After taking out the rubbish, she carried breakfast into the dining room on the tray. Bread and honey and belimbing and tea. The juicy star fruit sparkled in the dreary light.
“There,” she said, placing my plate in front of me and pouring a cup of tea. “Doesn’t that look nice? It’s so much better to eat in a beautiful dining room than around the kitchen table.”
Tears blurred my vision, but I managed a steady reply. “You’re a good cook.”
“Dank u.” She smiled. “My mother taught me.”
“You’re an even better friend,” I added.
She gave a small laugh. “You’re a good friend, too.”
Torben barked at us, and I slipped him a piece of bread.
Chapter 51
The carriage lurched to a stop. We were at the docks. Brigitta squeezed my hand, and I clenched my jaw.
This was it.
She was leaving today.
My friend was going to her grandparents’.
Oom Maarten climbed out first, and I passed him my crutches. With Brigitta’s help I made it to the door of the carriage, and Oom Maarten lifted me to the ground. After that I was on my own. “What we’ll do at home, without Brigitta, I don’t know,” I whispered.
The two of them joined me where I stood, and we watched the porters haul Brigitta’s small trunk onto the ship. Part of the money her grandparents had sent her was meant for new clothes. She had generously split it between the two of us, and she still had enough left over to buy herself four blouses, three skirts, new undergarments and the trunk.
I leaned on my crutches, and they cut into my underarms. Tante Greet’s voice popped into my head. “Stand up straight, Katrien.” So I did, my feet wobbling on the wet docks.
“Ah,” said Oom Martin with satisfaction. His attention had turned from the porters to a large group of families preparing to board the ship. “You will have good company for your voyage, Brigitta,” he said. There was a hint of relief in his voice.
The three of us made our way toward the group, which had begun boarding. But in front of the gangplank, Brigitta hesitated. “Katrien, I do not want to go.” She clutched her reticule. “Not by myself. How will I manage an entire ocean voyage all alone? I cannot even hear out of my left ear.”
Oom Maarten still stood nearby, and I crutched a few steps farther away, motioning for her to follow. By the time she joined me, I had my speech prepared. “Brigitta Burkart,” I said sternly. “You escaped giant waves. You marched for days in the jungle. You survived on oranges and hope.” I smiled at her. “You can certainly handle a simple sea voyage of a few weeks.”
“That lecture sounds vaguely familiar,” she said, arching an eyebrow.
“It should. I heard it from a trusted source.” I wavered a bit on the crutches, and she steadied me.
She bit her lip. “I’m still scared.”
“I know. I would be, too. But you’re brave and strong. You can do it.”
“It’s not the voyage. Not entirely.”
I searched her face. “Then what is it?”
She took a deep breath. “I’ve never been to the Netherlands before. I’ve never met my grandparents.” Her voice turned thin, like a mouse’s squeak. “I know they’ve been very kind to me, sending me that letter and offering to take me in, but what if they decide they hate me? What if they blame me for surviving?”
I placed my hands on her shoulders and looked her full in the eyes. “Brigitta, you have done nothing wrong by surviving. Do you understand that? You can’t blame yourself for that. That has nothing to do with strength or weakness or any biological characteristic.”
She grinned at me.
“You survived,” I continued. “I survived. Both of us survived for no reason except coincidence. We’re not stronger than those who died. We’re not better examples of our species. We’re just lucky. I know you don’t want to hear it, but Mr. Charles Darwin said it best, that ‘species are produced and exterminated by slowly acting and still existing causes, and not by miraculous acts of creation and by catastrophes.’ Do you see? Catastrophic disaster can wreak havoc with natural selection, but it doesn’t destroy the process. We’re still here. You are going to be fine.”
She nodded, tears streaming down her face.
“And if you find you cannot tolerate Amsterdam or the Netherlands or your family, you can always come to us. Oom Maarten and I will welcome you back with open arms.”
“Would you? Truly?”
“Of course.”
And at that moment, I knew at last what Tante Greet had tried so hard to make me understand.
