Return to Contents Page
It was towards the end of 1978 that we began to think of escape routes which did not start from or pass through the prison yard. The initial observation that there could be no other departure point than the yard had strait-jacketed our escape-thinking up till then; the realisation that there could be another way brought forth an explosion of fresh ideas. Although we had neither the technical means nor could we visualise how to do it, our recent successes suggested that a route taking the front door as the departure point was not entirely inconceivable.
We had looked over all possibilities involving the yard, but none of them was very satisfactory. Any escape going this way would have involved either going out through the yard gate into the prison property next door or scaling a wall.
The prospects of using the yard gate had improved slightly from the time when Stephen and I arrived, as the old Pretoria Local Prison next door was being knocked down and excavations for a new building had started. As such 'next door' was a deserted building site at night, not a well-guarded prison precinct.
It was common knowledge that the yard gate used a number one key but the main problem was in deciding when the best time would be to get out through it. During the day when we had access, getting out would have been impossible because the warder on the pos would have used us for target practice. After lockup we would have had to break out of our cells, capture the night-warder, tie him up and then make our way outside. Within an hour of lockup the guard-dog was placed in the yard, introducing another obstacle which would have had to be overcome. In the yard we would also have been in full view of the stokkies in the other wing who undoubtedly would have raised the alarm.
These were not seen as insurmountable obstacles. We could have made our exit before the dog was placed in the yard or, if it was already there, it could have been lured inside the building or poisoned. And if we were dressed in suitable clothing we would have looked like stokkies to the stokkies, not as escaping political prisoners. These were, however, complicating factors which could easily have caused the plans to go awry.
To escape over the wall into the street presented the same problems. There was one weak link, however. This was the short piece of wall next to the front door which joined the main building to the pos. Here the wall was not as high as the rest and once over it you were in freedom and not still in prison property as would have been the case had we climbed over anywhere else. The problem of the dog could have been solved by closing the stokkies' yard gate, which we would have reached by passing through their section and out of their yard door.
A serious problem with this plan was that if there had been any stokkies in the cells above ours they would have seen us in their yard and scaling the wall - they could not be trusted not to raise the alarm. When there were only a few of them signed in, the cells above ours were not used but it was difficult for us to find out if they were in use or not. If we could have found a way of answering this unknown this route may have become the chosen one. However, this option was only realistic while there was no guard on the pos in the evening and was later eliminated when one was placed there permanently.
Considerable thought and experimentation was devoted to some of these plans. Alex and I carried out a number of tests to find out if the dogs would accept food thrown to them because it was claimed that they were trained not to accept food from anyone other than their handlers. This seemed to be partially true but there were some dogs that accepted whatever food was thrown at them. As only a limited number of dogs were used, we could simply have waited until they used one that we knew would accept food. Then we could either have poisoned it or lured it somewhere where it would have been out of our way.
But it was in the face of all these problems and in the light of the confidence we'd gained from our practical achievements that we started to turn our attention towards getting out through the front door. The initial plans involving this exit were a bit wild, but that was to be expected because we did not know exactly what lay in front of us - forcefulness substituted for thoughtfulness. One scheme involved capturing the night-warder, tying him up, taking his keys to get out (we did not realise at this stage that he was locked into the prison and only had keys to enable him to move from section to section), taking his car keys and weapon (if any) and making a getaway in his car which he parked outside.
Although we assumed that the night-warder would have the keys to enable us to open all the doors on the way to the front door, we could not be certain. We realised, for instance, that the keys might be locked in a cupboard - for which he might have no key. So, to avoid finding ourselves in an embarrassing situation on the day we escaped, we decided to develop our door-opening abilities to the extent of being able to open any door, even when confronted by it for the first time. This meant perfecting our lock-picking skills and making keys for the workshop so that we could at any time get hold of the tools we might need: hammers, levers, chisels, screwdrivers, hacksaws and so on.
