Zondi took another issue and they sat down on the bed together to read them.
Kramer found that the panel was made up of three parts. There was a chatty article by a senior police officer, a section for members’ letters, and a block explaining the Detective Club rules with an application form included in it. Membership was open to all Afrikaner boys aged between twelve and sixteen who had never committed a criminal offense. They had to get their parent or teacher to sign beside their own signatures. If they were accepted, then they would be sent a card, initialed by the head of the South African Police, that gave them the right to “cooperate” with local representatives of the force.
Just what this meant was obvious from the letters. A boy writing from the Orange Free State said: “I spent nearly my whole holiday working as a member of the Detective Club. The station commandant said I was very useful to him as I arrested nine Bantu altogether and one Colored female. I also went on raids in the van. It was very nice.” Another, this time a thirteen-year-old in the Transvaal, wrote: “In our English-language oral exam I had to pretend that I was a member of the Special Branch finding out if a man was a liberal. Because I belong to the Detective Club I knew the proper way to ask questions. The inspector said I was so good that I made him feel like a real communist!!! Thank you, Detective Club!” The editor had added in italics: “Glad that the Club is bringing you good results. Remember, the rest of you, courage and loyalty is not everything a good detective needs-he also has to have brains.”
Zondi whistled low.
“Well, are you thinking what I’m thinking, kaffir? ”
“Too right, boss.”
Being a detective was one sure way of getting yourself thoroughly disliked.