Shadows Over Paradise Page 12

  “Not always,” she answered to my surprise. “In fact there was a time—quite a long time—when my mother would barely speak to me.”

  “You mean there was a rift?”

  “Yes. A terrible one.” She looked away. “Perhaps I’ll tell you about it, when I feel ready.”

  “If you want to, Klara. If you don’t want to, that’s fine.” She nodded. “But you have a good relationship with your sons.”

  “I do. I see less of Vincent, obviously, although he phones me every week. But both he and Henry have been very good to me. Children are a huge comfort, Jenni. And you know, parenthood is a great adventure.”

  I bristled. Klara was pushing the idea of children at me. “I’m sure it is, Klara. But it’s not the only adventure that life has to offer. Anyway …” I’d opened up to her enough. I got out my tape machine. “Let’s get back to work.”

  Nine

  Klara

  I missed my father so much—his physical presence, his voice, his steps on the verandah as he came and went. I missed having him tease me, and read to me and Peter at bedtime. Day after day I’d try to imagine where he was. Did he sleep in a dormitory or in a cell? Was he warm enough at night? Had he been able to hang up his kelambu, his mosquito net? Did he have enough to eat?

  “You mustn’t worry about your father,” my mother told me. “He’s a big, strong man, he’s very robust. He’ll just think about how much we love him, and he’ll be fine—we’ll all be fine. But please, darling, my life isn’t easy without him, so I need you to be good.”

  I’m ashamed to say that Peter and I weren’t good. Without two parents to keep us in check, my brother and I ran wild, or squabbled incessantly. I took to bossing him about, and Jasmine and my mother were too busy to intervene. Jasmine was looking after things at home while my mother kept the rubber production going. It was strange seeing her, rather than my father, checking that the trees had been tapped and the latex collected, or inspecting the pressed sheets in the shed. It was even stranger seeing Mum opening the safe every Friday to pay the workers, or listening to their complaints.

  Being a child, I thought only of my own sadness. I didn’t think about how hard life must have been for my mother or how much she must have missed my father. I gave no thought to how afraid she must have felt, especially at night, in case any rampokkers decided to try their luck, or any Japanese soldiers came up to the house. Worse, though, than any of these fears, was still not knowing where my father was.

  We’d heard that most of the civilian men were being held in Tjimahi, so twice a week we wrote to him there. Peter and I would tell him how our crops were growing, and we’d enclose drawings of ourselves, standing in the sunshine by the cherimoya, all smiles. One day Peter drew tears onto his face, but I made him rub them off.

  “It’s bad enough for Dad,” I said crossly. “Don’t make him feel sad!”

  For weeks we heard nothing. Then, one morning, Mum received an envelope stamped Tjimahi. Inside was a card from our father. We were thrilled to hear from him at last, but the card was very strange. It was typed with a list of prescribed phrases that he had circled to say that he was “eating healthy food” and doing “useful work.” He was also allowed twenty-five free words, in Malay, as Dutch had been banned. He wrote that he was “fine,” but that he missed us and that we must all keep our “heads up.” In one corner he had drawn a four-leaf clover.

  A couple of months after this, my mother called Peter and me to her. In her hand was an official-looking letter.

  “Now we have to leave the plantation,” she told us.

  “Where will we go?” Peter asked.

  “Are we leaving Java?” I wanted to know.

  “No.” My mother sighed. “We can’t, because of the Japanese. Java seems to have become a prison, from which we can’t escape. In any case, we wouldn’t want to leave without Daddy, would we?”

  “Of course not!” Peter exclaimed. “I’d never leave Java without him.”

  “So where are we going to go?” I demanded.

  My mother frowned. “We have to go into a camp.”

  Peter clapped his hands. “Perhaps it’ll be the same one that Daddy’s in!”

  She shook her head. “It will be a camp just for women and children. This letter doesn’t say where it is, only that a truck will come to pick us up tomorrow, at dawn. So let’s go inside and pack, quickly, as we don’t have much time.”