We took advantage of Loggie's laziness here. Most days he found it too much bother to get up from his seat to open the metal tool-cupboard where all the 'security' tools were kept. Many times he would, against the rules, hand us his bunch of workshop keys and allow us to get out whatever tools we needed. On the bunch were the keys for the metal cupboard, the tool lockers and for the two workshop doors. It was easy enough to take impressions of them on a piece of soap while pretending to be searching for something in the cupboard, and then to make our own keys.
The key for the metal cupboard was a small Yale-type key while the two for the doors were ordinary small mortise lock keys - miniature versions of our cell keys. It did not require much skill to make a replica of the cupboard key out of a small piece of aluminium found in the workshop. The two door keys were made out of wood, in much the same fashion as the larger number one and two keys.
Having these was a tremendous boon because we then had access to the workshop and all the tools we could possibly want, whenever we needed them. We could get into the workshop through the interior door at the back of the storeroom, out of the sight of the warders. One of us would sit at the entrance to the storeroom and watch for signs of approaching warders while the other would enter the workshop and help himself to any tools that were needed. We did not bother making keys for our own tool lockers because we could simply leave out during the day any tools we needed from them and then retrieve them on entering the workshop after it was shut. Our bench lockers did not in any case contain much of value for key making or door-forcing.
The tools I required for evening key making sessions were usually retrieved from the workshop at suppertime. I would secret them up to my cell in the usual way in the bottom of my thermos flask and replace them the next morning before breakfast while the comrades were getting dressed for their morning run and exercise.
After making keys for the workshop we made keys for every other door to which we had regular access. These were the two doors to the dining-room, the door leading into the yard at the bottom of the stairs to our section, the storeroom outer door, the visiting-room door, the awaiting-trial prisoners' yard door and door number four (the metal grille at the start of the administrative section). Door number three, our section door, used a number one key, obviating any effort there.
The measurements of the keys for the dining-room outer door, the door at the bottom of our stairs and the awaiting-trial prisoners' yard door were obtained by taking soap impressions when warders inadvertently left the keys in the locks. The warders did not bother too much about the security of these doors as they did not lead anywhere of importance and were just ordinary wooden doors with small mortise locks. The measurements of the key for the storeroom outer door were obtained by removing the lock from the door one Saturday while the others were playing tennis. The lock was opened and a prepared blank cut to the correct measurements there and then. This I did in the dark recess at the back of the storeroom while Alex or Steve stood guard at the entrance.
The measurements of the key for the visiting-room door I obtained one day by catching a quick glimpse of the key when I entered the room for a visit. The key was in its lock and when I entered there was no warder or visitor in the room. I quickly pulled it out, looked at it, and put it back. Its measurements were simple: like a number one key, only smaller. I made a key from our large stock of blanks and one showery day while there was no one in the yard, Dave K and I took shelter in the doorway. Behind my back I inserted the key and turned it. I pulled the door handle and the door opened.
The key for the dining-room double-door at the bottom of our stairs was normally handed to Dave K on Fridays so that he could open the door to bring through the film equipment which was kept in a small cupboard under the stairs. The only measurement that needed to be taken was the height of one of the outer cuts relative to the key-shaft; the rest could be obtained by sight.
Key four was also a cinch as it had a very simple shape. We frequently got a chance to see it when taken into the administrative section. Its bit was flat along the top except for two shallow cuts about one millimetre deep. I prepared a key to the same basic dimensions as keys one and two, filed the cuts as I had seen them and tried it out one day while passing the grille on the way down to the yard. It failed to work the first few times but by lowering the overall heights of the cuts a fraction each time I eventually got it to work. Key four was also the key for door five, the next grille down the passage on the way to the front door.
Regular trips out of and back into the prison by the comrades helped us build up a thorough picture of the number and types of doors on the way to the front door. Quite often someone would go out - either to the dentist, the doctor or the optician - and be issued with instructions to look for this or that crucial detail.
