Shadows Over Paradise Read online

  Jasmine and my mother were always cleaning, because in the tropics mold and mildew take hold very quickly. They’d hang the rugs up in the sun and bang the weevils out of them. They’d take books off the shelves and wipe the covers and give all the clothes a vigorous shake. I remember once my mother being very upset about a favorite dress of hers that Peter, ill with typhoid, had thrown up on. She had taken it off and left it in the pavilion; when she went to wash it the following morning, the part he’d been sick on had been eaten away.

  Every week the floors had to be disinfected or the insects would move in. If termites showed up, we’d have to place the furniture legs in saucers of carbolic acid. Once, we forgot to do this with our piano, and they destroyed it from inside, leaving hillocks of sawdust beneath. And I remember, once, seeing a huge bird spider scuttle across my bedroom floor. It was so large that I could hear its feet clicking on the tiles, a memory that still makes me shudder seventy years later! So I remember this constant battle we all waged against bugs—cockroaches and moths, stick insects and giant centipedes the length of a forearm, creatures that I could never even have imagined back in Holland. But I always thought of the East Indies—never the Netherlands—as home.

  Although I’m Dutch, I have almost no childhood memories of Holland. I know about my early years there only from my parents, Anneke and Hans, and from my grandparents, Oma and Opa, who lived near to us in Rotterdam. My grandfather worked on the canals, leading the horses along the towpath as they pulled the barges. I’m sad to say that I can barely remember him, because by the time we returned home he had died, in the terrible “hunger winter,” before Holland was liberated from the Nazis. I know that Opa was a simple man, with little learning, while Oma was well educated, well read, and determined that her daughter be the same. So my mother went to high school, then on to college, where she studied to be a teacher. She met my father ice-skating, and they were married within a few months.

  My father worked for an electrical engineering company, but in 1936 he was laid off because of the slump. According to my mother, he was in despair, especially as by that time they had two children; but then he got a job as the manager of a rubber plantation in West Java. He went out there first. Three months later my mother, Peter, and I followed.

  We left for Java on New Year’s Eve. I know this because my mother used to say that it had seemed such an auspicious day for us to be setting off for our new life. But she could never have imagined that the “earthly paradise” to which we were sailing would, within a few years, become a living hell. But to Java we went, taking with us a single crate that contained my parents’ wedding china, their books, and our clothes.

  We sailed from Amsterdam on the SS Indrapoera, which was a wonderful white steamship, like a floating castle. I remember the icy cold as we stood on the deck waiting to leave. My mother held Peter, who wasn’t yet two, in her arms, and she and I waved hankies at my grandparents—two dark-coated specks on the quay far below. Some passengers had brought white towels to wave, and I wished that we had done so too, as I was certain that it must have been hard for Oma and Opa to spot us in the crowd. My mother was smiling and crying, and as the foghorn sounded our departure, she called out to her parents, “Goodbye … we’ll miss you … we love you,” even though they couldn’t possibly have heard. As a goodbye gift they had given her an expensive new Agfa camera, and she’d promised to send them photos whenever she could.

  The journey to Java took four weeks. It must have been hard for my mother, because she had to cope with a toddler while also looking after me. I remember how rough it was as we went through the Atlantic, becoming warm and calm as we turned in to the Mediterranean. It was strange going through the Suez Canal and seeing the palm-tree-dotted desert stretching away on either side, as though we were sailing across the land.

  There were games and entertainments on board. I remember the children’s fancy-dress parade. My mother said that I was to be Assepoester, or Cinderella. I thought I’d be wearing a wonderful gown, but my mother explained that as she didn’t have any fine material with which to make me one, I was to be Cinderella in her everyday rags. So she cut down an old green petticoat of hers, shredded the hem, then tied string round my waist for a belt. She messed up my hair, dabbed smuts on my face with her mascara, and found a brush for me to hold. Then she took a photo of me to send to Oma and Opa. Years later, when we really were in rags, filthy and barefoot, my mother told me that she had come to see that costume as an omen; and I remember, after the war, when we returned to Holland, and my mother saw that photo of me again, she cried.

