Shadows Over Paradise Page 25

  Her thin body was convulsed by sobs that now turned into a keening cry that made my heart cave in. Then, as her weeping subsided, she began, as I knew she would, to blame Mrs. Dekker. She said that she hated her for what she had done. She would hate her until her dying day.

  “If only I hadn’t upset her that time,” she wailed. “If I’d known where it would lead, I’d have kept my mouth shut.”

  “What Mrs. Dekker did was horrible, but—”

  “It was more than horrible,” she wept. “It was wicked; it was evil—she condemned my son to die!”

  “No, Mummy. She didn’t.”

  My mother stared at me through her tears. “Of course she did, Klara. Without her interference he’d have stayed here, with us, and he would have survived.” The logic of it, to my mother, was clear and unarguable.

  “But it wasn’t Mrs. Dekker’s fault that Peter was transported.”

  “Of course it was her fault,” my mother retorted angrily. “I don’t know why you’re arguing about it, Klara.”

  “Because …” I was on a precipice. I looked into the abyss, then jumped. “It was my fault,” I whispered.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded. “How? How could it be your fault?” She stared at me, her eyes red with weeping, then her expression cleared. “So you did tell them his age, that day.”

  “No. I didn’t. That’s not what I mean.”

  “What are you talking about, Klara?”

  At last I told my mother what had happened in the guardhouse. The words came out in a torrent. “They questioned me for hours. Then they said that they were going to hurt me, and that I could choose. I thought they meant that I could choose whether I wanted to be burnt by cigarettes, or to have needles pushed under my nails, or to be hung by my wrists, any of which I would have preferred to—”

  “To … what?” My mother looked confused.

  I swallowed. “They said that they wouldn’t transport Peter. I was so relieved and elated. I thanked them, again and again; I was almost crying with happiness. Then they said that instead, they’d punish you. They told me that they’d tie you to a chair for five days, maybe more. If I didn’t want this to happen to you, they would transport Peter. My choice, they said.”

  My mother gasped. “So you chose for him to go?” I nodded. “But you should have chosen me. You should have chosen me,” she repeated.

  “How could I, knowing that you’d die?”

  “No. I’d have borne it.”

  “You wouldn’t. Mrs. Tromp died after two days in the chair; Henny died after four. And you were already so frail, Mum. How could I have let them do that to you?”

  My mother’s mouth twisted with distress. “How could you have let them send Peter away?”

  Tears pricked my eyes. “Because I believed that it was the lesser of those two evils.”

  I cast my mind back to that day. As I’d waited in the guardhouse, I’d thought of Peter trying to fend for himself among hundreds of men and teenage boys. I thought of him being mistreated or abused, or not having enough to eat, or being cold at night, or getting malaria again, with no one to care for him. But then my mind would swing back to the image of my mother, tied to a chair in the blazing sun.

  “Mummy, I didn’t know what to do. Then Kochi said that if I didn’t choose one, they would do both. Then he left me for two hours to make up my mind.”

  In that time I’d convinced myself that Peter would be all right. The war would surely soon end—within weeks, people were saying. I told myself that there might be some kind men in the camp who would take pity on these young boys and help them. I even persuaded myself that my father was there. Then the soldiers returned, and I gave them my answer. I prayed that I’d never have to tell my mother what it was.

  ——

  When Herman Dekker returned to Tjideng in mid-October, he came to see Mum and me. We sat in a quiet corner of the house as he gave her Peter’s suitcase. She opened it and took out my brother’s shabby old teddy bear, then his jacket. She laid the jacket on her lap and ran her hands over the cloth. She did up the buttons. Then, clutching the bear, she asked Herman to tell her what had happened to her son.

  Herman put his hands on his thin knees, as if bracing himself. He was only twelve himself and was visibly upset. He explained that in Tjimahi, Peter had been treated reasonably well. He’d been there for twelve weeks, and things were bearable—not least because their camp leader had done his best to make sure that the boys had enough food.

