Shadows Over Paradise Read online

  “It’s a pleasure,” Klara responded. “And this is my friend Jane.”

  Honor beamed. “Hello, Jane. I’m Honor.”

  Jane gave her a sweet but vacant smile. “Honor? Honor …,” she repeated, then narrowed her eyes as though mulling over a difficult question.

  “I’m staying at Lanhay,” Honor explained.

  A frown pleated Jane’s brow. “Lanhay?”

  “My cottage,” Klara interposed. “Don’t you remember, Jane? Harry and I built it ten years ago. In fact you made those lovely curtains for it.”

  “Did I?” Jane asked. “Well, I do like curtains. I always have.” She turned to me, and as she held me in her clear, childlike gaze, I felt a rush of recognition that made me feel weak. I saw again Jane’s features animated by compassion; I remembered her voice, as she’d chatted away, doing her best to reassure me. I remembered her beautifully manicured hands, shuffling cards. I prayed that she wouldn’t remember me. To my relief, her expression remained blank. She hadn’t a clue who I was. Suddenly her eyes widened and she grinned at me. “Snap!”

  “Snap?” said Klara.

  “Snap!” Jane repeated.

  “You’re being silly, sweetie,” Klara said to her patiently. “Jane, this is Jenni,” she persevered. “Jenni’s staying at Lanhay while she helps me write a book. I told you that she’d be coming down for a few days—do you remember?”

  “Yes.” Jane nodded. “I do remember, and curtains are nice, yes, yes, very nice, but …” She sighed. “This isn’t Jenni.”

  “Of course it is,” Klara said gently. “Now let’s have some more tea.” She waved at the waitress, then turned to Honor and me. “What would you girls like? My treat, of course.”

  “It isn’t Jenni,” Jane insisted, a little petulantly.

  “It is,” Klara responded evenly. She picked up the menu, then glanced at me. “They do a delicious lemon cake here; let me get you some.”

  Jane was shaking her head, her lips pursed. “It’s Genevieve.”

  Klara looked at her. “No, Jane. Her name’s Jenni—as in Jennifer.”

  Honor laughed. “Actually, Klara, Jane’s right: It is Genevieve.” She looked at Jane. “But how funny that you should know that, because no one ever calls Jenni Genevieve, do they?” she added to me.

  My mouth had gone dry. “Only my mother.”

  Klara stared at me, bewildered. “I thought you were called Jennifer.”

  “No. People always assume that’s my name, but it’s not. Jane’s right.” I felt as though I were hurtling toward an abyss. And now I was falling …

  “Of course you’re Genevieve,” Jane said. “And we played snap!” She gave me an indulgent smile. “Didn’t we?”

  “Genevieve?” Klara echoed. She looked at me searchingly. Then her expression changed from one of confusion to clarity. “Of course,” she murmured. Her eyes filled with concern. “I remember you now.” And in that moment I remembered her too.

  “How did Jane know who you were?” Honor asked as we drove back to the cottage.

  “We met,” I answered tersely. “Many years ago.”

  “Down here?” I nodded. “So you’ve been to Polvarth before?”

  I changed down a gear. “Yes.”

  “You haven’t told me that. So, you came here on holiday?”

  “Yes. When I was a child.”

  “And you met Jane then?”

  “That’s right. She used to run the tea hut down on the beach.”

  “How amazing that she remembered you after so long, especially as she’s a bit confused. You must have made a great impression on her.” I didn’t respond. “And Klara said that she’s met you as well.”

  I turned off the main road. “She has. I’d … forgotten.”

  “It was great to see St. Mawes,” Honor said as I parked the car at Lanhay a few minutes later. “But, Jenni, the tide’s low now. Can we go and look at the beach before it gets dark?”

  “Of course.”

  We set off down the lane.

  “Are you okay, Jen?” Honor asked after a minute or two. “You seem a bit distracted. Is it because of Rick?”

  “No. It’s got nothing to do with him.” We came to the row of holiday houses, and I stopped at Penlee. “This is where I stayed when we came here before. It was twenty-five years ago.”

  Honor looked at the house, then we walked on, past the old red telephone kiosk and the stone gateposts of the hotel. “So you’d have been nine,” she said. “You came with your mother?”