“You wouldn’t even have to knock,” I said, choking on the words. “Because that’s what friends do.”
“Ja, we are friends now, aren’t we?” she said, using a handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
“The very best,” I agreed.
Oom Maarten walked over to us. “They’re asking everyone to board, lieve. We will miss you terribly. Torben most of all.”
“I’ll miss you, too, sir.”
“None of that ‘sir’ nonsense.” He engulfed her in his arms and kissed her cheeks.
I hugged her, too. “Don’t forget to write when you arrive.”
“I’ll write more often than that.”
Smiling, I said, “You had better.”
“Dank u, Katrien.”
“Whatever for?” I asked, pushing Sister Hilde’s spectacles up.
“For saving my life. For being my friend.”
“You would have done the same for me.” I rocked back onto my crutches.
“Would I?” She shrugged. “I’m not so sure.”
I laughed. “It’s done. And I don’t regret my decision.” I leaned over and whispered in her good ear. “You’re the one who saved us. You helped me on the beach. You spotted the boat. And even after we were rescued, you saved me.”
She gave me a puzzled look.
“You taught me to walk on these.” I lifted the crutches. “If I was still in that chair, I don’t know what I would do. But you . . .”
She squeezed my hand.
“I can never repay you for that,” I said.
“Nevertheless, dank u.” She kissed me on the cheeks—right, left, right.
We hugged each other again, said our last good-byes, and she walked up the gangplank. When she got on board the ship, she waved.
Tears fell down my face as I waved back. Oom Maarten squeezed my shoulders. I kept waving until the boat was a speck on the horizon.
Chapter 52
By the end of October, I was able to stand a bit easier with my crutches and I even managed to visit the market a few times. One Sunday, Oom Maarten suggested we attend mass. Since I no longer thought of myself as housebound, I agreed.
“I’m glad you’re willing to come,” my uncle said softly, taking my hand. “You should know, though, that today’s mass will honor the people we lost in the disaster.”
I took a moment to digest this. I wondered if I would be better off staying home. Oom Maarten could go alone, and when he returned, we could talk about it together. But when I looked up and saw the love and kindness in my uncle’s eyes, my hesitation dissolved. I gave his hand a squeeze and, with a few wobbles, stood up. “I’ll get ready, Oom Maarten.”
Hundreds of people filled the pews in the Catholic church that morning. I’d forgotten that the church in Batavia was about twice the size of the one in Anjer. I hadn’t been inside this church since my trip last May with Vader and Tante Greet. Had that only been five months ago? How could so much happen in such a short amount of time?
Oom Maarten and I took our seats near the back. My crutches slipped from my hand as I laid them at my feet. The clatter reverberated around the nave, much louder than the whispers of the crowd. Some people glanced at me with irritated looks.
I glared back. I didn’t drop them on purpose!
An awkward silence descended as the last people to arrive settled into seats. Then, above us, the choir sang. The cong
regation stood, and Oom Maarten helped me to my feet. The priest, in black mourning vestments, led the procession solemnly up the aisle. Their lumbering pace reminded me of the heavy footsteps of a Javan rhinoceros.
The choir sang the same song that was sung at my mother’s funeral. She had died so long ago, I thought the pain from her loss had gone away. It hadn’t. It still hurt. And now that hurt was compounded many times over.
Oom Maarten placed his arm around me, and I leaned against him.
The priest reached the altar, and the choir ended their hymn. While he began the rituals, memories of Vader and Tante Greet filled my mind.
I could feel Vader’s hand around mine as he tried to improve my penmanship. I could hear Tante Greet’s soothing voice in my ear as I tried to chop vegetables. Each of them, in their own ways, tried to make me a better person.
The congregation sat, and I focused on the service.
The reader stepped up to the lectern. His deep voice resonated throughout the building. “A reading from the book of Wisdom. Chapter three, verses one through nine. ‘The souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God, no torment shall ever touch them. In the eyes of the unwise, they did appear to die, their going looked like a disaster, their leaving us, like annihilation; but they are in peace.
