Lawyers whom she’d hired to administer Martin’s estate informed her that the government would be taking it over. Pre-war foreign businesses were being nationalized.
The lawyers hinted that selling it to the government did not have to be done immediately. She could negotiate the price and stay in her old house until everything was finalized. She told him she had no intention of hanging around for the ‘right’ price. Harvesting rubber did not appeal to her. She remembered seeing hard-working figures flitting like spectres through the mists of morning, tapping the resin from one tree, then another. The sight of them had unnerved her. She had no intention of being part of it.
Mr Levine, the lawyer handling the will and other matters, greeted her warmly in the stuffy office overlooking the congested traffic around Kavanagh Bridge. The sight of the bridge was also unnerving; she had been in the company of Doreen and her children and Lucy Lee van der Meer the last time she’d seen it. Lucy was dead. She didn’t know about Doreen but presumed she was either dead or gone completely mad.
She turned away from looking at the bridge and concentrated on what Mr Levine was saying. He spoke slowly, looking up at her frequently to make sure that she was taking it all in.
‘Mr Levine, I do understand what you are saying.’
He looked surprised at her interruption, his bottom lip drooping in dismay.
‘My dear young lady, I feel I have an obligation to point out every salient point. After all, you have no experience of owning or running such an involved business as that constituting your deceased husband’s holdings.’
‘Mr Levine. It’s true I am only in my early twenties, but I should point out to you that I have lived a lifetime during the past few years. I spent much of the war years in an internment camp in Sumatra. During that period of incarceration it felt as though I’d lived twenty years in the space of three. The war has been over for some time. Now please, I am only interested in doing my duty to my dead husband. I am not interested in rubber. I wish to sell.’
He nodded sagely as though his opinion had been jolted by distinct and relevant information. He steepled his fingers: Nadine’s attention was drawn to the swollen joints of his knuckles.
‘Mr van der Meer, the buyer, is Dutch and I think may be known to you.’
‘Van der Meer?’ Nadine couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Indeed he is. I knew his wife. Lucy was…’ Her voice fell away. ‘She was executed for trying to escape.’
‘He has a new wife now.’
‘How dare he!’
The lawyer regarded her with amazement. ‘He is, or rather was, a widower, I believe.’
Nadine’s hand flew to her forehead. Her fingertips traced the sweat there.
‘I’m sorry. Do excuse me.’
She felt a fool. Lucy was dead. Life must go on and Lucy’s husband surely had plenty of his own demons to contend with. She wondered if the new wife was Chinese. Should she seek them out? She decided not to. Things had changed. They’d all changed.
The lawyer resumed his speech.
Once he’d imparted all the information, she made ready to leave.
She smoothed her skirt down over her hips as she got to her feet. The room seemed suddenly clammy. She was desperate to go.
‘I’ll leave you to draw up the papers and send them to me. I’m staying at Raffles Hotel with my son until everything is complete,’ she said to him.
He nodded, the bustle of the street outside reflected in his spectacles.
‘May I ask if you intend to remain in Singapore?’
‘I will not be staying.’
Something about the way he picked up his pen drew her attention back to his fingers and the swellings on his hands.
He saw her looking.
‘They look painful,’ she said. ‘Have you always had joint problems?’
He put his pen down and took off his glasses. ‘No. Not until the Japanese broke them for me. I was interned in Changi during the war and resorted to keeping a diary, which was of course strictly forbidden. Another inmate betrayed its existence in exchange for an egg and a small fish.’
‘Oh!’
He picked up his pen. He was halfway to putting his spectacles back on his nose when she asked, ‘Do you hate the Japanese?’
He gave it the briefest of thoughts, his gaze spilling out of the window to the building opposite, as though the answer was written there. ‘Only the one who broke my hands.’
Something changed in the way he looked at her. ‘The war is over. Some things have changed, and some things will take time to change further, principally for the better, one hopes. There is gossip afoot. I heard about your son. I hope he is well. Where will you go?’
Nadine looked down at her white-gloved hands. All memsahibs wore white gloves when living in the tropics. Memsahibs. Suddenly she tore them off and threw them onto his desk.
‘I’m leaving here. I’m going to find my son’s grandparents. They live in California in the United States of America. I think that’s where my son belongs. I think that’s where his father really belonged too. He was the victim of circumstance.’
‘I wish you luck. Will you fly direct or go by sea?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know yet. First I’m going back to where I buried my daughter and Lady Marjorie. From there I will visit the island where I lost my son’s father.’ She fell silent as she remembered.
‘I can understand you wishing to revisit your daughter’s grave and that of your friend, but you don’t know for sure about Genda Shamida. You said yourself he was captured by Australian forces and beaten.’
‘It’s very likely that they killed him. But I have to know for sure.’
Again she fell to silence, eyes downcast.
Sensing that she was gathering up her memories, Mr Levine waited for her to recommence.
