephen and Dave R were visited by a British envoy who made similar claims of action. But no one expected much from the envoys as their respective governments had seldom shown much sympathy for the plight of political prisoners in South Africa. For a long time these governments had regularly made the misguided claim that political prisoners were legally sentenced by the courts for breaking the law and that judgements could be trusted because the South African legal system had always displayed a healthy measure of independence. They never questioned - and still do not question - the so-called laws under which the accused were charged and sentenced and under which the judges made their judgements. They never said anything about the 'security laws' which presumed guilt or about the illegitimate racist 'parliament' which passed those laws in the first place.

Judges were supposed to visit the prisons to see for themselves the implications of their judgements and the sentences they handed out. In all the time I was there only one judge came around. His visit was so brief and cursory that the impression he got must have confirmed his prejudices. The ones who didn't come must have had implicit faith in the system for which they worked.

Visits by big-shot prison officers were more frequent but were clearly just acts of duty. Probably many of the heavies from head office had never been near a prison or had not visited one for many years. Some of them were prepared to receive representations from the prisoners, but as their visits were impromptu the prisoners were not given time to formulate a list of demands, although there were always the standing demands for less censorship and for permission to receive newspapers. It is difficult to know whether these regularly-presented demands fell on deaf ears or whether over the years they had a compounding effect. On occasion we felt that they had an impact but, unlike the Red Cross, they never produced any immediate response.

Representatives of the International Committee of the Red Cross visited all South African political prisoners once a year. They were allowed to do this provided they did not make their reports public. The Red Cross contributed significantly to the wellbeing of all political prisoners and were responsible for some of the greatest improvements in conditions over the years.

The authorities would never let us know when the Red Cross was coming, but we could always sense their imminent arrival by the behaviour of the warders. Demands that we had made to the Red Cross the previous year would suddenly be fulfilled and we would for no apparent reason be required to make the prison look clean and orderly. In 1979, for instance, after many years of complaining to the Red Cross that our tennis court was cracking up and that it was becoming impossible to play on, it was suddenly dug up and relayed. A few days later the Red Cross arrived.

All the prisoners looked forward to Red Cross visits. The team would arrive early in the morning and spend the day with us. They would eat our food - you could be sure we'd be served something exceptional that day - and find out from each prisoner in turn whether he had any personal problems. They would tell us about the conditions of other political prisoners in South Africa and around the world. In all ways, they told us, we were better off than the black prisoners and in some ways better off than many political prisoners in other parts of the world. In one respect we were worse off: in the provision of news, the denial of which they considered to be very serious. Without a doubt their pressure helped persuade the authorities to give in on this matter and from 1980 allow political prisoners to receive newspapers.

The only member of 'government' who visited our prison during Stephen's and my short stay was the new Minister of Police and Prisons (later the Minister of Law and Order), Louis le Grange. His visit was just a familiarisation exercise. The ten of us were made to stand to attention on the tennis court as this tall, close-eyed butcher with swept-back grey hair made his whirlwind inspection. The sight of the chief figure behind all the police massacres, detentions, torture and imprisonment of South African patriots was enough to turn the stomach. Perhaps the radiations of our hostility were the cause of his scurrying off so quickly.

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