Having made the key for doors four and five we knew that we only had to make two more of the large-type prison keys - for doors six and seven. Door six was a panelled steel door the same as our outer cell doors; door seven a grille. Door eight was also a grille but was electrically-operated. We knew that the button to open it was in the main office where the night-warder sat during his shift - you could see the warders pressing it as you were taken out. Doors nine and ten were ordinary wooden doors like the others in the prison and used the small-type mortise keys. Door ten was the front door, the door to freedom.
The door that gave us the most worries was door six because no one had ever seen its key. Whenever we went into the administrative section it was open and hooked back against the wall. But Denis remembered from an occasion some years previously when he was brought back from hospital very late one night that door six had been closed. From this piece of information it made sense to assume that it was only locked at night, by the departing day-staff, to lock the night-warder into the prison. This turned out to be the case, as we later found out.
Key seven we would occasionally see, so we had a vague idea of its shape. But this door did not worry us much as we knew that we could, if necessary, tackle it another way - by cutting the bars or dismantling its lock. That left only keys six, nine and ten about which we knew nothing.
If you do not have the key for a lock the only other ways to open it are to smash it or pick it. Smashing doors was not our style so we set about training ourselves to become master lock pickers. Our knowledge of how locks worked had grown considerably so it was not too difficult to figure out how to make lock picks. The greatest advance was made one night when I managed to smuggle a shifting spanner and screwdriver into my cell which I used to remove and open my number one lock. The lock was held to the frame by four bolts, the ends of which were hammered over to stop the nuts being turned off. But with the help of a small triangular file from the 'security' tool-cupboard I was able to restore the thread and loosen the nuts. I removed the lock from the frame, dismantled it and measured its internals in minute detail. To help us understand the geometry of the lock and to reveal possible hidden secrets I also made accurate tracings of the levers onto a piece of paper.
If I may say so myself, we made some quite ingenious lock picks from pieces of bent wire after that. We spent hours practicing how to use them on the inner workshop door and on our number one locks, and in no time became quite adept at picking the prison's locks. One of our picks was actually a special shaftless key with adjustable cuts for opening the smaller locks in the wooden doors. Once the vague shape of the key was known this device worked as easily as the real key. What were formerly barriers became openings; what was solid became paper.
In the end we had more keys than our jailers, which presented us with a massive security problem - where to hide them all. With such a vast amount of equipment it became vital that we found some better hiding places than the ones we were using.
As luck would have it, fate presented us with the perfect hiding place just when we most needed it. One day, after the plumbers had been to repair one of the hot water geysers in our shower, we noticed that the door to the closet in which it was housed had been left unlocked. Inside the closet behind the geyser was the perfect place for storing our contraband. If we made keys for the closets - there was one in each shower - we would have two massive and secure storage spaces.
So, one shower-time I removed the lock of the unlocked door and hid it in my cell over suppertime. Risky? Not at all. The warders never had a shake-down during supper: the time was too short and they were in any case readying themselves to go home. That evening I took a blank that had been prepared beforehand and cut a key to work the lock. The lock was replaced the next morning before we were let out of the section for breakfast.
The following Friday we picked the lock of the other closet and left the door unlocked to see if it would be noticed. It wasn't, so a few days later I made a key for it in the same way as I'd made the first one. All our gear was then placed in a sack and dropped down the triangular space between the geyser and the corner of the closet in which it stood. A piece of string was attached to the sack so that it could be pulled up again. To keep the string out of sight a piece of black cotton was tied to the end of it and led over the pipes at the back of the geyser and hidden there. To retrieve the sack you first had to find the piece of cotton, then pull up the string and finally the sack.
The geyser closets proved to be the ideal hiding places and were used to the end. They did give the occasional problem, such as the time when a leak occurred in one of them and the plumbers had to be called in - but that story is for later.
Also at this time - the end of 1978 - our thinking began to turn towards getting our hands on some civilian clothing. So far the only non-prison garments we had were two pairs of short socks - not exactly enough for a whole gang of convicts to break loose in. These had been retrieved from the rubbish bin in the stokkies' yard.