‘It was the last place I saw him,’ she said softly. ‘I have to go there – at least to find out where they buried him and let his parents know.’
He knew she was really saying it for her own benefit rather than for his.
‘I wish you good luck.’
She thanked him and left. He knew he would never see her again and wondered how it must feel to love so strongly, so deeply. He found himself wishing that someone had been waiting for him when he’d got back. He’d been a confirmed bachelor. Now he wished it had been otherwise.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Going back proved more difficult than she’d realized and she was grateful that Mr Levine offered to help.
The trip was not easy to arrange: a plane from Singapore to Jakarta, from there another, smaller plane, and a boat trip to the island she remembered as being like a pearl drop falling from the underbelly of Sumatra. Her stomach churned at the thought of looking on her daughter’s grave, but the feel of her son’s hand in hers helped her cope. The people she was staying with offered the services of a woman to look after Joseph whilst she visited his grave. She opted to take her son with her.
The heat was as sultry as she remembered; the sky and sea just as blue. But something was different. There was no threat in the air, no danger from an invading army. The sun seemed brighter.
Native people in the village close to the cemetery eyed her warily. The man who had brought her explained the situation to the village headman whilst the populace, mostly children, examined his outboard engine with small prying fingers.
The headman recalled the incident and the man and woman who had pushed away from the island to journey south. He welcomed her and together with the boatman and a number of other villagers, accompanied her to the cemetery.
There were flowers growing wild close to the cemetery and the earth was dark and moist underfoot. The flowers were bright and beautiful and attracted her son’s ardent attention. She waited for permission before entering the cemetery proper.
She addressed the boatman. ‘Ahmed, would you ask the headman’s permission for me to pick these flowers so I may place them on the grave of my child and my frie
nd?’
Ahmed nodded and accordingly asked the headman.
‘He says you are welcome.’
Joseph peered up at her. He was getting tired. ‘Are we going to see my sister and Aunt Marjorie now?’
‘Yes. Yes, we are.’ The familiarity with which he referred to people he’d never met made her smile.
The cemetery was less overgrown than the last time she’d seen it, possibly because more villagers had died from wartime fighting and disease. She counted her footsteps from the old wreck of the banyan tree, its trunk more jaded and dried, the last of its branches rotting into the earth.
The mound will be gone, she told herself, and I will not find her. The cross too will be rotted away.
She was almost right about the cross. There was little left. She would have passed it by if it hadn’t been for the flowers. Someone had already laid a colourful bunch on Shanti’s grave.
She crouched down and tucked her own bunch beside them. Joseph stood close, eyeing her with a child’s curiosity.
‘Is my sister still there, Mummy?’
‘Yes,’ returned Nadine softly. ‘She’s still there. So is Auntie Marjorie.’
Had someone in the village placed flowers there? No. It wasn’t possible. The remains of the cross were indistinct. In an effort not to arouse either suspicion by the Japanese or the villagers, she and Genda had been purposely vague with their marking. Whoever had placed flowers on the grave had to know a body was there. After placing the flowers Joseph had picked and brushing the dirt from her hands, she went back to the boatman. He was smoking and talking with the headman. He looked surprised to see her back so soon.
‘Can you ask who put the flowers on the grave?’ she asked him.
The boatman, who spoke quite good English, did as she asked. He shrugged.
‘He says the grave lay untended until the Australians brought prisoners here. Your man was one of those prisoners.’
Nadine felt an instant fluttering in her heart.
‘My man?’
‘Yes. He says the one you came with, then travelled south with. His memory is not too clear, but now you have reminded him of these events, he is quite sure.’
She recalled seeing him floating face down in the sea – but she had been delirious, perhaps her imagination was playing tricks. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He was very sick for a while. So were some of the Australians. They went away and were going to execute him before they left but he escaped. He dived into the sea. They thought he’d drowned and they went away. He had not drowned. He became caught in our nets.’
She forced herself to stay calm, to gather her thoughts. He’d been brought back to this island. She could hardly believe it. She then asked him to repeat what he had said. The boatman did so.
The heat of the sun did nothing to quell the shivers that ran through her body. Did she dare hope? She had seen him being beaten. She had assumed the worst, thinking that she would need to travel on further to the island where they’d encountered the Australian patrol. Now it seemed he had been brought back here.
‘This man. Are you sure he was Japanese?’
The question was relayed and answered in the affirmative.
Nadine sucked in her breath. Suddenly the heat of the day was ten times more intense than it should be. Eventually, once the feeling of nausea had subsided, she asked, ‘What happened?’
The headman did not understand what she said. He spoke to the guide and chewed happily on a mouthful of betel nuts.
‘He’s alive!’
‘He is alive.’
Her heart raced. ‘Where has he gone?’
The men, even the guide, barely acknowledged her.
‘Sir! I wish to know where the man has gone. Where is he staying? Pray forgive the headman for my presumption, but I thought this man was dead. He was a good man and saved my life. I must know where he is.’