  “Are you sad?” I asked her in Malay as she and Jasmine got down our leather cases.

  “I am,” my mother replied. “I’ll be very sad without Jasmine.” Jasmine was weeping. “We’ll miss everyone here. We’ll miss our home.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes as the reality of what was happening sank in. “What about Sweetie? And Ferdi?”

  “What about Jaya?” Peter wailed. “Can’t he come with us?”

  Mum stroked his hair. “Of course he can’t, darling. What would his mother say? As for the pets, Jasmine will look after them until we’re back.”

  “I will,” Jasmine promised. “Don’t worry, children. You will be home very soon.”

  “The Allies will come, and they’ll drive the Japanese out of Java,” my mother reassured us. “But until that happens we just have to be cheerful, and look on this time as an adventure.”

  The letter stipulated that we were to take a roll-up mattress each, plus whatever other barang, or luggage, we could carry. Mum got out the rucksacks that she’d made us, with the clothes and rations inside; then she and Jasmine filled our suitcases with mosquito nets, sheets and towels, cups and plates and books. Onto her own case Mum tied a wok, and a small Anglo stove. Into Peter’s she tucked his teddy bear, his Meccano erector set, and a small wooden Spitfire that Dad had made him. Then Peter went to his cupboard and pulled out his best navy blazer.

  “You won’t need that smart jacket, darling,” my mother said to him.

  “I will,” he replied as he packed it. “Because I’m going to wear it on the day we see Daddy again.”

  At that I got out my yellow silk party dress and gave it to Mum. Without saying anything, she laid it in my case.

  I asked her what would happen to everyone on the plantation. She answered that for now the rubber production would stop. Then she went into Dad’s office, opened the safe, and asked Suliman to call the workers. She gave them each two months’ pay; then, when she’d done that, she paid Suliman and Jasmine six months’ wages, to look after the house and our pets, and to distribute the crops to the plantation families. The rest of the money, Mum put in her bag.

  Peter was desperate to tell Jaya what was happening, but Mum said that it was too late to go and see him.

  “We’ll write to Jaya when we get to the camp,” she said soothingly.

  The next day marked the start of our internment. It’s a day that’s remained etched on my mind.

  We rose before dawn and had our last breakfast at Sisi Gunung. As a pink light filled the sky, I went into Sweetie’s stall, put my arms round his neck, and promised that I’d come back to him soon. While Peter and I were saying goodbye to Ferdi, we heard the crunch of heavy tires on the gravel and saw an open truck, like the one that had come for my father, bumping up the drive. Three soldiers with rifles jumped down and opened the back. It was crammed with women and children, all standing, their hair matted, their faces filmed with dust.

  “Lekas!” the soldiers shouted at us. “Lekas! Goh!” Jasmine kissed Peter and me, hugged us, then put her arms round my mother. Suddenly I heard rapid steps and the sound of the gravel being scattered, then Jaya hurtled up to us, out of breath. He was clutching a batik bag. He gave it to Peter. Inside was Jaya’s beloved chess set. In Malay, Jaya told Peter that he was “lending” it to him and that he had to “bring it back soon.” Peter smiled and promised that he would, then he and Jaya hugged until a soldier forced them apart, pushing himself between them. Suliman put our bags and mattresses on the truck, then he lifted Peter and me up and clasped our hands in both of h
is. Then he helped my mother to climb on. We waved to him, and to Jasmine and Jaya, then, as the tailgate was shut, I took one last look at my beloved home.

  The drive down from the hills was hell. The truck was so full that there was no floor space for anyone to sit, and we had to hold on to one another as we swung round the bends. The sides of the vehicle were very high, and we couldn’t see anything except the sun blazing down on us, and the crowns of the palm trees waving above us. Where was the camp, we all wondered—in the jungle? Or was it in a former prison or a disused barracks? These, we knew, were the kinds of places that had been turned into the “civilian internment centers” that had sprung up all over Java.

