Ghostwritten (11 page)

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.

‘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 when 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.’

‘I do. I see less of Vincent, obviously, but he phones me every week. But both he and Henry have been very good to me. Children are a huge comfort, Jenni. And you know, parenthood is a great adventure.’

I bristled. Klara was pushing the idea of children at me. ‘I’m sure it is, Klara,’ I responded. ‘But it’s not the only adventure that life has to offer. Anyway …’ I’d opened up to her enough. I got out my tape machine.

‘So …’ Klara smiled. ‘Back to work?’

‘Yes. Let’s get back to work …’

Klara

I missed my father so much – his physical presence, his voice, his steps on the verandah as he came and went. I missed having him tease me, and read to me and Peter at bedtime. Day after day I’d try to imagine where he was. Did he sleep in a dormitory or in a cell? Was he warm enough at night? Had he been able to hang up his
kelambu
? Did he have enough to eat?

‘You mustn’t worry about your father,’ my mother told me. ‘He’s a big, strong man, he’s very robust. He’ll just think about how much we love him, and he’ll be fine – we’ll
all
be fine. But please, darling, my life isn’t easy without him, so I need you to be good.’

I’m ashamed to say that Peter and I weren’t good. Without two parents to keep us in check, my brother and I ran wild, or squabbled incessantly. I took to bossing him about and Jasmine and my mother were too busy to intervene. Jasmine was looking after things at home
while my mother kept the rubber production going. It was strange seeing her, rather than my father, checking that the trees had been tapped and the latex collected, or inspecting the pressed sheets in the shed. It was even stranger seeing Mum opening the safe every Friday to pay the workers, or listening to their complaints.

Being a child, I thought only of my own sadness. I didn’t think about how hard life must have been for my mother or how much she must have missed my father. I gave no thought to how afraid she must have felt, especially at night, in case any
rompokkers
decided to try their luck, or any Japanese soldiers came up to the house. Worse, though, than any of these fears, was still not knowing where my father
was.

We’d heard that most of the civilian men were being held in Tjimahi, so twice a week we wrote to him there. Peter and I would tell him how our crops were growing, and we’d enclose drawings of ourselves, standing in the sunshine by the cherimoya, all smiles. One day Peter drew tears onto his face, but I made him rub them off.

‘It’s bad enough for Dad,’ I said crossly. ‘Don’t make him feel sad!’

For weeks, we heard nothing. Then, one morning, Mum received an envelope stamped
Tjimahi.
Inside was a card from our father. We were thrilled to hear from him at last, but the card was very strange. It was typed with a list of prescribed phrases that he had circled to say that he was ‘eating healthy food’ and doing ‘useful work’. He was also allowed twenty-five free words, in Malay, as Dutch had been banned. He wrote that he was ‘fine’, but that he missed us and that we must all
keep our ‘heads up’. In one corner he had drawn a four-leaved clover.

A couple of months after this, my mother called Peter and me to her. In her hand was an official-looking letter.

‘Now
we
have to leave the plantation,’ she told us.

‘Where will we go?’ Peter asked.

‘Are we leaving Java?’ I wanted to know.

‘No.’ My mother sighed. ‘We can’t, because of the Japanese. Java seems to have become a prison, from which we can’t escape. In any case, we wouldn’t want to leave without Daddy, would we?’

‘Of course not!’ Peter exclaimed. ‘I’d
never
leave Java without him.’

‘So where
are
we going to go?’ I demanded.

My mother frowned. ‘We have to go into a camp.’

Peter clapped his hands. ‘Perhaps it’ll be the same one that Daddy’s in!’

She shook her head. ‘It will be a camp just for women and children. This letter doesn’t say where it is, only that a truck will come to pick us up tomorrow, at dawn. So let’s go inside and pack, quickly, as we don’t have much time.’

‘Are you sad?’ I asked her in Malay as she and Jasmine got down our leather cases.

‘I am,’ my mother replied. ‘I’ll be very sad without Jasmine.’ Jasmine was weeping. ‘We’ll miss everyone here. We’ll miss our home.’

Tears sprang to my eyes as the reality of what was happening sank in. ‘What about Sweetie? And Ferdi?’

‘What about
Jaya
?’ Peter wailed. ‘Can’t he come with us?’

Mum stroked his hair. ‘Of course he can’t, darling.
What would his mother say? As for the pets, Jasmine will look after them until we’re back.’

‘I will,’ Jasmine promised. ‘Don’t worry, children. You will be back very soon.’

‘The Allies will come, and they’ll drive the Japanese out of Java,’ my mother reassured us. ‘But until that happens we just have to be cheerful, and look on this time as an adventure.’

The letter stipulated that we were to take a roll-up mattress each, plus whatever other
barang
, or luggage, we could carry. Mum got out the rucksacks that she’d made us, with the clothes and rations inside; then she and Jasmine filled our cases with mosquito nets, sheets and towels, cups and plates and books. Onto her own case Mum tied a wok, and a small
anglo
stove. Into Peter’s she tucked his teddy bear, a box of Meccano and a small wooden Spitfire that Dad had made him. Then Peter went to his cupboard and pulled out his best navy blazer.

