complained, we heard. He told the court that it was “an act of grace on the part of the Department of Justice to provide this transport”. Whose act of grace was it to hold this trial 57 kilometres away from our homes?
The bus itself became a little world apart. Some would read, others passed the time playing word games; sometimes discussions would flare up and draw in others, who would rise to their feet to join in above the noisy rattling of this lumbering Leviathan. Political discussions? Not at all. It would probably be the men of the Eastern Cape, with Simon Tyeki holding forth on the Bible, disputing, arguing, gesticulating; for some of these men were lay preachers and their religion was very real to them, part of their daily life. And this was what the Crown failed to understand: that when these men brought God and the Bible into their speeches, that was their true way of thinking. Yet such men as these were accused of high treason.
The daily journeys became almost intolerable at times. Because we were human beings, not angels, disputes arose about seats, trifles took on the importance of earth-shaking events – tempers flared. Was it any wonder? Eventually Philemon Mathole was appointed ‘Commissioner General’ of the bus, and peace was established under his stern rule until we finally discharged him with honour on the last journey in the bus on 29 March 1961, the 211th journey to Pretoria! There had been laughter and sadness during those years, in our little world. Who could forget the showers of telegrams when the trial reopened? Fifty, 100, from all parts of the world, from all parts of South Africa. “Mayibuye Afrika!” they read, “Solidarity and sympathy!” We felt like stars on a first night, excitedly tearing open the orange envelopes, passing them from one to the other, backwards and forwards along the rows.
On the first morning of the trial, we gathered in the Congress office in Johannesburg very early and marched defiantly in an unauthorised procession across Johannesburg, through the crowds of workers disgorging from trains and buses to the day’s toil in factory and office. We sang as we marched over the bridge to where the two treason buses stood, on whose hard seats so many weary hours of travel were to be spent for nothing. We began our first journey to the trial.
As we rode down the streets of Pretoria we found our friends waiting for us at the Special Court, the newly converted synagogue. Hilda Watts, wife of one of the accused, wrote in New Age about our arrival:
Perhaps we only imagined it, but there seemed to be an air of expectancy as we drove into Pretoria, as though this calm civil service town was alerted for the big trial. We did not need to ask the way to the Old Synagogue. We simply followed the clusterings of khaki uniforms. Where they were thickest, that was the place.
Two queues had formed outside the iron gate – white and black. At the head of one queue was Ida Mtwana, formerly one of the accused, who had waited since before six in the morning so that she would be sure of a place inside. People stood in groups around the building, but the greatest activity centred around the press representatives and cameramen. There were masses of them. One man had three different cameras slung round his neck. The newsreel people were busy. They did not want to miss the important people. The legal representatives were the centre of attention for a while, then they went inside and the newsmen scuttled around elsewhere.
Inside and out, the Old Synagogue bears not a vestige of religious atmosphere. In the courtyards, on different sides (everything is strictly divided into “European” and “non-European”) are waiting rooms for witnesses, interview rooms, lavatories; inside there, is a formal atmosphere about the old building, with its high, narrow galleries, ornate columns and fancy mouldings. The whole place contrasts sharply with our memories of the Drill Hall, which was just one big hall where all were massed together, and where casualness and informality prevailed, and muddle and inefficiency characterised the place. Perhaps that was why some treated the whole case as a big joke.
It is no joke, and that must be plain to all.
But soon there is a sound of singing, we look up – the buses have arrived! The songs, the raised thumbs, the spirit of courage and unity, all this arrives with the accused in their buses, just as it came with the kwela that morning more than a year and a half ago when they were first brought from the prisons to the court.
The spectators pack the public galleries, white along one side, non-white on the other. The press galleries are all packed. The spectators are high above the well of the court, and they stand and crane to see what is going on.
The red-robed judges file in and take their seats. The public and pressmen strain to identify leading counsel in their black robes and white bibs. The clerk of the court opens the proceedings in both official languages and the prosecutor explains the absence of some of the accused; the man who is “in custody” at Port Elizabeth – but someone blundered and failed to deliver him for the trial; the man who “missed the bus”!
The rest of the 91 accused are sitting in rows of benches closer together than ever before, Indian, European, African, men and women. All around is apartheid and the sharp division by notice and by order – black this way, white that.
But here, in this court, once again these 91 accused demonstrate so vividly the truth for which they stand. They worked together for justice and equal rights for all, regardless of colour. They answer the charges side by side, undivided, and so they will be to the bitter end.
The formalities are over, and defending Counsel rises to his feet. The court is hushed. South Africa’s treason trial has begun.
The leader of the Defence Counsel, Advocate ‘Isie’ Maisels, tall, bespectacled, with dark hair receding from a massive forehead, rose to his feet to make a dramatic application for the recusal of two of the judges, the Presiding Judge and Mr Justice Ludorf. Only a few of us knew this was coming; it had been a closely guarded secret, but we knew our fellow accused would understand and approve. The decision to make the application had been taken by our Liaison Committee on behalf of all the accused, in consultation with Counsel only a few days before. It had not been taken lightly; Defence Counsel had warned of the possible serious implications of either success or defeat in such an application. But we had been unanimous.
The judges sat, immobile in their scarlet robes, as Mr Maisels proceeded clearly and logically to outline the reasons why we thought we might not get a fair trial at the hands of these two judges. Judge Ludorf had been an advocate representing the government in 1954 in a case in which the issues were largely the same as some of the issues in the present case. The Presiding Judge, according to the press, had been said by the Minister of Justice to have been party to the appointment of Judge Ludorf to this Special Court, and the report had not been corrected.
And so, almost within minutes of their appearing, the judges gathered up their robes again and filed out. The court was adjourned until after the weekend for their Lordships to consider the application for recusal.
Elated, we gathered up our possessions, and left the court.
The following Monday, we were back in Pretoria. In a crowded court and an atmosphere of hushed expectancy, Mr Justice Ludorf admitted that our fear might not be unreasonable. He had forgotten about the previous case, he explained. Looking back now one feels that the recusing judge was the fortunate one, since the trial lasted so long!
The Presiding Judge, Mr Justice Rumpff, leaned forward. Speaking in a low clear voice, he denied the Minister’s allegation that he had nominated or recommended either Mr Justice Kennedy or Mr Justice Ludorf.
“Whatever was said by the Minister, it is my duty to state the facts to the accused. I repeat, I did not recommend the appointment of Justice Ludorf or Justice Kennedy. The fear of the accused was based on wrong information. I have no choice but to follow the dictates of my conscience and refuse the application for recusal.”
On 12 August, we were back for the third time with Judge Bekker in place of Judge Ludorf, and the battle of the indictment began. By August 1959, a year later, this part of the trial was over; the indictment for 30 of us still stood in an amended form; but 61 were temporarily free, their indictment quashed. Their future might depend on us.
We pleaded not guilty, the trial began – and its rhythms came to govern our lives: the bus from Johannesburg to Pretoria, the courtroom, the bus back, day after day.
On