by Isabel Wolff
All the Europeans had to go and register with their local police station, as though we were now aliens on Japanese territory. So we drove to Garut, where my parents were given ID cards by an official. He told my parents that within the week all privately owned cars would be confiscated. ‘They’re not taking my car,’ my father said furiously as we drove back home. ‘I won’t let them!’
Two days later we were in the living room. My mother was doing some darning, while Peter and I played cards with Dad. Suddenly mother looked up: we heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel.
My mother froze, then lowered her sewing.
My father went to the window. ‘They’re here,’ he said quietly. ‘Klara and Peter, go and sit with your mother.’
As we did so, she looked at my father, alarmed. ‘Do whatever they ask, Hans,’ she whispered. ‘If you don’t, God knows what they might—’
We heard heavy steps on the verandah, then loud banging. Dad opened the front door and two Japanese soldiers marched in. The first man was an officer, with a brown uniform and gleaming black boots. At his waist was a gun, and a long curved sword in a leather scabbard. Was he going to shoot us, I wondered? Or behead us? The second man was an ordinary soldier. His uniform was green; he wore a cap with a strip of white cloth at the neck, and carried a rifle with a steel bayonet. I stared at the blade with horrified fascination, imagining it being plunged into human flesh.
The officer’s eyes swept the room. Seeing the rack that held the weapons for our platoon, he barked an order at the soldier who took the rifles and carried them outside, piled in his arms. The officer opened Dad’s gun cabinet and took out his pistol, his hunting rifle, and the ammunition; these he handed to his subordinate too. Next, he went into the dining room and to my dismay emerged with the radio, my mother’s beloved Agfa, and the Bolex cine camera that Dad had given her for her birthday. Then the two soldiers went outside.
Mum, Peter and I ran to the window. We watched them walk towards the garage. The officer looked at the Ford, then he turned to my father and held out his hand. My father hesitated. Beside me, I felt my mother stiffen.
‘Just do it Hans!’ she hissed.
As if he’d heard her, Dad handed over the key. The officer opened the car door, removed his sword, then slid behind the wheel. He drove the Ford away, followed by his minion in the other car, the back of which was filled with our things.
Now, without any means of self-protection or escape, we felt very vulnerable. All we could do was to carry on, as best we could, thankful that we were at least still together as a family, which was rare, as by then nearly all the European men had been interned.
One big problem was that without a car it was much harder to bring back food from the market. Dad walked Sweetie down there, and loaded him up with sacks of rice and flour; but getting there and back took a long time. And all the while I knew that there’d be shortages.
‘We’ll grow our own food,’ my father said to Peter and me. ‘We’ll grow enough to feed all the families on the plantation. We’ll dig up the lawn for corn and we’ll use the flowerbeds for spinach, carrots and sweet potatoes. Sorry, Annie,’ he added to my mother, who looked stricken at the thought of her roses being destroyed, ‘but we’re going to need every bit of spare land. We’ll plant the Jochens’ garden too – Wil can hardly complain, given that the wretch has abandoned us.’
I wondered again if Flora had managed to get to Singapore and, if so, whether that was better or worse than being on Java. I’d watch Arif as he went about the plantation and wonder whether he was still thinking about Susan or was trying to forget her.
We all set to work. Dad showed Peter and me how to germinate seeds and taught us to space the seedlings out, with the tallest crops at the back and the shorter ones at the front so that every plant would get the sun. He stressed the importance of watering only at night, so that the earth would stay damp for longer. We’d run out of sugar, but received an unexpected gift one afternoon when we heard a high-pitched sound that was getting louder and louder. I looked up and saw a black cloud flying towards us.
‘Bees!’ my mother screamed. We all ran inside and banged the shutters closed. The swarm went past the house, but we could still hear the buzzing. When we ventured out we saw a black ball on a low branch of the cherimoya.
My father stared at the seething mass. ‘If only we could put them in a hive …’
‘Suliman knows how to do that,’ Jasmine said. So she fetched him and he looked at the swarm; then he and my father found an old keg, took it to the workshop, made some frames to go inside it, and cut a hole in the lid. Then, while we all retreated onto the verandah, Suliman went right up to the bees.
‘He should wear a veil,’ my mother said anxiously. ‘Jasmine, let me get him a muslin.’
Jasmine shook her head. ‘He’ll be fine, Mrs Anneke.’
To our amazement Suliman plunged his hands into the buzzing mass.
My father’s jaw slackened. ‘What are you doing, Suliman?’
‘I’m looking for the queen,’ he replied, then carried on pushing the bees aside, as if parting hair. ‘Ah, here she is.’ Gently, he pulled her out; we saw the long, golden body wriggling between his thumb and forefinger. Suliman lifted her to his mouth.
‘Is he eating her?’ Peter gasped.
‘No,’ Jasmine answered. ‘He’s just biting the tips of her wings so she can’t fly away, which means the bees will stay.’
Suliman took the queen over to the keg and dropped her inside; then he carefully sawed off the branch and shook the swarm inside. Once he’d closed the lid, he and my father carried the hive to a clearing in the forest, by the stream.