  “If we’d been able to stay there, Peter might have been all right,” Herman continued quietly. “But in July we were transported again.”

  My mother looked bewildered. “Why? The war was almost over.”

  He shrugged. “It seems mad, but the Japs had started to build a new railway line between Tjitjalengka and Madjalaya. In July they transported hundreds of us Tjimahi boys to work on it. We were in the middle of the jungle, living in a camp that was just bamboo sheds with no running water and almost nothing to eat. We had to work all day in the sun, just in our shorts, with no shirts or hats. Most of us didn’t even have shoes, let alone the boots and trousers we should have had to do that kind of work.”

  “What kind of work?” my mother asked.

  “We had to move stones away from where the tracks were to be laid. That’s what we did, all day,” Herman went on, “just lifting stones from one place to another. I was working next to Peter, and he was managing all right—he was cheerful, even. He kept saying that it was an ‘adventure.’ Then one day he lifted up this big stone, and …” Herman closed his eyes. “There was a cobra.” My hand flew to my mouth.

  “But … Peter would have known what to do,” Mum protested quietly. “We’d always taught our children to keep absolutely still.”

  “He did, Mrs. Bennink. I’d seen the snake too, and I froze. We were just waiting for it to move away. But then this other boy, Markus, picked up a stone, and before we could stop him, he’d hurled it at the snake. Then I heard Peter scream. It had bitten him on his hand, which immediately started to swell. There was a doctor in the camp, so I ran to get him, and he put a tourniquet on Peter’s wrist to try and stop the venom from spreading, and we carried him back to the shed. But after a while the doctor took me to one side and he said …” Herman’s eyes glimmered with tears. “We kept talking to Peter as though everything was fine, but I think he knew that it wasn’t; he was becoming ill, and there was nothing we could do except …” Herman lowered his head. A tear fell onto his lap, darkening the pale green of his shorts.

  “Did you stay with him?” my mother asked softly.

  Herman nodded. “I didn’t leave him, Mrs. Bennink. Not for one second.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “The doctor said prayers for him, and we sang a hymn … and then we …” He put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a piece of paper with some pencil markings on it, and gave it to my mother.

  “His grave?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Herman answered. “I made a map, so that you’ll be able to find it one day. It’s marked with a big stone, with his name scratched onto it.” My mother stared at the map, her face blank with grief. “A few days later we were told that the Japs had surrendered and we were trucked back to Tjimahi. We had to stay there for another month, because of the rebels, then a group of us were brought here to Tjideng. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bennink.”

  My mother gave him a half smile. “I always knew that he wouldn’t come back. Deep down, I knew. But thank you for being such a kind friend to him, Herman.”

  As Herman left I wondered why he’d been so good to Peter. Had he found out what his mother had done and felt bad about it? Or was he just a decent boy, trying to do the right thing?

  “You should have chosen me,” Mum said again one morning as we were sitting on the steps at the front of the house.

  I looked ahead, afraid to meet her gaze. “I didn’t, because I knew that you’d die.”

  “No. My love
for my children would have kept me alive!” She gestured at the emaciated women coming and going on Laan Trivelli. “Many of these women should have died; but they refused to die, because they had to stay alive, for their children, and I would have stayed alive for mine!” Her face was tight with pain. “So that’s why you wouldn’t tell me what had happened in the guardhouse that day.”

  “Yes. Because I knew that you’d have asked to be punished instead.”

  My mother put her hands on her knees. I could see every bone in them. “If I had known that Peter would live, I would have gone through the punishment—sacrificed myself for him, if necessary. But you didn’t give me that choice. And I think that you chose for Peter to go because you needed me, Klara!”

  “No,” I whispered, appalled. “That’s not true.”

  “I looked after you, and so you were more afraid of me dying than Peter.”

  “No! I didn’t want either of you to die!”

  My mother shook her head. “Poor Hans—he’ll never get over it. I’ll never get over it. Never.”