“ ‘If they experienced punishment as people see it, their hope was rich with immortality; slight was their affliction, great will their blessing be. God has put them to the test and proved them worthy to be with him; God has tested them like gold in a furnace, and accepted them as a holocaust. When the time comes for his visitation, they will shine out; as sparks run through the stubble, so will they. They shall judge nations, rule over peoples, and the Lord will be their king forever. They who trust in him will understand the truth, those who are faithful will live with Him in love; for grace and mercy await those He has chosen.’ The word of the Lord.”
“Thanks be to God,” the congregation replied.
Tears ran down my cheeks, and I couldn’t stop them. Oom Maarten wrapped his arms around me and held me in a strong hug. His chest muffled my sobs.
I cried and cried.
I cried for my beloved Anjer.
I cried for all those lost whom I would never know.
I cried for people I didn’t even like—Adriaan Vogel, Maud, Rika and Inge.
I cried for the jungle.
I cried for my Hexarthrius rhinoceros rhinoceros collection.
I cried for my books.
But, mostly, I cried for those I loved.
I cried for Vader.
I cried for Tante Greet.
I cried for Brigitta and her family.
I cried for Indah and Slamet.
I didn’t stop crying until people began to leave. The service was over, and I missed it. Oom Maarten retrieved my crutches and helped me out of the pew.
We left the church without saying a word, and he led me to a bench underneath an enormous fig tree. He took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Tears stained his cheeks, too, and I wondered if he had cried as long as I.
“Katrien, I have no idea what you went through,” he said. His voice sounded like it would shatter into pieces at any moment. “But I know the loss of your family—” He stopped for a moment, swallowed and took a deep breath. “The loss of your friends.”
A cynical laugh left my throat. “Friends.”
He nodded and squeezed my hand again. “I am so, so sorry.”
I shook my head. “Oom Maarten, I only ever had one real friend in Anjer. And we fought before the eruption. I’m not even sure we were friends. In the end.” It was true.
“But what about Brigitta?”
“Brigitta and I despised each other. I told you about her.”
He leaned against the bench, stunned. “That’s the girl you wrote me about? The one you hated for so long? The one who always bothered you? You seem so close.”
“We are. Now. It took nearly dying to realize how much we had in common.” I sighed. “I miss her.”
“I do, too.” He smiled. “We should get home. I need to change out of these wet clothes before I catch my death.”
“Wet clothes . . . ?”
He pointed to his shirt. The front was soaked from my tears.
“Apologies, Oom Maarten. It won’t happen again.” Vader would have been shocked at my lack of composure in public. He would have been disappointed. “Truly. I’m very sorry.”
“Katrien,” my uncle said, helping me stand, “you have nothing to apologize for.”
Chapter 53
We returned home and I went to my room to rest. Torben jumped up on the bed beside me and licked my face. I closed my eyes and imagined I was in my old room in Anjer. Vader was writing a report in the study; Tante Greet was pulling weeds in the flower garden; Indah was humming a little tune in the kitchen; and Slamet would run inside at any moment to help his mother.
A knock on the door pulled me out of my reverie. Torben flew off the bed, barking excitedly. By the time I reached the entry hall, Oom Maarten had already welcomed Mrs. Brinckerhoff and her husband inside. I didn’t even know she knew how to knock.
After shutting Torben in my room, Oom Maarten said, “I hope you don’t mind if we go to the kitchen. We’ve had to do a little rearranging, and my niece has taken over the parlor. Stairs are her Waterloo.”
I shook my head as I followed them.
While they settled down at the table, I set the kettle on the stove to boil. Tante Greet would be pleased I could make tea. It wasn’t much, but it was a step toward domestic skill.
“I recall Greet mentioning your name, Mrs. Brinckerhoff,” Oom Maarten said.
“Please,” she said, “call me Johanna.”
The three of them chatted about nothing in particular while I poured the tea and added it to the tray, along with some pastries Oom Maarten had bought yesterday. “Oom Maarten?” I pointed to the tray. “Will you . . .”