I never forgot Suliman’s courage. And the bees must have liked their new home, because a few weeks later we tasted our first honey.
‘This will help us to survive,’ Dad said as he scraped the honeycomb.
By now three months had gone by. The school was closed indefinitely, and I kept thinking about my classmates. What had happened to Corrie and Greta, I wondered, and to Edda and Lena? Were they still in their homes, or were they in camps too? What about Miss Broek and Miss Vries and all the other teachers?
Without a radio we had no idea what was happening in the world, and so, oddly enough, this was, for us, an almost innocent time. The rubber production continued, we tended our crops, swam in the pool, and went for rides on Sweetie, though never very far from home, for fear of meeting Japanese soldiers. Peter still had Jaya to play with, but I missed Flora so badly and prayed that, wherever she was, she was safe. Every night I thanked God that my family were at least still together, and still at Tempat Sungai, just as my mother had said. Then, one morning, our lives changed.
I was with my mother and Peter in the garden when Dad came to find us. Looking shaken, he told us that he’d just had a telephone call from the local police. They’d told him that the official policy of not interning planters had now ended.
My mother looked alarmed. ‘Which means what?’
My father frowned. ‘That I have to leave the plantation.’
‘So they’ve gone back on their word?’
‘They have. The Japs believe that the planters are hiding weapons on their land and they don’t like it. So a truck will come for me at the end of the week.’
My mother closed her eyes, as though trying to shut out the image. ‘This will be hard,’ she said quietly.
‘It will be,’ my father agreed; ‘but we must just keep our heads up, and hope it won’t be for long. But, Annie, I’ll need you to run things while I’m away. Suliman will help you.’
Dad spent the remaining days with my mother, going over the rubber production and showing her the accounts. Then, the day before he left, he took Peter and me aside.
‘You both have to make me a solemn promise,’ he began, ‘that you’ll help your mother and do everything she tells you, with no argument.’ His concerned eyes shone into us. ‘Do you understand?’
We said that we did and solemnly promise
d to do as he asked. Then we went inside and tried not to cry as we watched Mum pack our dad’s case.
Early the next morning, a big open-topped truck rumbled up to the house. When the back was dropped down I saw five men, three of whom I knew from our neighbouring plantations, including Ralph Dekker. As there were no seats, all five were sitting on the floor, by their cases. They were guarded by four soldiers with rifles and bayonets. One opened Dad’s case and inspected its contents. He took out Dad’s razor, compass and penknife, then thrust the case back at him.
‘Lekas!’ he shouted, jerking his head at the truck. ‘Lekas! Hurry!’
Dad kissed Peter and me, hugged us hard, and told us that everything would be fine. ‘Keep your heads up, children,’ he whispered. Then he held Mum, kissed her, and climbed on. The tailgate was slammed shut and the vehicle moved off.
Peter and I ran after it. ‘Bye, Daddy!’ we shouted. ‘Take care! We’ll see you soon! We love you!’
As the truck disappeared down the drive, Peter burst into tears. Mum put her arms round him. ‘There’s no need to cry, darling.’
‘There is,’ he sobbed, ‘because Daddy’s gone and I’ll never see him again! Never!’
It breaks my heart to think that Peter was right.
EIGHT
‘Are you all right, Jenni?’ Klara asked when I went up to the flat the next morning. ‘You look pale.’
‘I’m rather tired. I didn’t have a good night.’
‘If you’re cold in bed you’ll find more blankets in the wardrobe.’
‘Thanks, Klara, it’s perfectly warm; it’s just that, as I say, I don’t sleep well.’
Klara handed me a cup of coffee. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been drying some valerian for you to infuse – I’ll give it to you this afternoon.’ It would take more than herbal tea to calm my tormented mind, I reflected. ‘It must be hard for you, though, being in Polvarth.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked sharply.
Klara looked puzzled at my tone. ‘Well … having to work away from home. It must be difficult.’
I exhaled with relief. ‘It’s hard. Yes … Some ghostwriters do the interviews over the phone, or by e-mail; but for me that would be like trying to paint someone’s portrait from photos. I can only draw a person’s story out of them face to face.’
‘I can understand that,’ Klara responded. ‘But you must be missing your boyfriend.’
‘I am,’ I answered. ‘Very much.’
‘He’s a teacher, you said.’
‘Yes – a good one. The children adore him.’
She sipped her coffee. ‘And how did you meet – if you don’t mind my asking?’ Klara clearly wanted to chat. She seemed to need to talk about me for a few minutes before every session.
‘I don’t mind at all,’ I responded. ‘I like talking to you, Klara. Rick and I met at his school. I read to the little ones every Wednesday. I’ve been doing it for three years.’
‘So the children are what, four and five?’
‘Yes – they’re lovely – I really enjoy it. One day the class teacher was away and Rick was standing in for her. He talked to me for a minute or two afterwards and …’
‘That was that?’
I smiled. ‘I just thought how nice he looked, and how sweet he was with the children. Then, a few days later, I was leaving my flat and he walked past. He stopped to chat, and he asked me if I’d have lunch with him sometime. So I did.’
‘Did you still do the reading?’