Alex in his usual pioneering way put in an order for two white T-shirts for 'sports use' - the first time anyone had done so. Inexplicably the order was granted without question and two more items were added to our wardrobe. I ordered some coloured drawing inks via Denis to dye one of the shirts for myself. After this everyone ordered T-shirts for themselves - for both legitimate and illegitimate purposes.
For trousers I took one of my voluminous pairs of prison trousers and modified them to look like a pair of khaki bell-bottom jeans (they were in fashion at that time and khaki was trendy!). Everyone had proper running shoes (trainers) which were quite suitable for escaping in. Alex, who was always scratching around in rubbish bins, later found a pair of shorts in one of the stokkies' bins. Only the fly zip was missing but he soon replaced this with one from an old tobacco pouch. I made three belts from an old piece of canvas someone found in the workshop and Alex carved three buckles out of wood for them. We made these openly and Alex even wore his belt to assist in the everyday job of keeping his oversize prison trousers around his waist. Steve and I made ourselves caps - modelled on Denis's tennis cap - out of surplus prison shirts and a few pairs of gloves and some balaclava-style 'terrorist' hoods out of surplus vests. All this was ultimately stored in our cache behind the geysers.
Prison is not good for much, but I'm thankful for the various skills I learnt during my short stay. I picked up a few tips about carpentry, but most of all I'm now a proficient seamster and locksmith (read: lockpicker).
According to traditional penological theory, a prison sentence is supposed to serve five purposes: it is punishment for the offender; it is to rehabilitate the prisoner; it is to act as a deterrent to others; it prevents the offender from committing the same or other offences, at least while he or she is in prison; it protects society from the offender. In political cases there are two other purposes in imprisonment: the political purpose and the retributive purpose.
Starting from the last: the vengeance inherent in political imprisonment is not aimed at the individual; it is aimed at the organisation which has had the temerity to challenge state authority. To the state the individual prisoner is nothing, just a number. Vengeance is closely allied to the political purpose of imprisonment.
The political purpose itself has several dimensions. First of all, the state uses it to demonstrate to its enemies that it still has power and that it will use that power when and how it likes in order to preserve its authority. It also uses it to demonstrate to its followers that it is still in control; that its enemies will not get far.
Political imprisonment in South Africa, while it 'protects' whites from the 'offender', does not protect the majority of the people for they do not want to be 'protected' from those imprisoned for political reasons, but rather from the state itself. Political prisoners are seen as freedom fighters and those who have been involved in armed actions against the state in particular, are seen as heroes and protectors of the people.
Political imprisonment does of course prevent prisoners from engaging in the activities for which they were imprisoned, but in the long term it serves to encourage others to take up where the imprisoned left off. In the same way political imprisonment fails as a deterrent. While it does deter some, others take the imprisonment of their comrades as added cause to challenge the state.
There is no way that political imprisonment can serve to rehabilitate a political prisoner. For a political prisoner 'rehabilitation' means re-education and in South Africa this means adopting the ideology of apartheid - hardly likely even for a prisoner broken by the experience. If the authorities attempted to 'rehabilitate' prisoners it would be resisted with everything at the prisoners' disposal. They know this and it is for this reason they do not try their hand at it. All they can hope for is that the experience will serve to mellow the prisoners or sap their resolve to fight apartheid when they get out. It usually does the opposite.
Finally, for imprisonment to serve as a punishment it has to be perceived as such by the prisoner. The prisoner must show some remorse, feel guilty and at the bottom of it recognise that what he or she has been committed to prison for is considered by society to be 'wrong', a crime, anti-social and worthy of punishment. In political imprisonment the prisoners show no contrition. Their imprisonment convinces them that they were absolutely correct in doing what they did and only makes them regret not having done more. In South Africa, only supporters of 'the system' agree to the imprisonment of the opponents of apartheid; to the oppressed majority those convicted for fighting apartheid have committed no offence at all. The only offence is the imprisonment of the alleged offender by the state.
