Shadows Over Paradise Read online

  “Annie, please stay,” Irene insisted quietly. “For the moment at least.” She put her hand on my mother’s arm.

  “But I want my son and my husband.” My mother was crying. “The war’s over and now I want them back—I want them!”

  “Of course you do.” Irene touched my mother’s face. “But Annie, it’s not safe to look for them now …”

  I soon understood why. We had been so cut off from the world that we had no idea that nationalism, encouraged by the Japanese, had taken hold and that an Independent Republic of Indonesia had been declared. Gangs of young men, called pemuda, were patrolling the streets with bamboo spears and saber-like swords shouting, “Merdéka! Freedom!” as they hunted for Dutchmen to kill. I tried to comprehend the idea that the people of Java, among whom we’d lived for so long, would now happily hack us to pieces. So although the war had ended, we were still confined to our filthy and overcrowded camp.

  At the very end of August we had a second postcard from Peter. Like Herman’s, it had been written on 16 June. In his free words Peter said that he had “enough to eat” and was keeping his “head up,” but he made no mention of being moved. Perhaps he hadn’t been transported after all.

  My mother pored over the card as though studying runes. “He’s fine.” She looked up at me. “He has his malaria pills and his net and enough food, and now that the war’s over, he’ll soon be back with us.”

  One day I looked up and saw Australian bombers flying over—the first Allied planes that we’d seen since the start of the war. As we waved, the sky was suddenly filled with red, white, and blue parachutes that drifted down, like petals, square containers swinging from their cords. Within a short time these boxes had been picked up and brought into the camp; tins of food were opened, though we were repeatedly warned by the hospital staff not to overeat in our emaciated state.

  Our Anglo stoves were returned; having no firewood, we gleefully ripped down panels of the gedék and began to burn those until Sakai arrived and made everyone stop. He warned that because of the rebels we needed the camp walls. So now we had to shelter behind these once hated screens as the gangs of pemuda rampaged around us. At night I’d hear gunfire and screams.

  Some women decided to take the risk and left Tjideng, but most of us believed that we were better off where we were. In the camp we were not only protected and fed, but we could more easily find out the fate of our loved ones. Now the joy at the ending of the war turned to fear and grief as the death lists from the men’s camps began to arrive.

  The Red Cross lists were put up every day, at noon, and we’d all rush to the gate to check them. During this ordeal my mother and I would hold hands. First, we’d scan the Alive list, then, with thudding hearts, the list headed Dead. All around us we saw wives and children crumpling into sobs. Some just covered their faces and remained where they stood. Others turned and walked slowly away. In early September my mother and I were in the house when Susan came to see us. She was holding a letter, and for the first time since Flora’s death, she was smiling. “My papa’s alive!” Fighting back tears, Susan explained that her mother had received a card from the Red Cross. Wil had been sent to work on the Burma-Thailand Railway and was now recuperating in Singapore.

  “Mummy started a letter to him, but she simply couldn’t find the words to tell him about …” Susan’s voice trembled. “So … I wrote it, and I’m just taking it to the office to be sent to him—but I just wanted to tell you the news.”

  “It’s wonderful news,” my mother said. “But how strange, to think that Wil was so far from Java.”

  Susan nodded. “All the time we thought he was in Tjimahi, he was a thousand miles to the north. We’re just so relieved that he’s survived; but he has to stay in Singapore for another six weeks, as he’s only a hundred ten pounds.” I tried to imagine the hefty Wil reduced to a husk, and failed. We all strolled out together to the front yard. Susan said goodbye, then turned out of the gate and stepped onto Laan Trivelli. She walked a couple of paces, then stopped. Then she lifted her hand to her head, as if to smooth down the thick blond hair that was no longer there. As we followed her gaze we saw a tall figure walking toward her.

  “Arif,” my mother murmured. “It’s Arif, Klara.” She smiled. “He’s come to find her.”

  “Of course he has,” I said.

  Arif’s face lit up as he drew closer to Susan. Now they were standing a few inches apart. She was staring at him with a look of exhilarated bewilderment.

