‘By using the sharp natural fall of the ground and by having the auditorium of the theatre sloping in the opposite direction, it has been possible to provide on two levels spacious foyers stimulating to social interchange during intervals.’

The first time Dürrenmatt was read in Afrikaans was likely in 1960. That year, Human & Rousseau published Peter Blum’s translation of Das Versprechen. An Italian émigré who had arrived in South Africa at the age of twelve, Blum spoke several languages and eventually mastered Afrikaans. He went on to become a celebrated Afrikaans poet and an important precursor of the Sestiger movement. Blum was openly critical of the apartheid regime and moved to London in 1960, distancing himself from Afrikaans after 1966.

Blum’s translation – published as Die Belofte – was, at the time, described as the most ‘unusual’ detective story ever to appear in Afrikaans.3 A. v. Z., ‘’n Requiem vir die speurverhaal’, Volksblad, 24 November 1960. The text is partly domesticated: some of the specifically Swiss references are explained while others are omitted. The most notable shift is Blum’s emphasis on the tragic. Where Dürrenmatt writes ‘die banalste aller möglichen “Lösungen”’ (‘most banal of all possible “solutions”’), Blum writes ‘die geknaktheid van die held’ (‘the brokenness of the hero’).4 Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Die Belofte, trans. Peter Blum (Cape Town: Human & Rousseau, 1960), 140; Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Das Versprechen (Zürich: Diogenes, 1985), 136. In failing to convey Dürrenmatt’s bleak, modern perspective, the translation sacrifices philosophical depth – a concession, perhaps, to the outdated worldview of his likely readers.

The following year, in 1961, Human & Rousseau published Bartho Smit’s translation of Dürrenmatt’s Die Panne under the Afrikaans title Teenspoed.5 In 1962, Leonora Nel produced a stage version of Teenspoed for the National Theatre Organization’s youth theatre group. It was staged in 1964 by the Pro Arte student group at the University of Pretoria under the title Spel. After Dürrenmatt adapted Die Panne for the stage in 1979, Smit translated it, once more using the title Teenspoed. The translation was commissioned by the Dramatic, Artistic and Literary Rights Organization (DALRO) but there is no evidence it was ever performed. Der Besuch der alten Dame was therefore not Smit’s first foray into Swiss literature.6 As early as 1955, Smit had already published an Afrikaans translation of Florence Hayes’s English adaptation of Heidi, though it is unlikely that he consulted Johanna Spyri’s original German text. Spyri, Heidi, arr. Hayes, trans. Smit, illus. Weihs.

Smit’s Teenspoed is an uneven mix of domestication and foreignization. At times, he omits references he deemed superfluous for an Afrikaans readership. Elsewhere, the translation clings to the German, producing neologisms such as ‘suipersneus’ for ‘Säufernase’ in an Afrikaans that mirrors the syntax of the original.7 Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Teenspoed, trans. Bartho Smit (Cape Town: Human & Rousseau, 1961), 41, 18. Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Der Hund, Der Tunnel, Die Panne: Erzählungen (Zürich: Diogenes, 1998), 67, 45. One lexical choice in particular merits attention: Smit’s rendering of ‘Zuhälter’ (German for ‘pimp’) as ‘seksavonturier’ (‘sex-adventurer’).8 Dürrenmatt, Die Panne, 52; Dürrenmatt, Teenspoed, 26. This semantic shift exposes the conservatism of the society into which he was translating, showing how even a Sestiger – whose own plays challenged the apartheid regime – made concessions to the moral framework of Afrikaner Christian Nationalism.

With Die Belofte and Teenspoed, Human & Rousseau reached a readership that welcomed modern European literature precisely because it was different. In 1961, a reviewer of Teenspoed thanked the publisher for introducing Dürrenmatt to Afrikaans readers, noting: ‘We have very little in our own language that, with such macabre and ironic fantasy, gives such insight into human fate and the obscure composition of the human soul.’9 ‘Ons het min in ons eie taal wat ’n mens met sulke makabere, ironiese fantasie so ’n insig gee in die menslike noodlot en die duistere samestelling van die menslike gees.’ R. v. R., ‘Baie welkom: Weer ’n Dürrenmatt’, Die Burger, 18 November 1961. In 1964, when Human & Rousseau published its next translation – Dürrenmatt’s Grieche sucht Griechin, translated by Wilhelm Grütter as Griek soek vrou – the book’s dust jacket could rightfully claim that Afrikaans readers no longer needed an introduction to the Swiss author.