The punishment inherent in imprisonment is the loss of freedom itself. Anything over and above this is vindictiveness. For this reason we as political prisoners could not help feeling victimised. Our punishment went way beyond the normal loss of freedom associated with imprisonment. Special conditions applied to us which made life very difficult. This was intentional as our captors wanted to inflict their vengeance on us. We were the political enemy, 'communists', and in their eyes not worthy of recognition as human beings. They knew that we could not be 'rehabilitated' and so had to ensure that when we left prison we were broken and no longer desirous of 'making trouble'. The only way of doing this, they thought, was by ensuring that we were kept permanently demoralised; that we were cut off from events in the real world as effectively as possible by being denied all 'news' of everything. They knew as well as we did that our morale was based on developments in the political world, not on the conditions of our immediate existence.
What this meant in practice was at first a total blackout on news, and later, as they became more sophisticated, only the transmission of news which they considered to be good news, that is, what we interpreted as bad news. The total ban on news applied until 1978. Before that time there were no newspapers, no radio broadcasts, no news magazines - nothing. The prisoners were not allowed to discuss anything apart from family news with visitors and the same applied to letters. The authorities were so obsessed about this that the only periodicals they allowed were a handful of family and entertainment and sports magazines. Even these were subject to rigid censorship and often had vast sections removed from them. The censor would meticulously search through everything in the pursuit of anything which smacked of 'news', or 'sex' - the other bogey. If something was found the whole article would be excised, not just the offending line or paragraph.
The lengths the censors would go to to remove the news drove the comrades to desperation and in 1977 they made a court application for an order to ease the restrictions placed on them. The prisoners' request was that they be allowed to receive newspapers and magazines of their own choice, to have less censorship of their letters, and to have freer conversations without interference during visits. In their application the comrades claimed that the deprivation of news was 'cruel, inhuman and unnecessarily harsh treatment'. They asked no more than that they be treated in the same way as other prisoners.
During the court case, which the comrades were not allowed to attend, the prison authorities confirmed that the withholding of news was their way of 'rehabilitating' political prisoners. The state representative said that 'the individual propensities of these so-called political prisoners could be cured by not allowing them to know what is going on'. The comrades' lawyer argued that to live without any real knowledge of the world was cruel, vindictive punishment.
The comrades' application was dismissed by the judge. In summing up he said that to grant the order would fetter the discretion of the censors and would mean the end of the prison authorities' right to exercise the function entrusted to them. He clarified the state's view by commenting: 'News is not necessary for me. The last thing I want to do is look at the news'.
The comrades appealed against the judgement and lost that too. In the end, however, they won a moral victory because the absurdity of the efforts to keep political prisoners in the dark were exposed to the world. Shortly after the appeal the rigid censorship began to break down. Within a short time letters began to be left largely intact, interference in conversations during visits became less frequent and the comrades were allowed to receive a wider range of periodicals. Not only had they achieved an actual improvement for themselves, the prisoners on Robben Island, who had been conducting a similar campaign over the years, were granted the same 'privileges' as well.
By the time that Steve and I arrived at Pretoria heavily censored SABC news broadcasts - which were highly censored versions of the truth in the first place - were being relayed over the loudspeaker system twice daily. Virtually all news about South Africa was cut out except for sports news and the most trivial items which displayed the regime in a good light (from their point of view). Foreign news was also heavily censored but the censor, not being too bright, would often not know what was 'bad' news and what was 'good' news from their viewpoint. Sometimes the most startling things would come through. For instance, for long periods we'd hear about the advance of the revolution in Nicaragua and about events in Afghanistan. The censor had obviously never heard of these places.
The radio broadcasts were a step forward - not a big one - but a foot in the door. Like all 'privileges' they could be removed or their removal could be used as a threat against us. But through attrition we gradually wore down the rigidity of the censor. In 1979 we were allowed to receive Time magazine - censored of all reference to South Africa - and shortly after we escaped political prisoners were allowed uncensored daily newspapers.