  “Yes.” It was true. Suddenly the beach came into view.

  Honor clapped her hands. “It’s beautiful! And the tide’s right out!” The rippled sand glimmered in the low sunlight.

  As we walked down the slipway I heard his voice again, thin and high, drifting toward me.

  Evie! Wait! Please. Evie! Evie …

  “There’s the tea hut,” I heard Honor say. “It’s closed—for the winter, I suppose.” We walked across the beach, stepping round the clumps of brown seaweed that strewed the high-tide line. Honor bent down and picked up a piece of driftwood. “Look at this, Jen, it must have been in the sea for years; it’s so white, and as smooth as satin.” She held it out to me, but I barely glanced at it. “Are you sure you’re okay, Jen?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She looked about her. “It must be fantastic here in the summer.”

  You don’t have long.… Hold his hand now.

  “And the rocks are great,” Honor remarked as she walked toward them. “I couldn’t see them yesterday because they were covered up by the sea. Can we look in the rock pools?”

  Don’t want to help you.

  Well, you’ve got to.

  “If you like,” I said absently. I followed Honor across the pale sand, and we climbed up.

  “Ooh, tiny mussels!” Honor exclaimed as she stood on the first rock. She tiptoed between them. “Don’t want to crush them.” She jumped onto the next rock, then peered down, her hands on her knees. “This is a good pool—lots of nice seaweed. That’s bladder wrack, isn’t it?” she asked as I came and stood beside her. “I think that wide one’s called sea belt … Oh, look! A shrimp! Just there, by those limpets.” She straightened up and stepped onto the next boulder, then bent down to the water again, her blond hair lifting in the breeze. She stared into this pool for a few moments, then frantically beckoned to me. “Fish!” she whispered, her eyes wide. She stooped a little lower as she tried to spot it again.

  I want to hold the net.… It’s my turn.

  “It’s gone under that rock. But it was huge—at least two inches, a speckled brown color with frilly fins.” Honor laughed. “I could do this for hours!”

  The bell’s ringing, Evie.

  I can’t hear it.

  …’Member what Mum said.

  Honor leapt across a gap. “Be careful,” she warned. “There’s a gully here—it’s quite deep.” I didn’t follow her. “I’d love to see a crab,” she called over her shoulder.

  You’re … a stupid little baby!

  I can get it, Evie!

  It’s too late! You ruined it …

  “I adore rock pooling.” Honor stepped onto the next boulder. “In fact I wouldn’t mind doing it again tomorrow. We could buy a net and bucket. What do you think, Jen? Jenni?” She turned. “Jenni? What’s wrong?” She hurried toward me, jumping back over the gully again. “What’s the matter, honey?” She put her hand on my arm, her blue eyes filled with concern. “You’re crying—please tell me what’s wrong. If it’s because of Rick, crying won’t help,” she rushed on. “You’ve just got to decide what you mind most—losing Rick, or having a child when you don’t really want to, though God knows a lot of women our age would be thrilled to have a man who was keen to start a family with them.”

  “It’s not about Rick,” I murmured. “I told you it’s not.”

  “Then what is it about? What’s happened, Jen?” Honor’s expression cleared. “It’s to do with Jane, isn’t it
? She was a bit strange with you, but she’s obviously a bit confused, so I wouldn’t get upset about it.” She shoveled her hand into her pocket, pulled out a pack of tissues, and handed me a couple. “Please don’t cry, Jenni. I mean, why should what poor old Jane said upset you like this?”

  I felt a tear seep into my mouth with a salty tang. “She remembers,” I said brokenly. “They probably all remember round here.”

  “Remember what?” Honor frowned, baffled. “What do they remember, Jen?” She sat on a rock, then stretched out her hand for me to sit beside her. As I did so, she tucked her arm through mine. “Jen, honey, I hate seeing you like this. And I worry that I talk so much, I don’t give you the chance to confide in me. I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” she coaxed. I didn’t answer. “Maybe I can help.”