The child of German immigrants, Wilhelm Grütter was a prolific translator. As a journalist and a theatre critic, he worked for the Afrikaans media conglomerate Naspers, an organization with close ties to the ruling National Party. Yet he was also critical of the government and its structures. In the 1980s he wrote a history of the Cape Performing Arts Board (CAPAB), one of the four state-funded arts councils, which staged several Swiss plays in Afrikaans. His report was considered so disparaging that it was never published.10 See Wilhelm Grütter, ‘Interim Progress Report: CAPAB 25 Book’, 1988, manuscript, Stellenbosch University Library Document Centre: Cape Performing Arts Board Collection, MS32.

Grütter’s translation is predominantly foreignized, with no significant omissions or additions and the retention of all place and person names. It also imitates Dürrenmatt’s long and complex German sentences, leading to a rich, if foreignized, reading experience.

One of the very few instances of a marked semantic shift is Grütter’s rendering of ‘Zulukaffer’ as ‘Ghanaian’.11 Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Grieche sucht Griechin (Zürich: Peter Schifferli, 1955), 64; Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Griek soek vrou, trans. Wilhelm Grütter (Cape Town: Human & Rousseau, 1964), 43. A potent pejorative used during the apartheid years to refer to a black person; today, ‘kaffer’ is considered hate speech. The context in which Dürrenmatt uses it is another example of the innate racism of post-War Europe. The novel’s protagonist, unexpectedly promoted, is told that his new role consist in showing ‘Inder, Chinesen, Zulukaffer’ and whoever else is interested in the ‘edle Geburtszange’ (‘noble forceps’) around the factory.12 Dürrenmatt, Grieche sucht Griechin, 64. Whether or not the pejorative meant anything in particular to Dürrenmatt, it is an innately derogatory reference to unlikely businessmen, exotic ‘primitives’ who existed very far from the Swiss reality in 1955 but were firmly entrenched in its imaginary. And so, with one careless word, the Swiss author entered into dialogue with apartheid South Africa.

Griek soek vrou was published shortly after formal state censorship of literature was instituted in South Africa. Grütter’s replacement of the pejorative with the Afrikaans word for ‘Ghanaian’ can be read both as a cautious move to avoid the censors and as a deliberate refusal to mock the improbable figure of the Zulu businessman – whose very existence was curtailed by South Africa’s social and political realities. In doing so, Grütter, a white, Afrikaans-speaking South African, subtly challenges Dürrenmatt’s casual racism, complicating the notion of the Swiss author as a distant observer writing from the right side of history.

Another striking aspect of Griek soek vrou is its subplot involving a communist agitator who tries to persuade the Greek protagonist to assassinate the president. The attempt fails spectacularly, and when the communist eventually gains power by other means, he abandons his revolutionary ideals. Such events were not entirely remote from South African realities, where the spectre of communism was continually invoked as a justification for apartheid. In 1960, Prime Minister Hendrik Verwoerd, widely regarded as the architect of apartheid, survived an assassination attempt; six years later he was fatally stabbed in parliament by Dimitri Tsafendas, a Greek-Mozambican messenger. Griek soek vrou is hardly an endorsement of communism, yet that a novel featuring a communist agitator could circulate so successfully in Afrikaans during apartheid’s anti-communist crusade is striking.

The next translations to appear were Afrikaans versions of Dürrenmatt’s Der Richter und sein Henker and Der Verdacht, published by Simondium-Uitgewers in 1964. The former was translated by André Rossouw and Daan Retief, the latter by André Rossouw alone. I have not been able to locate the archives of the publisher, nor could I find accurate information about Rossouw.13 Albert Maritz, a close friend of the late Afrikaans actor André Rossouw suggests that it is unlikely that he was the same André Rossouw who translated Der Richter und sein Henker. Temple Hauptfleisch to Albert Maritz, electronic correspondence, 22 May 2024. Retief, by contrast, was far better known: he was a film and television director, as well as a writer of short stories, plays, radio dramas and radio serials.14 See ‘Daan Retief’, Encyclopedia of South African Theatre, Film, Media and Performance (ESAT), available at https://af.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daan_Retief.

Overwhelmingly domesticated, Die regter en sy laksman and Die Prooi contain translation errors, seemingly arbitrary lexical changes, and so many omissions as to be almost condensed versions of the original Swiss novels. Departing from the rich, meditative quality of Dürrenmatt’s writing, Rossouw and Retief’s short and simple sentences move the action forward much like in a radio drama. Lacking the complexity and depth of the original Swiss novels, these books – more than any translation thus far discussed – read like original Afrikaans novels.