Unnerved by her outburst, the boatman felt obliged to convey her question.
‘The headman says that Genda Shamida was indeed a good man. They had thought to throw him back into the sea when he became tangled in their nets, but he would not let go and besides, a good catch came with him. He was injured and near death, but once recovered he stayed and hid. He helped with fishing and planting crops. Then the Americans came and he went with them.’
Nadine was beside herself. ‘Where did he go? Where did he go?’
‘The headman says there is a naval fleet in Jakarta and many doctors and nurses of the Red Cross. He says you will find him with them.’
* * *
The journey to Jakarta seemed to take even longer than the one from Singapore. Joseph was tired and needed to eat and to rest.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked on the last stage of their journey to the one decent hotel in the whole of Jakarta. ‘To find your Daddy,’ she said softly.
She expected an exuberant reaction from him, but there was none. When she looked down at him he was fast asleep.
To her astonishment most of the guests were Red Cross and other people working for various agencies, attempting to cope with the resettlement of military personnel and refugees.
A room was arranged. Even if she found out Genda’s immediate whereabouts, she could not possibly go to him. Joseph needed to rest.
She got him settled and a woman to sit with him before going back down to reception.
‘I’m looking for a friend of mine,’ she said to the slim young Malayan behind the reception desk. ‘I think he may have been staying here with the American Red Cross. Can you check for me?’
‘Of course, madam.’
She gave him Genda’s name.
‘I’m sorry, madam, but Mr Shamida has already left for the airport. I believe he is booked to fly out on an American Air Force civilian plane to California.’ He glanced up at the ancient and very large clock ticking like a time bomb high on the wall. ‘I believe he takes off in about one hour.’
One hour!
Nadine began rummaging for dollars in her handbag. ‘Give this money to the woman looking after my son. Ask her to stay a little longer. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘She will want more money’
‘I will pay her double. Just ask her to stay.’
* * *
The smart American with the firm but searching look in his eyes shook Genda’s hand. ‘I can’t imagine how long it would have taken to get a decent interpreter if we hadn’t found you. I hope you’ll find your folks OK and that you’ll return to help us out.’
Genda’s smile was both sincere and sad. ‘I hope so too.’ He sighed. ‘Still, there are plenty of folk who have less to go back to.’
Major Kendell who had been responsible for rounding up the last contingents of Japanese resistance following the surrender, then carrying out endless interviews with those thought to be responsible for war crimes, slapped Genda’s shoulder. ‘Have a safe journey.’
The process had been a long one and Genda Shamida would enjoy some hard-won vacation back in the States. It had hurt him deeply to find out his parents had been imprisoned for a time as enemy aliens. They’d done nothing to endanger their adopted home, yet had suffered what they could only describe to him as a lack of face, shame that they should be treated this way.
Acting as interpreter for the American forces gave him some peace of mind. He felt American again and on the side of right. Having to listen to a catalogue of war crimes was the downside. The details preyed on his mind and he couldn’t help thinking that Colonel Yamamuchi had got off lightly. He should have stood trial but instead had burned to death. The old saying was that all is fair in love and war, but it certainly didn’t seem that way to him.
At least his superiors recognized when he’d had enough.
‘Though we still need you. We’re willing to give you some time off, to fly back home and see your folks, but only on the proviso that you get back here. Your knowledge of the Japanese language and of the prison camp system is invaluable to u
s. You’ve three months leave. Go back to the States, rest a while then get back here.’
He gave himself a few days leave among the islands before flying back home, a chance to revisit places that invoked painful memories.
He had tried to find Nadine Burton’s whereabouts, but possibly because he did not know her married name, he had drawn a blank. It was nearly three years since the end of the war; she could be anywhere by now.
Major Ford left Genda to move towards the queue of civilian and military personnel from the occupying forces, all waiting to board the first of a number of flights heading home. It would take some time to rebuild Japan and the other places affected by world war. The military would have a high profile for some time.
Heading home though just temporarily. How about when he was no longer required in this job? What then? Would he be able to settle once more in the country he’d grown up in? Being there on a permanent basis was bound to be different from merely going back for two or three months.
The queue edged towards the departure door and the aircraft waiting on the baking tarmac. There was a three-sided ‘go down’ to give shelter: three walls and a fragile roof that was little more than a canopy. Only those at the head of the queue were sheltered from the strong sun. If it rained they’d be drenched.
A bunch of officers and civilian men were loitering close to the door.
A few would-be passengers were watching some brown-skinned native girls dancing for pennies.
Genda craned his neck.
‘Ain’t they something?’ said a guy beside him. His attention was fixed on the girls so he had not taken in Genda’s features.
Genda said nothing but something stirred inside him. In his head he could hear a flute and see a girl dancing.
‘Pretty girls,’ said the man.
‘Yes,’ said Genda.
The man’s smiling bonhomie melted on seeing Genda’s Japanese features. Grumbling something about the enemy within, he turned away.
East of India Page 33