  The truck was painfully slow and kept on breaking down. At one point we all had to get out while it was fixed. This was a blessing, as we were desperate for water, which some local women, seeing our sorry state, brought us.

  “Drink,” they whispered as they handed round coconut shells. “Minum. Drink.”

  At last the truck was fixed and we got back on.

  As we recognized the tops of the buildings, we realized that we were entering Bandung. We drove past our school—I recognized the green-tiled roof and the moon-and-stars weather vane. I thought of the smart uniform that I had worn there each day, my face washed, my hair brushed and braided. Now we were disheveled and dirty. I panicked at the thought of Miss Vries seeing me like this, then remembered that the school had been closed for a year and a half, and that I had no idea where Miss Vries was. I wondered whether she was still called Miss Vries, given that she had been due to get married.

  We came to the north part of the city, which, we now understood, was our destination, and the truck stopped. As the back was dropped down we saw that the whole area was enclosed by a plaited bamboo fence, called a gedék, topped with barbed wire. There was one gate, with a watchtower that was manned by four soldiers armed with rifles and bayonets. Someone said that the camp was called Bloemencamp, as the streets here were all named after flowers.

  The truck made several stops, as women and children climbed out with their belongings. When we got to a street called Orchideelaan, it stopped again. This time Mum, Peter, and I were told to get down; we picked up our luggage and were escorted to a bungalow. As we looked at it we thought that it would be bearable, though smaller than what we were used to. But when we went inside we saw, to our amazement, that it was already full of people—about thirty women, girls, and boys, one family group to a room. We were assigned a small storeroom at the back of the house.

  My mother and I put the mattresses inside, then laid them down beneath the shutterless window. Our rucksacks, stuffed with towels, became pillows; our suitcases, small tables. It was gezellig, my mother said, as she pinned a picture to the wall. Cozy. Then she put her arms round us and told us that there was nothing to fear. We had shelter, gas to cook with, electricity, and water. We must just keep our heads up, as Daddy had urged us to do. We were with other women and children, and we’d all help one another get through this stressful time.

  “Let’s play chess,” Peter said. He put Jaya’s set out on top of his suitcase, and he and I had a game. Peter no longer had Jaya, I reflected, and I no longer had Flora. We would keep each other company.

  Just before nightfall, my mother hung up our kelambus, but there wasn’t room for all three, so she had one, while Peter and I shared another. I had never shared a bedroom with him, so it was strange to be cocooned together, inside the net. In a short while we heard “Lights out!” and the room was plunged into darkness.

  “It’s noisy, isn’t it?” Peter murmured after a while.

  “Very,” I murmured back.

  I could hear people talking, coughing, yawning, and praying. Several children were crying; someone was singing a lullaby—Sleep, baby, sleep. I realized that Peter had drifted off. But I stayed awake, listening to his soft, steady breathing. It reminded me of the sound of the sea.

  We were woken early. Everyone rushed out of bed. I soon understood why: There was only one loo in the house and one basin, and a mad dash for both.

  “I wonder what happens now,” my mother said to us as we waited in the line to wash. “Could you tell us, please?” she asked the woman standing in front of us. She was about twenty-five, blond, with a broad face and hazel eyes that were flecked with gold.

  “What happens now?” The woman laughed. “What happens now is what happens every morning—and evening—blooming tenko.”

  “Blooming tenko?” Peter echoed. “What’s that?”

  “Roll call,” the woman replied wearily. “Tenko means ‘counting.’ You’ll soon know your Japanese numbers, young man.”

  We had some of the food that we’d brought with us for breakfast, then we followed everyone out of the house, down the street, onto a field where soldiers were harrying the women and children into rows and columns, five across and about a hundred deep.

  “Now what?” I asked my mother as we lined up on the pale, dry grass.

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know.” It was the first time I’d ever seen my mother look vulnerable and unsure. It scared me.

