A white man who didn’t look the other way
In 2010 the owner of my local book store (a wonderful but poky independent shop in Rondebosch) phoned me with good news. The store was launching The Mission, Denis Goldberg’s memoir about his role in the liberation movement.
I was delighted for the shop, but surprised. Surely one of Cape Town’s more established book stores should be launching Goldberg’s book, or at the very least a book store that could accommodate more than 15 people?
After all, Goldberg is an icon of the struggle. Accused no 3 in the Rivonia treason trial, he was there, right there in the dock, when Nelson Mandela made his “an ideal for which I am prepared to die” speech.
I got to the book store early, excited to meet someone I had long admired. I stood outside waiting for Goldberg’s convoy to arrive. This was when VIPs travelled in black sedans with flashing blue lights, muscling motorists off the highway.
As I waited, a minibus taxi pulled up. The gaartjie opened the door and out popped Goldberg, carrying a Checkers packet that held his jersey in case it got cold.
In the book store, Goldberg spoke about his extraordinary life and I was struck by his optimism.
The eight accused who were found guilty in the Rivonia trial expected to get the death sentence, but got life in prison instead.
Goldberg, the “baby” among the Rivonia triallists, was tortured in detention and spent 22 lonely years behind bars.
After he came out of prison his life was punctuated by tragedy: Esme, his first wife, died, then his daughter died, and then his second wife.
During question time in that book store 10 years ago, someone put up his hand and asked: “So, was it worth it?”
I could tell Goldberg had been asked this many times before.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “All of it was worth it, and if I had to do it again, I would.”
It was in that moment that I realised why I admired Goldberg. Born into privilege, he could have looked the other away like so many others. But his conscience wouldn’t allow him to and he got involved. His commitment to overthrowing apartheid carried enormous personal sacrifices.
I saw him again eight years after the book launch, when I interviewed him at his home in Hout Bay.
He was thin, frail and unsteady on his legs and was attached to oxygen, but his eyes still twinkled.
He had been diagnosed with cancer the previous year and had undergone treatment. He’d just had another scan and the cancer had come back with a vengeance.
“But life,” he said, “is still wonderful. What can I say? I’ve always been an optimist.”
We sat in his lounge, where a massive window revealed the mountains across the bay. Goldberg loved the unrestricted view, a constant reminder that he was no longer behind bars.
His home was crammed with African artwork that burst with bright colours. It felt like he was making up for those 22 years of dull, drab prison life.
Goldberg received many awards during his life, some of which were on display in his home. I noticed that his name was misspelt on a statue given to him by the South African government for his contribution to democracy.
This oversight seemed symbolic of how he’d been almost forgotten as a revolutionary. Although he was side by side in the struggle trenches with liberation giants Mandela, Walter Sisulu and Ahmed Kathrada, “Denis Goldberg” wasn’t a household name.
I asked him whether he felt that his contribution to the struggle had been suitably acknowledged.
He shrugged and told me he didn’t mind. He said he wasn’t one for the spotlight.
Although I hadn’t asked him the inevitable question, “So, was it worth it?”, he asked it himself and then answered it.
“Was it worth it? Absolutely! We changed a country.”
He recently had a slice of limelight in the film Escape from Pretoria, which tells the remarkable story of how three of Goldberg’s fellow prisoners — Tim Jenkin, Stephen Lee and Alex Moumbaris — ingeniously slipped out of Pretoria Central Prison in 1979.
Jenkin went to visit his old comrade last month, just before the lockdown.
“He was not looking good but he was still in good spirits and was still outspoken,” said
Jenkin this week. “He made our escape possible; he was an amazing person right to the end.”
Goldberg didn’t escape with Jenkin and Co but received his get-out-of-jail card six years later when then state president PW Botha offered to release political prisoners who renounced the armed struggle.
In the 22 years he’d been incarcerated, other white political prisoners had come and gone, leaving Goldberg behind. Mandela and the others turned Die Groot Krokodil down, but Goldberg signed the document. He had had enough.
“When you are in prison, you lose your mind,” said Jenkin. “Denis had to get out for his own sanity. He accepted the deal with his tongue in his cheek.”
Goldberg continued to fight against apartheid, working tirelessly behind the scenes. When democracy was finally achieved, he continued to pour his heart and soul into human rights projects.
When I visited him in 2018, his focus was on the House of Hope, a community arts and culture centre for Imizamo Yethu and other Hout Bay residents.
Goldberg was determined to see it built before, as he put it, “I shuffle off to Buffalo”.
The aim of the centre is to celebrate human dignity, a fitting tribute to a selfless and humble revolutionary who took a minibus taxi and carried his jersey in a Checkers bag to his own book launch.