As domesticated as they are, they still presented Afrikaans readers with a different world – one that questioned their internalized values. Exploring the theme of the private versus the state in Die regter en sy laksman, Dürrenmatt’s character asserts that what goes on in people’s homes has nothing to do with the police.15 Friedrich Dürrematt, Die regter en sy laksman, trans. André Rossouw and Daan Retief (Cape Town: Simondium-Uitgewers, 1964). Astute readers might have seen their own society thrown into relief – 1960s South Africa is generally considered to have been a police state, with regular policing of the goings-on in private houses.16 See Brewer, Black and Blue Policing. The 1963 Rivonia Trial was even named after the suburb in which most of its anti-apartheid activist defendants, including Nelson Mandela, were arrested – in a private residence during a raid by the Special Branch.

Die Prooi, meanwhile, argues that even the staunchest communist believes he fights for a better world.17 Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Die Prooi, trans. André Rossouw (Cape Town: Simondium-Uitgewers, 1964). Its treatment of Christianity is also far more complex than Afrikaner Christian Nationalism allowed. Not only does it compare communists with Christians, suggesting that both gain their beliefs through mere misunderstanding, but God’s omnipotence is also mocked – Jehovah, absent during the Holocaust, leaves hope, faith, and love to the Devil. When the protagonist is challenged to confess his faith in God – a central tenet of the Afrikaans Dutch Reformed Church – he fails. Christianity cannot help modern man, Dürrenmatt suggests, directing us instead to our fellow humans and to a moral code that transcends religion and ethnicity. Both of these were in perilously short supply in apartheid South Africa. Finally, Die Prooi speaks most pertinently to the South African situation when it suggests that the criminals who are worth prosecuting are those protected by the state, complicating the assumed alignment between morality and authority.

There is no evidence that either book drew the attention of the Publications Control Board. Censorship was always a flawed system, relying on voluntary submissions from the public, booksellers, publishers, and customs, and enforced by individuals who applied the Act inconsistently.18 See Peter D. McDonald, The Literature Police: Apartheid Censorship and its Cultural Consequences (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). Censors were also selective when weighing a work’s ‘literariness’, a key factor in deciding whether or not to ban it.19 Ibid., 27. Whatever the reasons for their free circulation in Afrikaans during apartheid, the case of Die Prooi, in particular, demonstrates how domesticated foreign literature that questioned local norms could still enter the Afrikaans literary canon.

The last of the Swiss novels, Frisch’s Stiller, appeared in Afrikaans in 1966 as Ek is nie hy nie, translated by Mauritz Preller and published by Afrikaanse Pers-boekhandel. Preller, better known for his Korean War novels, seems to have worked from Michael Bullock’s 1958 English version: the Afrikaans and English texts share identical additions and errors.20 Bullock adds a racial signifier when translating Frisch’s ‘köperlichen Ausdruckslosigkeit’ as ‘my inexpressive white man’s body’, a change that is retained in the Afrikaans as ‘onbeweeglike, onritmiese witmanslyf’. Bullock also mistranslates ‘Väter, die ihren entkruselten Töchtern gar peinlich waren’ as ‘fathers to whom their de-frizzed daughters were an embarrassment’, a reversal that is likewise to be found in Preller’s Afrikaans translation. Max Frisch, I’m Not Stiller, trans. Michael Bullock (New York: Vintage Books, 1958), 154, 156; Max Frisch, Ek is nie hy nie, trans. Mauritz Preller (Johannesburg: Afrikaanse Pers-Boekhandel, 1966), 115–6; Max Frisch, Stiller (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1954), 247, 250. Unsurprisingly, Preller’s translation also combines foreignizing and domesticating strategies, retaining original names, substituting equivalents for German expressions, and rendering the prose in short, simple sentences.

Even with this detour, Ek is nie hy nie is striking in how Frisch’s period-typical racism, in Afrikaans, echoes the language of apartheid. The relevant section concerns the protagonist’s attraction to his American neighbour, a ‘Mulattin’ named Florence.21 Frisch, Stiller, 245. Drawing on the racist clichés of his time, Frisch glorifies the supposed dancing ability of Black people, dwells at length on racial classification, and veers into pseudoscientific anthropology. He further ascribes to an African-American community a longing for whiteness, using it as a metaphor for his protagonist’s denial of his own identity.