  At the end of January we sailed into Batavia, the old name for Jakarta, and as we walked down the gangway we saw my father waving at us. I was so excited! I remember him kissing my mother, passionately, and in that instant I realized how much he loved and needed her. He kissed and hugged Peter and me, then carrying Peter in one arm, he picked up our case and shepherded Mum and me through the crowd.

  We traveled to Bandung in order to buy the things that we’d need. The buildings there were different from any I’d ever seen: mosques with oriental domes, elegant teahouses, and gorgeous emporiums. There were beautiful women, dressed in batik sarongs and kebayas, elegant, fitted blouses, with frangipani flowers pinned in their hair. There were expensive cars, but we went everywhere by delman, a pony trap, a mode of transport I adored. After a few days in Bandung we drove up into the mountains, to the plantation, which was called Sisi Gunung, which means “mountainside.”

  I often think how brave my parents were to go halfway across the world to start a new life, in a place they had never even seen—especially as neither had ever traveled outside Holland. On Java they had to get used to so many new things, not least the local language, Malay, which they both had to learn. There was the constant threat of malaria, typhoid, cholera, and dysentery; adjusting to the equatorial climate must have been hard. There were two seasons—wet, when we were often deluged, and dry, when it could be blisteringly hot. But against these hazards and discomforts my parents weighed the freedom of not having to wear winter clothes, and the bliss of seeing blue skies for much of the year. Added to which they loved the Javanese landscape with its mountains, waterfalls, and shining rice fields.

  I find it strange, to think that I’ve lived for so much longer than either of my parents. They’re so often in my thoughts, and I see them as they were when I was a child. My father was big and strong with fair hair and deep brown eyes; my mother was short and plump, with moss-green eyes and long auburn hair that she’d twist into a bun. She was always wonderfully calm. I remember once she was reading to me when Jasmine came running, screaming, with Peter, then two, in her arms. She’d found a python curled around the toilet. When my mother went to look at it she didn’t even cry out; she simply called Ismail, who killed it, then stretched it out on the lawn. It was, he said, a “baby”—five feet long.

  Another time I lifted a rock in our garden and a scorpion ran toward me, its stinger raised. But my mother just stamped on it, then warned me not to lift up rocks again. She had terrific sangfroid. She was also very good at first aid. She’d never scold me for my cuts and grazes, usually sustained doing things that I’d been told not to do; she’d just get out the iodine and dressings, bandage me up, then firmly tell me not to do it another time. During the war she was going to need those healing skills, and every bit of that inner calm, as, like thousands of women, she would be tested to destruction.

  My father was full of energy and drive. I used to love going out into the forest with him to watch him supervise the rubber harvest. Sometimes he’d let me cut the diagonal line into the tree and tie the coconut shell beneath it to catch the milky-white drips. Then we’d go back a few hours later and collect the latex and take it to the shed, where it was mixed with acid to make it congeal. It was then pressed into dark yellow sheets, which were hung up on wooden ceiling racks to dry. Peter and I used to scour the floor for bits of “scrap” and try to make balls by binding them w
ith raffia, but they never bounced very well.

  My father also managed the forest, planting saplings, disinfecting the diseased trees, and clearing the dead or dying ones. He walked miles every day and worked from dawn until dusk. He was a gentle, good-humored man. But if he thought that a worker wasn’t pulling his weight, he would take him to task. He could also be tough with me. I remember once—I must have been about six—I found a pair of scissors and impulsively cut off my long, fair hair. When my father saw me, he marched me to the barber and asked him to give me a short back and sides, like a boy, to punish me for trying to make myself look like one. But I adored my new, cropped style, and I have worn my hair short ever since.

  I used to love going with my mother to the market in the local village or kampong. The stalls would be piled high with mangoes, papayas, and spiky red lychees, the air filled with the scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and coffee beans, and the delicious smell of nasi goreng. Often there’d be gamelan music playing, and the shopkeepers would stand outside their stores, enticing us in. Sometimes vendors would cycle up to our house with bales of batik, silks, and shantung, and we’d sit with them on the verandah and look through their wares.