  As I looked around, still exhausted and confused from yesterday’s journey, I spotted a classmate in the row behind me. Greta and I had never been especially close, but I was elated to see her and we grinned at each other. She had coppery hair and very pale, freckled skin, except that her skin wasn’t pale, I now saw; it was brown, as though all her freckles had joined up. Standing next to her was her grandmother, Mrs. Moonen, who was also her guardian, Greta’s parents having died of typhoid when Greta was three.

  My mother turned to Mrs. Moonen. “What are we all waiting for?” she asked.

  “We’re waiting for the commandant to come,” Mrs. Moonen whispered. “But don’t talk, or they’ll punish you.” Punish. It was a word that we were to hear again and again.

  We faced forward, and now saw that at the front of the field was a platform on which a woman was standing. She was Belanda Indo—a person of Dutch and Indonesian parentage. Holding up a megaphone, this woman informed us, in Malay, that she was the camp’s translator. She told us that during tenko we must all face east toward Japan. She explained that the commandant would soon arrive, and that when he did, she would shout Kiotsuke!—“Attention!”—and then Keré! which meant “Bow!” It was important to bow in the correct way, she went on, because we were really bowing to the Japanese emperor. To bow in a sloppy way would be to insult His Imperial Majesty, and we would be punished. She then explained that we had to bend from the waist at an angle of thirty degrees, and that we must stay like that until we heard Naore!—“Stand up!”—after which would come the command Yasume!—“Dismiss.” The translator added that we must also bow to any and every Japanese soldier, but must never look them in the eye, since we were “not worthy.” Should we dare to do so, we would be severely punished.

  Peter looked stricken. “We’ll be punished?”

  “Yes. If we look the soldiers in the eye,” my mother whispered, “or don’t bow correctly.”

  “Why do we have to bow?” he demanded. “It’s silly. I won’t!”

  “You must,” my mother hissed.

  I remembered the promise that we’d made our dad.

  “I’ll bow,” I whispered. “And you have to do it too, Pietje. No arguments, remember?”

  Our mother sighed with relief. “Thank you, children.” Her face shone with perspiration. “Let’s just hope the commandant comes soon.”

  But he didn’t come, and the temperature was rising by the minute. We’d been standing there for three hours. Sweat trickled down our foreheads, stinging our eyes; it plastered our clothes to our backs. We had to brush ants off our feet and ankles and swat away flies. As the sun rose ever higher, I thought of Ferdi, and of how concerned my father had been to provide shade for that little animal; but here we were, women and children, exposed for hours to the sun’s rays with no hats or sunglasses permitted, and not even the elderly or infants allowed to si
t down. Now I understood why Greta, normally so pale, was dark brown.

  All around us babies wept and screamed; people sobbed and begged for water; a woman in front of us collapsed but was jerked onto her feet by two guards. Peter, exhausted, kept trying to lie on the ground, so Mum and I held him upright between us.

  At last the commandant arrived. He carried a whip, and his tall black boots shone in the sun. His sword hung from his waist. I couldn’t help staring at it, imagining it slicing and slashing …

  “Keré!” screamed the interpreter. We all bowed.

  “Lower,” my mother whispered to Peter and me. “Get right down!”

  “Why?” Peter asked.

  “Just do it!” I said.

  “Naore!”

  We all straightened up.

  The interpreter jumped off the platform, and the commandant sprang onto it, like a fox. He planted his legs wide, folded his arms, then shouted that we were extremely fortunate to be guests of the Japanese emperor, and to be under the benevolent protection of the Imperial Japanese Army. In return for this benevolent protection, he went on, we had to behave well, never try to escape, keep ourselves clean, and dress modestly. We weren’t to gamble, drink alcohol, or brawl, and we had to speak only Japanese or Malay, not Dutch, which was forbidden. Most of all, we must do “useful work.”

  “Keré!” shouted the interpreter again. Everyone bowed as the commandant strode off.

  “Yasume!” We were dismissed. I felt giddy with relief. As Greta and I walked off the field, she told me that she and her grandmother had been in this camp for a year. We talked about our classmates, but she didn’t know what had happened to any of them; she said that there were many other camps where they might be. “We’re all prisoners now,” she added quietly.