Despite the blanket ban on news the comrades had managed to keep themselves amazingly well informed over the years. One important source of news was from new prisoners who came to the prison. They were 'debriefed' by the others and every ounce of information squeezed from them. Another source was the representatives of the International Committee of the Red Cross who visited us and all other political prisoners in South Africa once a year. They would fill us in on events during the preceding year and give us their analysis of current developments. The major source of news, however, was smuggled newspapers. Extraordinary as it may seem, for long periods we read newspapers, or parts of them, every day.
The smuggling worked like this: the administrative section of our prison was cleaned by black prisoners who were brought to the prison each day from the black section of Pretoria Prison. Part of their work was to empty the rubbish bins inside the prison into the main bins in the stokkies' yard and to take these out of the prison for emptying. The bins would be taken out through the yard gate, emptied somewhere, and then returned through the same gate. The cleaners often found newspapers thrown out by the warders or stokkies in smaller bins inside the prison. This we knew because occasionally we would find a piece of newspaper in the bins in the stokkies yard, where we emptied our own bins. They could also, presumably, bring newspapers from their own prison.
To initiate the smuggling act one of us would go to the toilet next to the workshop while the black prisoners were waiting in front of the yard gate to be let out with the bins. From there he would mimic the action of reading a newspaper and point to the stokkies' bins, meaning that if they got hold of any papers they should leave them in the bins. He would then mimic smoking and point again to the bins, meaning that we'd exchange tobacco, the prison currency, for any newspapers.
The black prisoners understood exactly what we wanted and would indicate agreement of the trade with a thumbs-up disguised as a scratch of the hair with a thumb. They were obviously skilled smugglers and understood prison sign language and needs even better than we did. Sometimes they indicated that they wanted other things apart from tobacco, such as a pack of cards, soap, aspirin or other medicines. We were amazed - and shocked - that they could not get these basic things that we took for granted.
The system worked perfectly for months at a time. The tobacco would be wrapped in a piece of dirty brown paper and be deposited in the stokkies' bins by Denis or Tony when they emptied our kitchen bin each morning; the newspaper would be retrieved later in the morning when the kitchen bin was 'emptied' again. If it was a good chunk of newspaper the reward would be greater the next day: half a bag of tobacco for a page or two, a whole bag or more for several pages or a whole paper.
The newspapers were hidden in the storeroom during the day and taken up to the cells at shower-time inside a thermos flask that had had its innards removed. At shower-time the paper was split in two, one half to the five cells on the one side of the shower and the other half to the other five. The papers were passed on to the next comrade by means of an ingenious device made from two long rulers. The rulers were joined together with a rubber band and then pushed under the door in the direction of the next cell. The rubber band would cause the first ruler to spring under the next door instead of just following the bottom of the wall. The next comrade would then grab the end of the first ruler and pull in the second, to which was attached by a piece of string an envelope containing the folded pieces of newspaper. The following night the two halves were swapped over. The last comrade on each side to receive the piece would finally dispose of it down his toilet.
In this way we were able to keep ourselves reasonably well informed, but the system had its dangers and broke down several times, sometimes for as long as two or three months. When this happened we really felt the pressure of our enemy's attempts to 'rehabilitate' us!
Occasionally the warders would discover a piece of newspaper on one of the black prisoners, or find the tobacco or piece of newspaper in the stokkies' bins. Then there would be pandemonium. The entire gang would be punished or changed for a new group. Each time a new group of prisoners was brought in the system had to be set up again and if the prisoners had been threatened not to engage in smuggling with us they would be very reluctant to co-operate.
Nevertheless, practically the whole time we had newspapers to read. The authorities probably knew that we were smuggling but could do little to stop it. They were reluctant to tackle it from our end as they didn't want to upset relations - constant searches would have fouled the air too much. If one of us had been caught, punishment could only have been imposed after an internal 'trial'. Since it was within our rights to request a lawyer on such occasions - the comrades had always done so in the past - the bother and embarrassment of having to hold 'court' with a skilled lawyer present was usually too much for them.