  I remember how excited Peter and I were when our father bought his first car. It was a dark green Ford, and on weekends we’d all get in it and drive into the forest. Dad would turn off the engine, and we’d sit very still, hardly daring to breathe as the wildlife came out—troops of gray monkeys with rust-colored babies clinging to their chests and tiny deer as well as peacocks and toucans. Just once, when I was eight, we saw a panther. I can still see its dark beauty as it slinked past us in the shadow of the trees.

  My favorite place was the swimming pool. It was high up, and commanded a wonderful view of the mountains all around us and, below us, of the forest, the plantation buildings, the houses and kampong. On Sundays we’d spend the whole day at the pool, usually with the Jochens, who were the only other Europeans at Sisi Gunung. Wil Jochen was the boss. He did the general administration and the rubber exporting, while my father supervised the day-to-day agricultural work.

  Wil was short and fat, with thick calves, a barrel chest, and a voice that could be heard all over the plantation. But his wife, Irene, who was English, was very gentle and softly spoken, as were their daughters, Susan and Flora. Susan was six years older than Flora and was slender and pale, like Irene, with waist-length blond hair that she would let Flora and me brush. Susan was always sketching and painting and told us that she longed to be an artist when she grew up.

  Flora, who was my age, looked more like her father, sturdy and short. She had dark brown eyes and blunt-cut chestnut hair that had a wonderful shine, which I envied. Almost from the day we met, Flora and I were inseparable; always at each other’s side as we played around the plantation and at school.

  The nearest Dutch schools were in Bandung, three hours away. So Flora’s parents and mine rented a house there and our mothers took it in turns to look after us all, a month at a time. On the holidays we’d return to Sisi Gunung.

  I could sense that my father didn’t much care for Wil—I think he disliked his overbearing manner. But my mother and Irene were great friends. I became very fond of Irene too, and because of the time I spent with her, I picked up a good deal of English. I used to like looking at the copies of the Home Notes magazine that her parents sent her each month from their home in Kent. In particular, I enjoyed reading the recipes. I’d copy them out so that my mother could make cottage pie or brandy snaps or scones, although the imperial measurements mystified me. Why should the word ounces be abbreviated as ozs when there was no z in it? And why was there no l or b in the word pound?

  I think I was an inquisitive child, nosy even, always fascinated by what the grown-ups were saying. I remember one summer, walking up the Jochens’ drive and hearing Irene and Susan talking in English on the verandah. Susan was very upset, and Irene was trying to placate her, reassuring her that her father would “soon calm down” and to “ignore him.” But when they saw me, they immediately started chatting to me in Dutch as though everything was fine.

  Later, when I asked Flora about it, she told me that her father had discovered that Susan was in love with one of the rubber tappers, Arif. Arif was sixteen to Susan’s fourteen, tall and very attractive, with a warm smile and an athletic grace. Even I, at eight, could sense his appeal. That morning Wil, idly looking through Susan’s sketchbook, had found a portrait of Arif.

  “Dad went berserk,” Flora told me, her eyes wide.

  “Why?”

  “Because you can tell, from Arif’s big moony eyes, that he’s in love with her too. But Dad shouted at Sue that he wouldn’t have her ‘throwing herself away’ on an Inlander. Mum said that it was just a teenage crush and that he was being ridiculous. But Dad tore the portrait up, then told Arif that he’d sack him if he even looked at Sue again.”

  I remember trying to imagine what my own parents would say if I’d been Susan’s age and it had been me. I decided that they wouldn’t mind. They’d never tried to stop Peter and me being friends with the local children. Peter’s best friend was a boy named Jaya who lived in the kampong. He and Peter fished together in the pond, digging up ant eggs for bait. Jaya would bring his wooden chess set up to our house, and they’d set it out on the verandah and play. Because Peter was too young to start school, Mum taught him his letters and numbers. If Jaya was around, he’d join in, and my mother used to say how good he was at maths.