Throughout, Frisch employs blunt, racist language. His descriptions include ‘die kleinen Knirpse mit ihrem Kruselhaar und ihren großen Augen’ (‘little fellows with their frizzy hair and big eyes’), ‘Damen, die der Farbe nach schon keine Negerinnen mehr waren, als Negerinnen bloß noch erkennbar an der Plastik ihres Gesichtes, an den Zähnen auch […] vor allem jedoch an der tierhaften Grazie ihrer Bewegungen’ (‘ladies who, going by their colour, weren’t Negresses anymore, who were only recognizable as Negresses by the modelling of their faces, also by their teeth […] but above all by the animal grace of their movements’), and ‘Afrikaner mit grau-schwarzer Haut und grau-violetten Lippen, mit Händen wie Boxhandschuhe, Väter, die ihren entkruselten Töchtern gar peinlich waren’ (‘Africans with grey-black skin and grey-violet lips, with hands like boxing gloves, fathers who were embarrassing to their daughters who had rid themselves of their frizzy hair’).22 Frisch, Stiller, 249–50.

Translating Frisch’s quasi-anthropological descriptions posed no difficulty for Preller, who readily recast them in the language of his own time and place. In the Afrikaans version, words like ‘geklassifiseer’ (‘classified’) appear alongside South Africa’s legal racial categories – ‘Kleurling’ and ‘blanke’ – so that the informal race relations of Frisch’s model give way to the formalized system of apartheid. Preller even goes beyond both Frisch and Bullock, adding ‘die vorm van hul skedel’ (‘the shape of their skull’) to Frisch’s anthropological musings.23 Frisch, Ek is nie hy nie, 116. Other shifts reinforce the apartheid transposition, most pointedly the rendering of ‘daß er uns Europäer allesamt in einen Topf wirft’ (‘he lumped all us Europeans together’) as ‘Ek kon sien dat hy blankes haat’ (‘I could see that he hated whites’).24 Frisch, Stiller, 250; Frisch, I’m not Stiller, 156; Frisch, Ek is nie hy nie, 117. In the end, Ek is nie hy nie addresses, in the most condescending and objectionable way, the ‘assimilationist aspirations’ of South Africa’s coloured population under apartheid.25 See Mohamed Adhikari, ‘Hope, fear, shame, frustration: Continuity and change in the expression of coloured identity in white supremacist South Africa, 1910–1994’, Journal of Southern African Studies 32, no. 3 (2006): 467–87.

Yet the book’s blatant fetishization of Black sexuality falls outside apartheid’s sanctioned scripts. Preller’s translation does nothing to downplay the protagonist’s attraction to Florence, his vivid fantasies, or his sense that he could never satisfy her. In 1966, sexual relations between those classified as white and coloured were illegal in South Africa.26 The Immorality Amendment Act 21 of 1950 outlawed ‘illicit carnal intercourse between Europeans and non-Europeans’ – now including not only those classified as native, but also those classified as coloured. Although the protagonist’s desire remains unfulfilled, its portrayal in Ek is nie hy nie could easily have drawn the censors’ attention – its failure to do so likely reflects the factors discussed above. But any claim of an anti-apartheid agenda must contend with the translation’s overtly racist language which precludes a relationship of equals. As J. M. Coetzee observes, in apartheid’s near-pathological fear of racial mixing, desire – and its denial – are a driving force.27 Coetzee, ‘The mind of apartheid’, 1–35. Ek is nie hy nie merely tapped into the fetishization of Black sexuality long present in South Africa, perhaps providing an outlet for apartheid’s suppressed desire for intermingling.

The section of Stiller I have discussed represents only a fraction of a sprawling novel exploring individual identity and the images others project onto us – a theme Frisch revisits in his play Andorra, as discussed in Chapter 3. Some aspects of the novel – most notably its frank treatment of adultery and the female orgasm – would also have shocked an Afrikaans readership at the time. Yet when Frisch’s mid-century writings on race were translated into Afrikaans during apartheid, they were strikingly at home. As the last Swiss novel to be translated, it highlights the Western European roots of the racism that would find formal expression in apartheid, challenging the notion of Max Frisch as an unambiguously anti-racist writer concerned solely with twentieth-century moral dilemmas. Ultimately, Ek is nie hy nie cautions against assuming that Swiss–Afrikaans translation automatically brought enlightened, modern literature into a repressive Afrikaans society.

The Afrikaans translations of Frisch and Dürrenmatt novels show their translators negotiating the conservative expectations of their readership and the broader political context of apartheid South Africa. This careful navigation was necessary to ensure the books could be read, a key step in Swiss literature becoming Afrikaans literature. Yet these novels – with their explorations of race, morality, and human desire – still challenged South African norms, demonstrating how translated literature could slip past ideological boundaries and resonate in unexpected ways. Ultimately, their circulation shows that translation was not merely a conduit for ‘enlightened’ European ideas or a domestication of world literature, but a space where ideas, anxieties, and prejudices were actively negotiated, revealing the porous boundaries of apartheid-era cultural control.