  “Nor will I,” I said fiercely. “Especially if you’re going to blame me! You’re making me feel as though I killed Peter!”

  My mother stared at me; the color had drained from her face. I had shocked her, and shocked myself.

  After that we didn’t talk about Peter anymore. But as the days went by, I searched my conscience and wondered whether what she’d said might have been true.

  I had been terrified of losing my mother. It was what all we children in the camps dreaded most. Had that been part of my thinking, subconsciously, when I chose Peter? I didn’t know. I just wished, with all my heart, that I’d never had to make such a choice.

  Twenty

  “I’ve never told anyone what really happened,” Klara told me. “Not even Harold. My family knows only that Peter died of snakebite. They’ve never known what led up to it, or my role in it.”

  “You were put in an impossible, agonizing situation, Klara—having to choose between your mother and your brother.”

  “Yes. This was how they tortured me—it was mental torture, and the pain is still with me to this day. In her grief and anger, my mother blamed me. And that is what you and I have in common, Jenni.”

  “It’s not the same! You did what you believed was for the best. I did what I knew to be wrong.”

  “You hadn’t meant any harm, Jenni. You were just a confused, angry little girl. But it happened a long time ago, and it does seem sad that there’s still such a gulf between you and your mother.”

  “There always will be,” I said stubbornly.

  “Not necessarily. You could change that, if you wanted to.”

  I shrugged. “Did things change for you and your mother?”

  “Not for a very long time. She could hardly bear to speak to me, or be with me. She said that I’d promised to help her keep Peter with us, and had then had him transported, behind her back. She told me that it was the most dreadful betrayal—that it was unforgivable.”

  Unforgivable …

  “Klara, is that why you said sorry to Peter, the night before he left?”

  “Yes—in case I never saw him again. But I believed that the chance of him returning was far higher than the chance of my mother surviving the punishment. But she didn’t see it that way. Which made it impossible for her to accept what I had done.”

  “It must have been hard, just being with her after that.”

  “It was very hard. Sometimes I’d catch her looking at me with pain and bewilderment and I’d feel accused all over again.”

  “I know exactly how that must have felt, Klara. But these must have been such dark days for you, because you’d already lost Flora, which was bad enough, and then Peter. You must have felt that you’d lost your mother too.”

  “In a way I had, which is why I felt for you, Jenni, for what you’d been through.”

  “But how did you cope, day to day?”

  “By distancing myself from her. I helped Corrie with the twins, and I played with Lena and Greta. I talked to Ina and Kirsten and spent time with Susan and Irene.”

  “Did Irene help you?”

  “She tried. She spoke to my mother and told her that I couldn’t have known what lay ahead. She said that she herself would have made the same choice. Then she warned my mother that she had lost one child, but if she wasn’t careful, she’d lose both her children.”

  I felt tears sting my eyes. “That’s what happened to my mother.”

  Klara nodded sympathetically. “But, Jenni, you could break down the wall that’s between you.”

  “No. It’s too late.”

  “As long as you’re both alive, it isn’t too late. And surely your mother must wish for that too.”

  “She probably does, but we don’t know how to be with each other, so we keep each other at a distance. In any case, it’s still there, the knowledge that I was at fault.”

  “If you could only forgive yourself, Jenni. After all these years, isn’t it time?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll carry it with me all through my life.” I swallowed. “But did your relationship with your mother ever recover?”

  “In some respects, over time, though it was never the same. I knew that if she had my father back, this would help her. But we still didn’t know where he was, or if he was even alive. Then, in mid-October, my mother received a card from the Red Cross. It informed her that in December 1943 Hans Roland Bennink, born Rotterdam, 1912, had arrived in Japan.”

  “You must have been … stunned, to think that that was where he’d been.”

  “We were astounded. We were so relieved that he’d at least survived the journey there, because by then we knew that so many men hadn’t. Now we could only pray that two years later, he was still alive. And a few days after that, I went to the camp office, as I did each morning, to check whether there was any mail for us—and I was given this.”