  “You can’t.” My throat ached with a suppressed sob. “No one can help me.” I looked at the sea, dotted with white sails. “I should never have come back! I’d persuaded myself that it might be a good thing to come back; that I might be able to find some peace at last—but I never will. It’ll always scratch at my soul.”

  Honor was staring at me. “Jenni, what are you talking about?” she asked quietly. I didn’t answer. “Please, Jen, in the name of our friendship, tell me what’s upsetting you so much.”

  “All right.” I closed my eyes. “I will.”

  Thirteen

  Klara

  In October 1944 we left Tjihapit to go to our next camp. Because there were so many of us, we were transported in groups. Our group was one of the first to go.

  As I walked to the gate I saw that, as usual on these occasions, everyone was weighed down with suitcases, sacks made of knotted sheets, and bulging canvas backpacks to which clanking pots and pans had been tied. Just in front of us were Greta and Mrs. Moonen, Shirin and Ilse. Mum, Peter, and I stood with Kirsten, and with Corrie, Ina, and the twins. In Corrie’s eyes was the usual blend of grief, outrage, and determination. Weighed down by her rucksack, she held Saskia, while Ina carried Sofie. Kirsten and I picked up the rest of Corrie’s barang. As we shuffled forward, I felt that we were no longer just a group of women and children but a family, doing our best to help and protect one another.

  As I passed through the gate, I saw two large trucks. Onto the back of these, some European prisoners, stripped to the waist in the searing heat, were loading our mattresses and luggage. It had been two years since I’d seen any European men. I was shocked at how thin they were, with corrugated chests and sunken eyes. They worked slowly despite the repeated Lekas! from their guards.

  We had to line up to be counted; then we were told to stay in our rows and wait for the bus, which would transport us to our destination.

  “It’s so good to be outside the camp,” Ina said wonderingly. She stroked Sofie’s hair. “Isn’t it, darling?”

  “It really is,” I murmured. “Even this little bit of freedom is wonderful.”

  We stared at the people as they just walked around, chatted, or rode bikes. A street seller with a basket of bananas approached us, and I longed to buy one—not that I had any money—but a guard chased him away.

  Finally the buses arrived.

  “The windows are painted black,” my mother remarked as the vehicles pulled up in a cloud of exhaust.

  “The Japs obviously don’t want us to see where we’re going,” Ina said.

  “Or to be seen,” Kirsten pointed out. I repressed a shudder.

  The doors were opened and we piled on.

  “Lekas!” the soldiers yelled at us. “Lekas!”

  The engines started. We had braced ourselves for a long journey, but after just a few minutes the bus juddered to a stop and we were ordered off.

  As I descended, I saw that we had been brought to a railway station. We sat on the platform in the rising heat, slumped against our bags. I wondered where the shining train tracks led.

  Finally, a small locomotive pulled in, and a cloud of gray-white steam blanketed the platform, making us cough. The soldiers pushed us aboard. The carriages were fourth-class coaches with no seats, just a backless wooden bench that ran along the sides. Miraculously, my mother managed to find places for us on this, while Kirsten, Ina, and Corrie sat opposite us, with the twins on their laps. Our view of one another was soon blocked by the crowd of people getting on.

  The windows, which would normally have been open to the air, were screened with split bamboo that darkened the interior. Once again, I reflected, we were being made to feel like vermin, not fit to be seen.

  “Did you see the toilet?” Peter whispered. “It’s just a hole in the floor, with no door.” He grimaced. “I shan’t use it!”

  “I don’t know how anyone will be able to get to it,” my mother pointed out. “Let’s hope we’re not on the train for long.”

  An elderly woman near to us was clearly in distress; a teenage girl stood up and gave her her seat. The woman sank gratefully onto it, breathing heavily. The heat was intensified by the crush of so many bodies, and by the metal roof on which the sun beat down.

  “It’ll be better when the train moves,” my mother said. “Not long now, my darlings.” But, to my dismay, the train just waited on the track. An hour later we were still there, drenched in sweat, gasping for air. Then, just as the ovenlike heat seemed impossible to bear a moment longer, the train squealed, clanged, and lurched forward. A collective sigh ran through the coach, like a zephyr.

  “Thank you, God!” Ina shouted from the other side of the coach. “Nice to know you were listening!”