  A few of the Dutch people we knew had criticized my parents for their “naïve” attitude toward the local people. Wil Jochen sometimes muttered about it. Ralph and Marleen Dekker, tea planters at Tasikmalaya, a few miles away, openly disapproved. Their son, Herman, was two years older than Peter, and our families occasionally visited each other, though my mother disliked Mrs. Dekker’s air of superiority; her mother had been a lady-in-waiting to Queen Wilhelmina, and Mrs. Dekker made sure that everyone knew it. But my dad wanted to be on good terms with the other planters in the area; and so one April Sunday—it was Peter’s birthday—the Dekkers came over for lunch.

  I remember Mrs. Dekker’s expression as she watched Jaya splashing about in the pool with Peter and Herman. Then she turned to my mother. Was it “quite wise,” she asked her, to “cross the social boundaries”?

  “Jaya’s a dear little boy, Marleen,” my mother responded. “He and Peter are great friends.”

  “But Anneke—to let him swim!”

  “Herman and Peter don’t seem to mind, Marleen. Why should you?”

  “Because this sort of familiarity isn’t … right.”

  “It’s right in our home,” my mother retorted calmly.

  “No good can come of it,” Mrs. Dekker insisted. “It’s my belief that you’ll regret it.”

  My mother’s face flushed. “What is there to regret about a happy friendship? As for no good coming of it, I believe that you’re wrong. It surely is good for children of different cultures to have fun together, because that builds understanding, which, heaven knows, the world needs more than ever at the moment.”

  “But the fact is—”

  “Don’t tell me,” my mother interrupted, “that ‘east is east and west is west.’ How often have I heard that in this country?”

  “That’s because it’s true,” Mrs. Dekker insisted. “We’re not the same as the Inlanders, Anneke. You shouldn’t pretend that we are.”

  My mother flinched. “I’m not pretending anything, Marleen. I’m simply surprised that you would object to a nice little boy having fun—especially as it’s my home that he’s having fun in, not yours. And to be frank, I find your high-and-mighty attitude rather ridiculous, given that we planters are really no more than glorified farmers!”

  Mrs. Dekker didn’t answer, but I remember being aware of a sudden chill in the air, and shortly afterward, the Dekkers left.

  This incident seemed, on the surface, a trivial matter, but afterward my mother said she felt bad about it and wis
hed that she’d restrained herself. My father assured her that it would soon be forgotten. It wasn’t, and it would come back to haunt my mother in a devastating way.

  As for the views that she had expressed, they were consistent with what she and my father had always taught Peter and me—that we were no better or worse than anyone else on Java. We were simply lucky to be living in such a beautiful and bountiful country—over which a shadow was falling.

  As children we were vaguely aware that war was coming to Europe—a place that, to us, seemed so remote, it might as well have been another planet. But the grown-ups talked of little else. At that time everyone listened to the Dutch East Indies radio station. From this we knew that Britain and France had declared war on Nazi Germany, and that Canada had then done so too. As Germany seized one country after another, the adults became more and more somber. They kept talking about the “neutrality of the Netherlands.”

  “What’s that mean?” Peter asked as we all ate supper one night.

  “That Holland has chosen to stay out of the war,” my mother explained. “Which means that Hitler wouldn’t dare to invade it.”

  “He would,” my father countered bleakly. “And he will.” Then in May 1940, during half term, my mother switched on the radio and we heard the newscaster announce that the Kingdom of the Netherlands had fallen. My mother closed her eyes. I looked at my father.

  His head had sunk into his hands.

  Six

  I was surprised at how easily Klara confided in me that first day. The diffidence that she’d shown at first quickly evaporated, and she’d revisited her past with a passionate immediacy, as though describing very recent events. I felt myself warm to her, though she seemed almost oblivious to me as she spoke, in a low voice, her hands clasped, looking slightly away.