Christiaan Barnard - One Life [antikvár]

CHAPTER 1 Perhaps the first time I doubted God could handle all the accidents of mankind occurred while attending a church service on New Year's Eve in Beaufort West, South Africa, where I grew up as a boy. My mother was there to play the organ and I stood next to her. She was slightly deaf and a quick nudge was needed to start her off at the correct moment. I was expected also to fill the bellows of the organ, keeping the air pressure at a level marked by a little weight on a cord. This was done by pumping a hand lever, and often all my force—I was twelve then—was needed to keep the weight at its proper level. Success depended largely upon what music was played. Light trills and runs did not affect the weight much. But deep notes and chords—especially in numbers such as "Many a Brave Heart Is Asleep in the Deep"—sent it soaring upward toward disaster. When this occurred, I pumped wildly to catch up, desperately aware that I could never provide sufficient wind for everyone to shout their love of the Lord—at least not long enough for it to count much or be heard very far. Yet this evening had not gone too badly. Dominie Rabie, the minister, had dropped one hymn to pick up extra time for his New Year's sermon, saving me a lot of work. So I imagined the service would end with the weight down low and my spirits on high. The minister began by standing erect and wordless in his circular pulpit, until the congregation fell into obedient silence. Once I had entered the church at night and seen the devil in that same pulpit. He had long donkey ears, a tail crawling about like a snake, and a pitchfork long enough to skewer anybody, even in the back row. Now in the same spot stood Dominie Rabie—his little gray beard jumping up and down over the Bible as though it, too, was pointing the way—^while behind him, beyond the organ pipes, lay dark shadows. The devil could be lurking there, hiding