‘Yes – there was no need to stop; in any case, no one knew that Rick and I were involved. Then, as my lease was due to end, he suggested that we get a place together. So we found a flat a bit further away and we’ve been there for nine months. It’s small, but … what was that Dutch word? Gezellig.’
She smiled. ‘Is he the same age as you?’
‘Four years older – he’s thirty-eight.’
‘And he’s never been married?’
‘No. He’s had a few relationships that didn’t work out; he was with his last girlfriend, Kitty, for three years.’ I thought of the photos of Kitty that I’d once found at the back of a cupboard. Kitty, blonde and pretty, lying on a sun-lounger somewhere in the Mediterranean; Kitty in hiking gear by a lake; Rick with his arm round Kitty in his parents’ kitchen; Kitty dolled up for some black-tie event. ‘He was very keen on her,’ I went on, ‘but she was eight years younger than Rick and didn’t want to settle down. So she left him, went travelling for a few months, then came back. But he said it wasn’t the same after that and they soon split up. I think she regrets it now.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because she e-mails him from time to time.’
‘Surely she knows he’s with you?’
‘She does, but I think she’s keeping the door open,’ I shrugged. ‘Just in case …’
‘Well … you and Rick live together,’ Klara said. ‘And you seem very happy.’
‘Yes … we are …’
Her face lit up. ‘Isn’t it half-term, next week?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then why don’t you ask your Rick to come and stay with you here? It would be fine by me.’
‘Oh, that’s kind, Klara, thank you – it would have been great, but to be honest I don’t think I will because, actually, Rick and I …’ Impulsively, I told her what had been happening.
‘I see …’ she said, when I’d finished. ‘I did feel that you were troubled about something.’ I didn’t tell Klara that this wasn’t the only thing that was troubling me. ‘Often the man will go along with whatever the woman wants; but I suppose some men are keen to have a family.’
‘Yes, and I now know that Rick’s one of them.’ I got out my pad. ‘So we’re in limbo at the moment, not phoning each other for a few days to try and see whether or not we can get over this problem.’ I realised that Klara was the first person I’d confided in about this.
‘Do you think you might change your mind?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘Have you always felt this way about having children?’
‘When I was little, I wanted to have four – two girls and two boys. I even named them: Harriet, Marcus, Katie and James.’ I saw them lined up in clean clothes and gleaming shoes.
‘So what happened to that dream?’ Klara asked. ‘Is it that you’re too busy with your career?’
‘No. My career’s got nothing to do with it. I just decided, a long time ago, that I didn’t want to be responsible for another human being.’
Klara frowned. ‘Well … it does seem daunting – particularly at the beginning when they’re so tiny. But I can only say that Nature helps us to meet that responsibility. Do tell me to mind my own business, Jenni …’
‘It’s okay.’
‘… but it seems a shame to let that perfectly natural anxiety stop you.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘But at least, these days, women aren’t expected to have children.’
‘That’s true. It’s a personal choice.’ I tucked my hair behind my ear. ‘Did you always want to be a mother?’
‘I longed to be one,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘Not least because I’d been told that I never would be.’
‘Because of what happened to you during the war?’
‘That’s right. After I’d been married for three years and still wasn’t pregnant, I saw a specialist. He said that having been starved from the ages of ten to thirteen had affected my fertility.’ I flinched at the word starved. ‘Then, a year later, by which time we were waiting to adopt, I conceived. It seemed a miracle, and I thanked God.’ Klara put her coffee cup down. ‘And tell me about your parents, Jenni? Are you close to them?’
‘No. My father died when I was five.’
‘How sad,’ she murmured. ‘And how hard for your mother.’
‘It was, although they’d split up the year before. They were very young; she was nineteen when she had me. It was a shotgun wedding, I think. Anyway, my father left us whe
n I was four; he’d got involved with a woman at work. A few months later he was in Scotland with this girlfriend, when a van slammed into their car. She survived, but he died at the scene.’
‘How awful for everyone. And dreadful for your mother.’
‘She was devastated. She’d adored him and had always hoped he’d come back.’
‘Bringing up a child on her own can’t have been easy.’
I shifted on my chair. ‘To make things worse, she discovered that my father hadn’t had life insurance, so things were very tough for her financially as well. So she did a book-keeping course and got a job.’
‘Did she ever marry again?’
‘No. But then it would have been a lot for a man to take on.’
‘Really?’ Klara looked puzzled. ‘One little girl?’
‘But, to answer your question, I’m not close to her. In fact, we have very little to do with each other.’
Klara blinked. ‘That’s a great shame; one draws a lot of strength from one’s family.’
‘Not always, Klara. It depends on the relationship that you have with them, and my relationship with my mother is … not good.’
‘But why?’
By now I was used to Klara’s directness and didn’t resent the question.
‘Because there are old resentments; things she said to me that I can never forget.’ I sipped my coffee before going on. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it – that old saying about sticks and stones breaking bones but words never hurting. I’d much rather have had the sticks and stones, because to this day, my mother’s words still cause me great pain.’ Now I tried to turn the attention back onto Klara. ‘But it’s probably hard for you to understand, as you seem to have been close to your own mother.’
‘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.’