  “There you are,” we heard him say. “I’ve been looking for you.” He handed her the tiffin box he was carrying. “But you must eat, Susan. You’re so thin. You must eat.”

  Then he put his arms around her and she burst into tears.

  Eighteen

  On Monday Klara had to take Jane to hospital to see her specialist, so I took a little time off, walking along the coastal path to Carne and back. As I looked at the sea I saw Adam, in his boat, taking in his catch. It struck me that Klara’s family knew almost nothing of what she had been through. She’d coped with her memories in silence, and despite her sadness had made a good life for herself. I needed to do the same.

  The following morning I returned to the farm. As I walked down the track I saw Klara closing the shop door. She smiled at me.

  “Jenni, could you do something for me?”

  “Sure—how can I help?”

  “I need to cut the rest of the pumpkins and bring them up here; would you give me a hand?”

  “Of course.” I put my bag down, then followed Klara across the yard into the walled garden. I enjoyed just being outside with her, away from the intense atmosphere of the interviews. It was so still that I could hear only the drone of a bumblebee as it drifted by.

  “It’s always quiet in here,” Klara remarked, as though she’d read my mind. “You can barely even hear the sea.” She took her secateurs out of her apron pocket and cut the pumpkins off their vines. I lifted them into the wheelbarrow and pushed and pulled it back up to the yard.

  “Thank you,” Klara said as we unloaded them and put them on a table by the shop door. She wiped the earth off the skins with a corner of her apron. “There are lots of children here for half term.”

  “I saw some arriving when I took Honor to the station.”

  “They go trick-or-treating, so all these will sell. Now, which would you say is the biggest?”

  The ginger cat was in the yard again, and this time it followed me up the stairs to Klara’s flat, then curled up beside me, purring.

  Klara made coffee. “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you yesterday, but Jane has regular appointments in Truro and I always take her to them, as her son works in London.”

  I stroked the cat. “You’re a very good friend to her.”

  “She’s been a wonderful friend to me.”

  “And did you ever talk to her about Java? Given how close you’ve been?”

  Klara shook her head. “Very little. I always felt I couldn’t talk about it to anyone who hadn’t been through it themselves.” She got down the Delft crockery, opened a tin, and shook some biscuits onto a plate.

  “I’ve had a lovely email about you from Gill,” I said as Klara switched on the kettle. “And I’d like to get some reminiscences of you from Jane and was wondering when we might do that.”

  “She’s coming to Adam’s art show tomorrow evening, so you could do it there.” She spooned coffee into the brown jug. “You are coming, I hope?”

  “I will come, thanks—but that’ll be my last night. I’m leaving the morning after.”

  Her face fell. “Well … I shall miss talking to you, Jenni.”

  “I’ll miss you too, Klara. I feel as though I’ve known you for years—which in a way, after all these interviews, I have.” I collected the tray of coffee things and put it on the table while Klara brought the jug.

  “But there’s something I want to show you,” I said. “You don’t use a computer, do you?”

  “I never have
done, and I feel too old to start now.” She handed me my coffee. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because there are a number of websites about the camps. There’s one in particular that’s about Tjideng.”

  “Gill did tell me about these websites, some time ago, but I told her that I didn’t want to look at them,” Klara sighed. “I find it hard enough dealing with my own memories, without having my mind full of other people’s.”

  “I can understand that. But there’s a memory of you on it, Klara. I think it’s by a schoolfriend of yours, Edda. Can I show it to you?”

  Klara’s hand shook as she poured the coffee. “Yes.”

  I took the laptop out of its bag, opened it, then looked at the screenshot I’d saved of the page. I handed it to Klara. She balanced the computer on her lap, then reached for the pair of glasses on the table. She put them on and peered at the screen.

  “Yes,” she said after a few moments. “That’s the Edda I knew; she gives her maiden name, Smits. She’s living in Hilversum, it says here …”

  “Yes.”