  As the train picked up pace, some women parted strands of the bamboo, letting a few shafts of light into the dim interior.

  “We’re going through northern Bandung,” my mother said. Luxuriating in the breeze, I began to feel I could cope. But after a few minutes the train stopped again.

  “Oh no,” Peter murmured.

  “They’re doing it on purpose!” someone shouted. “To make us suffer as much as possible, God damn those rotten Japs!”

  We remained stationary for another two hours. In the suffocating atmosphere, women and children wept. Someone asked for a rag, as her child had had an accident. The elderly woman was wheezing badly, her shoulders hunched with the effort of drawing air into her lungs. She managed to tell us that she had lost her flask, so my mother gave her some of our water in a tin cup.

  Eventually the train jerked forward again. A few miles later, we pulled in at a station. The name Tjimahi rushed through the carriage. Tjimahi was where so many husbands and fathers had been interned. I parted the bamboo and peered out, desperate for a glimpse of my own father, or at least of the place where we still believed him to be. On the platform I saw soldiers, their bayonets at the ready should any of us try to escape.

  The train waited at Tjimahi for two hours. The temperature in the coach was over one hundred degrees, and the air was acrid with sweat. There were other foul smells too, as people had to relieve themselves where they stood. There were shrieks and sobs. I could hear Corrie trying to comfort the twins.

  “Don’t cry, girls,” she crooned. “Don’t cry, my darlings. We’ll be there very soon.”

  I heard Ina’s voice. She was reciting a psalm—something about lifting our eyes to the hills. Someone else began to sing “Ave Maria.” Now we heard an argument start; it quickly escalated, with shouting and crying, then there was the sound of a slap.

  “Stop it!” Kirsten yelled. “For God’s sake, stop it, and stay calm!”

  At long last, the train jerked forward.

  At dusk the heat died down, and so did the anguished voices and the weeping. Late at night we stopped at a station and someone made out the name: Purwakarta. At daybreak we reached another town, Tjikampek. There again we waited, hunger clawing our insides.

  To my joy, we now moved off again, and as the sun rose I caught glimpses of the landscape through which we passed; a paradise of palm trees, woodland groves, and flowering jacarandas. Everywhere were rice paddies, the shining water r
eflecting the blue sky and puffs of white cloud.

  “This land is so lovely,” my mother murmured. Suddenly Peter began to cry. Then he pressed his face against my mother’s arm, his thin shoulders heaving with distress.

  “Don’t be upset, Pietje,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll clean you when we get there.”

  “I’ve done the same, Peter,” I said. “Everyone has—we can’t help it. Don’t cry.”

  “They transport cattle with more dignity,” Kirsten remarked bitterly.

  “Where are we going?” someone else wailed.

  As the air now became ever more humid, we realized that we were heading for the coast. After a while we stopped yet again, this time in a siding. Two hours later we lurched forward with a squeal of metal. I saw that we were traveling past suburban villas surrounded by lawns and trees. Finally, we drew to a halt. Looking out, I saw that we were at another small station. But this time we could hear guards running up and down, yelling and banging sticks on the sides of the train and shouting, “Turun! Turun!” Get out!

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  My mother shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Peter sniffled. “What will happen now?” His face was streaked with dust, sweat, and tears.

  “We have to get off.”

  Mothers were shaking their children awake. People were picking up their bags. The soldiers unlocked the doors and we slithered across the soiled floor, then stumbled, blinking, onto a platform. It was drizzling. A dilapidated sign read TANAH ABANG.

  “We’re in Batavia,” my mother said.

  The journey from Bandung normally took four hours. We had been on the train for twenty-eight. We huddled together, exhausted, frightened, hungry, and filthy, and gratefully turned up our faces to the rain.

  As I looked back at the train, I saw that some passengers had been so shattered by the journey that they couldn’t walk and were being lifted out. I saw soldiers carrying several women, holding them by the shoulders and feet, one of them the elderly woman who’d been sitting near to us. A soldier held a little girl in his arms; she was limp, like a doll, a thin arm dangling. Another soldier carried a baby. They laid them all on the platform, side by side.