We knew their feelings on this matter and for that reason took no extra-special precautions about transporting and reading the papers. They were stored and carried up to the section in the gutted thermos and read after lockup when there was little chance of being caught. If you heard a warder coming while you were reading a paper you simply threw it under your bed. If he did manage to catch you reading, you could calmly tear it up and flush it down the toilet in front of his eyes as he had no access to the cells. If there was a 'trial' it would only be his word against yours. However, it was not advisable to get caught as it would only make it more difficult to keep the system going.
There were other ways of getting news of the world and details of our immediate surroundings - these were from visitors, letters and warders. Strictly speaking, the only matters that were allowed to be discussed with visitors or written about in letters were family affairs and news of friends. But all of us got around these restrictions by developing codewords with our most regular visitors and correspondents which referred to certain political figures or countries. Stephen and I were ahead of the others in this respect as we had agreed with our parents while awaiting trial on a set of codewords to refer to various countries and political organisations. For example: Angola was Angela; Mozambique was Mary, and Frelimo was 'her boyfriend'; Rhodesia - Roger; Namibia - Nancy, and SWAPO 'her boyfriend'; ANC - Anthony; Britain - Aunt Bertha; USA - Uncle Sam; and so on. Although the need to use this code seldom arose, it came in useful when the newspaper smuggling broke down or if there was an urgent need to know the latest on some major international development.
Denis and the others had established similar codes with their visitors over the years, some of these through the assistance of departing prisoners. Denis's code in particular was sophisticated enough to enable him to make contact with the Movement in connection with the escape.
Stephen and I had other letter codes which we had set up while awaiting trial. One of these could be used to describe conditions in the prison and our own treatment. It involved writing the letter according to various formats, each configuration conveying information about the degree of edibleness of food, of the nature of our treatment, and so on. Another less descriptive code could be used to convey a short, accurate message. We never used any of these codes as the clamp on talk about conditions was not as tight as we'd imagined it would be and we never though it advisable to inform our families about our real intentions.
The prison staff themselves were a major source of information about the prison and surroundings. Although they were instructed not to talk to us about such things, some were quite willing to answer questions which seemed totally innocuous and were fond of bragging about the 'impenetrable' security barriers on the terrain. From warders we were able to extract information about such things as dog patrols, dog handlers and their dogs, security arrangements, sentry duties, shifts, changes in routine and security, morale, who hated whom, which warders were corrupt, and other things such as whether the old currency (like that we'd brought in) was still legal tender.
These questions could be asked in much the same way as we would ask them of our visitors - not directly but as requests for comments on something about which you pretended to know already. For instance, we would often hear dogs barking at night and to try to find out where they were stationed we'd say something like: 'I can't work today, Meneer, because the dogs were making so much noise last night. Why must they have dogs in the empty yard next door? They just keep us awake.' One particular warder named Moreby, who was much hated by the prisoners, was also hated by the other warders. To ascertain the level of antagonism towards him we'd say to another warder: 'It's good when you're on duty in the workshop, Meneer. You know, when Meneer Moreby is on duty here he walks around looking at our work so much it puts us off and we can't get on with the job.' Inevitably they'd also have something disparaging to say about him.
The warders were also a source of news about the world in general, although not a reliable one. Sometimes after reading something in a smuggled newspaper and then not finding out the outcome we'd ask a warder, provided it was not the censor, to comment on the matter. For example, we once read that there was going to be a by-election but then never found out the result. Someone then asked a warder what he thought about a particular party - the party thought least likely to have won - winning the election. The warder responded indignantly that the traitorous party just mentioned had not won the election. The Nationalists, the party he obviously supported, had scored a landslide. To clear the matter the person who had asked the question then said: 'Oh, I must have heard it wrong on the radio'.
Return to Contents Page