  “And that she has children and grandchildren.” Klara removed her glasses. She was quiet for a few moments. “Thank you for showing me this, Jenni. It’s good to know that she survived.”

  “But … do you remember the incident that Edda describes?”

  Klara didn’t speak for a moment. “Of course I remember it. I could never forget it.”

  A silence fell. “Klara, what was the terrible dilemma that you faced?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “I was put in a position where I had to make a choice—one that has tormented me ever since.” She looked at me. “But I’m not ready to talk about it, Jenni, even to you.”

  The wooden box was open. Inside it I could see the recipe book, the folded handkerchief, and some airmail letters. There was also a large brown envelope and something wrapped in white cloth. Following my gaze, Klara took this out and unwrapped it, and suddenly the lizard gleamed in my hand. I ran my finger along it from nose to tail, and imagined Irene giving it to Klara after poor Flora had died.

  “It is beautiful,” I said.

  Klara nodded. “I felt guilty for ever having wanted it. Sometimes I just hold it and think about Flora, and what her friendship meant to me. But how I wish that it had never become mine!”

  I handed the lizard back and Klara wrapped it carefully and returned it to the box. She took out the brown envelope and passed it to me. I lifted the flap, the glue of which was shiny and brittle, then gently pulled out a small painting. It was a portrait of a little boy with sun-bleached hair and laughing green eyes in a too-thin face.

  “Peter,” I murmured.

  Klara nodded. “A few days before he was transported.”

  “Did Susan paint it?”

  “Yes; she’d somehow managed to conceal her box of watercolors from the soldiers. But she caught Peter’s expression exactly.”

  I studied it for a few moments, then handed it back. “Klara … why did Peter die?” In the silence that followed I could hear the tick of the clock. “Was it malaria?”

  “It wasn’t,” she answered, “though that was what our mother had feared most.” She touched the box. “Jenni, you told me, when we started this memoir, that I could choose how honest I wanted to be.” I nodded. “But I still don’t know. And now we’ve got to this point, I’m trying to decide whether to tell you the simple, ‘on the surface’ story about what happened to Peter, which would be easy, or the deeper, truer story, which will be agonizingly hard.”

  “Klara, it’s your memoir. What you say—or don’t say—is your decision.” She slid the portrait back into its envelope, and I saw her struggling with herself. I didn’t want her to feel pressured into telling me anything that she didn’t want to. I glanced at my notes. “Perhaps we could talk about Arif. I was thinking how hard it must have been for him to recognize Susan.”

  “No. If you love someone, it’s easy,” Klara answered. “He recognized her at once, but yes, he was shocked at her appearance.”

  “How had he known where to find her?”

  Klara shook her head. “He’d had no idea where she was, or if she was even alive. But the day the war ended, he began to search for her.”

  “Wouldn’t he have assumed that she was in Singapore?”

  “No, because after the Jochens missed that ill-fated boat, Susan had written to him, telling him that they would be staying on Java. Then word spread that all the European women and children had been rounded up and put in camps. Arif thought it likely that Susan was in a camp in West Java. So he hitched a lift to Bandung and went to Tjihapit, which was almost deserted. He searched in Camp Karees, but she wasn’t there. He got a train to Batavia and went to camps Kramat and Grogol before someone told him that Susan was probably in Tjideng.”

  “How long had it taken him to find her?”

  “At least two weeks, I seem to remember, because without any money, he’d had to walk everywhere. Often he’d had to wait because the streets weren’t safe—there were snipers on every corner. He started carrying the red-and-white nationalist flag, because by then the pemuda were killing not just Europeans but any Indonesians they believed were pro-Dutch. But finally Arif got to Tjideng. And as he went through the gate, the first person he saw was Susan, walking toward him, a wraith.”

  Nineteen

  Klara

  It had been three and a half years since Susan last saw Arif. She’d had no idea if she’d ever meet him again. She told him about Flora; then, with my mother and me, she took him to see Irene.