  Klara reached again into the wooden box and brought out a thick airmail letter.

  I looked at the neat, looping hand. “This was what you were waiting for.”

  “Yes. With a cry of joy I ran with it to my mother, and she opened it with trembling hands.”

  “May I look at it?”

  Klara passed it to me. “Of course.”

  The sky-blue paper was brittle with age and was stamped Manila. At the top of the first page Klara’s father had drawn a four-leaf clover. There were six pages, closely written on both sides. It was in Dutch.

  “Let me translate it for you,” Klara said, so I handed the letter back to her and she put on her glasses then began to read.

  My darling Anneke,

  I have been in Manila since the 5th September but it’s only now, six weeks later, that I’m strong enough to be able to hold a pen and write to you.

  How are you, my darling—and our sweet children? Every minute of the day I pray that I will soon get a letter from you telling me that you are all in good health.

  I am in a tented camp here; the food is good and there is lots of it, and I gain a little more strength every day. We do exercises to rebuild our muscles and to pass the time while we wait to be airlifted out. The most frail POWs go first, and so I, being “healthy,” must wait, which is frustrating, as I long to be reunited with you and with our darling Klara and Peter. I’ve been out of my mind with worry about the turmoil on Java, and every minute I pray that you are all safe and well. It’s impossible to believe that it is nearly three years since I saw the three of you, spoke to you, held you in my arms, all of which I long to do again soon! But let me now tell you what happened to me—the bizarre journey that I went on—after I left Sisi Gunung.

  The truck took us to Bandung, to Tjimahi, where we stayed for five weeks. We then went to another camp called Adek, where we stayed for two months; then in mid-May we were told, to our amazement, that we would be going to Japan. At the end of August we went to Batavia, where we were held in a large school. In late September we sailed for Sing
apore on the Makassar Maru. There were two thousand men in the hold of that boat—Ralph Dekker was one of them, and we were glad to have each other’s company. On Singapore we had to build an airstrip, in the blistering heat. It was hard doing such physical work on such small rations, and some of our group died.

  In November we boarded the Maru Shichi, which was to take us to Japan. It was part of an eight-ship convoy, and once again, we were packed in like sardines. There was no way for us to wash, and the toilets were a pair of crates that hung over the side; you had to hold on for dear life or get swept away!

  After three weeks we reached Formosa, where we were allowed to wash ourselves on deck with buckets of seawater. But as we set sail again, the convoy was attacked by Chinese planes. Our boat escaped damage, but two of the other ships were sunk, and we took on survivors. Then, just before we reached Japan, we hit a typhoon. It was terrible sliding around in the hold as the ship pitched and tossed in mountainous seas. We survived that ordeal only to find that we were now freezing because in Japan it was winter and most of us were just in a vest and thin trousers. We sailed along the coast, then finally, on 3 December, we docked at Moji on the island of Kyushu in southern Japan. It was then that a sergeant told us that we were going to work in a mine. We were astounded; we had no experience of mining. At least it would be warm, one of the prisoners pointed out grimly as we stood there, freezing. Some poor lads were too weak even to stand. They just lay down in the snow.

  The Japs made us walk to the train station, dragging our bags. We tried to help the sick as much as we could, by letting them hang on our shoulders, and so we marched to the railway station in this pitiful state. If you stopped even for a moment, a Jap would run up to you and hit you with the butt of his rifle. Some boys were in such a bad way that they lay down and screamed that they wanted to die, but we lifted them up and told them to think of their families. And so we somehow dragged ourselves to the station and were put on a train.

  For once we were glad to be packed together like cattle, because that at least created heat. We traveled until we reached a small mining town called Miata. From the station we had to walk for half an hour before we reached a camp. Our beds were just thin mats on the floor. There was no heating, and we were all so cold, despite our blankets, that we slept in our clothes. That first day many men died, and every day after that a few more died, from exhaustion, dysentery, and pneumonia. By now there were 400 men left out of our original 500.