“Of course, lieve.” He rose from his chair, but Mrs. Brinckerhoff stopped him. She retrieved the tray instead, and I had my first good look at her since the hospital.
A scar blotted her right cheek. Her blouse had long sleeves, and I suspected those were covering more disfigurements. She smiled at me, and the skin around her scar twisted.
After we both sat down, Oom Maarten poured the tea. “Katrien and I just returned from mass. The priest held a sort-of funeral for those who were lost.”
“What a beautiful gesture,” Mrs. Brinckerhoff said, taking a sip of the steaming tea.
“Are your children out of the hospital?” I asked.
Mr. Brinckerhoff answered, “Ja. We’re together again.”
“And I wanted to make sure you were settled, Katrien,” Mrs. Brinckerhoff said. “I remembered you mentioning your uncle, and of course Greet talked about you, Maarten.”
He gave her a melancholy smile, and I wondered how he must feel. Rather like Brigitta did about her loss of little Jeroen?
“We wanted to make sure you were safe,” Mrs. Brinckerhoff said. Her eyes filled with warmth, and I realized that I had always been wrong about her. She did have my best interests at heart, just as Tante Greet said. I wished I could tell my aunt how sorry I was. “Dank u, Mrs. Brinckerhoff.”
Her husband leaned forward and refilled his cup. “What are your plans for the future, Maarten?”
Oom Maarten paused with his drink halfway to his lips. “What do you mean?”
“Do you plan to stay in Batavia?”
He swallowed the last of his tea. “I haven’t decided.”
I froze, and my cup slipped from my fingers. It clattered onto the table with such force that a crack began to run up the side. Tea seeped from the crack and formed a large brown puddle on the table.
Mrs. Brinckerhoff snatched a napkin from the tray and draped it over the liquid. Then she patted my hand before mopping up the rest of the tea.
“What do you mean you haven’t decided?” I asked.
“Just that.” He bit
into a pastry.
“But this is my home.”
Mrs. Brinckerhoff returned to her seat. “Willem and I thought that, too. We believed we would never leave. Our children had many friends. We had a pleasant life. There was no reason to doubt it would go on.”
“But we were mistaken,” Mr. Brinckerhoff said. “Nothing will be the same.”
I leaned back in my chair. What were they saying? Mrs. Brinckerhoff had told me in the hospital that she wanted to leave, but I didn’t think she would get her way.
“You don’t plan to rebuild?” asked Oom Maarten.
“No,” Mr. Brinckerhoff said, a wistfulness in his voice. “There are too many memories in Ketimbang.”
“But, surely, you could stay in the East Indies?” I asked. “You could go to Yogyakarta or somewhere in the east.”
They shook their heads. A defeated look crossed Mr. Brinckerhoff’s face. “We’re going to the Netherlands.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mrs. Brinckerhoff reached across the table to take my hand. “Would you want to return to Anjer?”
“There’s nothing left,” I whispered.
She squeezed my fingers gently. “There’s nothing left in Ketimbang either, but even if there were, we would not return. It would be too hard, too painful.”
“But I still don’t see why you have to leave entirely.”
Oom Maarten rubbed my back. “If we stay, we’ll be forced to confront memories. Sometimes confronting memories can be a good thing, but not if you get caught up in them to the point where you can’t move forward. That’s not a way to heal.”
“Memories such as . . . ?” I didn’t understand. I couldn’t think how any memory could make my heart hurt worse than it already did.
“Arguments, rude behavior, our own sorrows and regrets toward those we loved—being reminded of those kinds of things every day can lead to disaster. Personal disaster, at least. And that can be avoided.”
I tore off a piece of pastry. Oom Maarten’s words struck me. I did have regrets about my behavior. I wanted desperately to apologize to Vader and Tante Greet for all the rude things I said and did. I had never felt that way about my mother, but I was only six when she died. How many terrible offenses can a person commit by age six?
After the Ashes Page 22