  We asked him about everyone at Sisi Gunung. Arif said that the Japanese had cut down most of the trees for fuel and then planted castor seeds, which the plantation workers had been forced to cultivate as romusha—forced labor. They’d survived by living off the land. Arif told us that our houses had been occupied by the Japanese, but that once they’d gone, both villas had been ransacked by a mob. I hated to think of our beloved home being looted and despoiled.

  I asked Arif about our pets. He told me that Suliman and Jasmine had looked after them for as long as they could, but that Ferdi had disappeared some months before.

  “Peter will be sad,” my mother murmured. “But we’ll get him another rabbit. Or perhaps he’d like a dog. Yes, I think a little dog would be fun for him, don’t you, Klara?”

  “Yes,” I agreed uncertainly. “What about my pony?” I asked Arif. He said that the Japanese had harnessed Sweetie for dragging logs, but that he hadn’t seen him since the surrender. I felt tears sting my eyes.

  My mother reached for my hand. “We’ll search for him, Klara. Perhaps we’ll find him.”

  “So are we going to go home?” I asked her. “To the plantation?”

  “Maybe,” Mum answered. “Though Daddy will have a lot to do there by the sounds of it; but we’ll all help him, won’t we?”

  “Jaya will be glad to see Peter,” Arif said. “He’s really missed him. But where is Peter?”

  “We have no idea,” I answered.

  My mother gave me a sharp look. “Of course we do, Klara.” She turned to Arif. “Peter’s in Tjimahi—a men and boys’ camp, west of Bandung. We had a card from him not long ago, and he was fine.”

  I didn’t like to remind my mother that Peter had written that card ten weeks before. I hadn’t told her that he might be transported again. Now I just prayed that he’d soon return; it was awful having no news.

  Nor was there any information about Dad. Every morning my mother and I steeled ourselves to look at the lists, and were amazed now to understand the scale of the transport—not just of soldiers but of civilian men. They had been in labor camps in Burma, Sumatra, Borneo, and Manchuria. Many, we learned, had died aboard ships en route to Japan.

  By mid-September we still hadn’t heard. One morning we were standing by the gate when, to our surprise, we saw a Dutch pilot walk into the camp. He was the first Dutch serviceman we’d seen since the war started. He stared at the skeletal women and
children who flocked to him, some of them bowing, as we still did, automatically, to anyone in uniform. The pilot told us that his name was Captain Arens and that his wife and young son were in Tjideng. He’d come to collect them in his seaplane, which was moored in the harbor. Someone rushed to find them, and when the man’s wife and son ran to him and flung themselves into his arms, it was for most of us a bittersweet sight. But this man was so moved by our plight that he offered to take letters for us all, immediately, to post to Holland. We all rushed around looking for something to write on. My mother found a scrap of paper and a pencil stub and wrote a note to her parents saying that she and I were fine but that we were still waiting to hear about Hans and Peter.

  By the time my grandmother received that note, we’d had news.

  One day, in late September, my mother and I had gone to check the lists as usual, but as usual there was nothing.

  “No news is good news,” I intoned as we turned away. “No news is …” All at once the camp official came out of the office again, holding another list. As she pinned it up, my mother and I walked toward it. My mother reached for my hand and squeezed it, hard. Then I felt her fingers go loose.

  Dead.

  It was as though there was no other name.

  Bennink.

  My instant reaction was that it must be my father. But as we drew closer, we saw P.H. in front of it and, after it, 8 April 1935–10 Aug. 1945. Tjitjalengka.

  My mother’s knees buckled. I held her—she felt so light—then we walked slowly away. With nowhere else to go, we went back to the house, closed the net around us, and let in the darkness of a life without Peter.

  “I should have fought harder to keep him with us,” she whispered.

  “You did everything you could, Mum. You never gave up.”

  “I knew that I was fighting for his life. But I lost,” she added bleakly. “I lost. But … why was he in Tjitjalengka?”

  “He must have been transported there.”

  “Yes …” She blinked. “That would explain it. But I wonder what happened to him, Klara. We don’t know what happened to him, do we? We don’t know what happened to him or why he …”