‘You won’t need that smart jacket, darling,’ my mother said to him.

‘I will,’ he replied as he packed it. ‘Because I’m going to wear it on the day we see Daddy again.’

At that I got out my yellow silk party dress and gave it to Mum. Without saying anything, she laid it in my case.

I asked her what would happen to everyone on the plantation. She answered that for now the rubber production would stop. Then she went into Dad’s office, opened the safe and asked Suliman to call the workers. She gave them each two months’ pay; then, when she’d done that, she paid Suliman and Jasmine six months’ wages,
to look after the house and our pets, and to distribute the crops to the plantation families. The rest of the money, Mum put in her bag.

Peter was desperate to tell Jaya what was happening, but Mum said that it was too late to go and see him.

‘We’ll write to Jaya when we get to the camp,’ she said soothingly.

The next day marked the start of our internment. It’s a day that’s remained etched on my mind.

We rose before dawn and had our last breakfast at Tempat Sungai. As a pink light filled the sky, I went into Sweetie’s stall, put my arms round his neck, and promised that I’d come back to him soon. While Peter and I were saying goodbye to Ferdi, we heard the crunch of heavy tyres on the gravel and saw an open truck, like the one that had come for my father, come bumping up the drive. Three soldiers with rifles jumped down, and opened the back. It was crammed with women and children, all standing, their hair matted, their faces filmed with dust.

‘
Lekas
!’ the soldiers shouted at us. ‘
Lekas
! Goh!’

Jasmine kissed Peter and me, hugged us, then put her arms round my mother. Suddenly I heard rapid steps, the sound of the gravel being scattered, then Jaya hurtled up to us, out of breath. He was clutching a batik bag. He gave the bag to Peter. Inside, was Jaya’s beloved chess set. In Malay, Jaya told Peter that he was ‘lending’ it to him and that he had to ‘bring it back soon’. Peter smiled and promised that he would, then he and Jaya hugged until a soldier forced them apart, pushing himself between them. Suliman put our bags and mattresses on the truck, then he lifted Peter and me up and clasped
our hands in both of his. Then he helped my mother to climb on. We waved to him, and to Jasmine and Jaya, then, as the tailgate was shut, I took one last look at my beloved home.

The drive down from the hills was hell. The truck was so full that there was no floor space for anyone to sit, and we had to hold onto each other as we swung round the bends. The sides of the vehicle were very high and we couldn’t see anything except the sun blazing down on us, and the crowns of the palm trees waving above us. Where
was
the camp, we all wondered – in the jungle? Or was it in a former prison or a disused barracks? These, we knew, were the kinds of places that had been turned into the ‘Civilian Internment Centres’ that had sprung up all over Java.

The truck was painfully slow, and kept on breaking down. At one point we all had to get out while it was fixed. This was a blessing, as we were desperate for water, which some local women, seeing our sorry state, brought us.

‘Drink,’ they whispered as they handed round coconut shells. ‘
Minum.
Drink.’

At last the truck was fixed and we got back on.

As we recognised the tops of the buildings, we realised that we were entering Bandung. We drove past our school – I recognised the green-tiled roof and the moon-and-stars weathervane. I thought of the smart uniform that I wore there each day, my face washed, my hair brushed and braided. Now we were dishevelled and dirty. I panicked that Miss Vries would see me like this, then remembered that the school had been closed for a year and a half, and that I had no idea where Miss Vries was.
I wondered whether she was still called Miss Vries, given that she had been due to get married.

We came to the north part of the city, which, we now understood, was our destination, and the truck stopped. As the back was dropped down we saw that the whole area was enclosed by a plaited bamboo fence, called a
gedek
, topped with barbed wire. There was one gate, with a watchtower that was manned by four soldiers with rifles and bayonets. Someone said that the camp was called ‘Bloemencamp’, as the streets here were all named after flowers.

The truck made several stops, as women and children climbed out with their belongings. When we got to a street called Orchideelaan, it stopped again. This time Mum, Peter and I were told to get down; we picked up our luggage and were escorted to a bungalow. As we looked at it we thought that it would be bearable, though smaller than what we were used to. But as we went inside we saw, to our amazement, that it was already full of people – about thirty women, girls and boys, one family group to a room. We were assigned a small storeroom at the back of the house.

My mother and I put the mattresses inside, then laid them down beneath the shutterless window. Our rucksacks, stuffed with towels, became pillows; our suitcases, small tables. It was
gezellig
, my mother said, as she pinned a picture to the wall. Cosy. Then she put her arms round us, and told us that there was nothing to fear. We had shelter, gas to cook with, electricity, and water. We must just keep our heads up, as Daddy had urged us to do. We were with other women and children, and we’d all help each other get through this stressful time.

‘Let’s play chess,’ Peter said. He put Jaya’s set out on top of his case and he and I had a game. Peter no longer had Jaya, I reflected, and I no longer had Flora. We would keep each other company.

Just before nightfall, my mother hung up our
kelambus
, but there wasn’t room for all three, so she had one, while Peter and I shared another. I had never shared a bedroom with him, so it was strange to be cocooned together, inside the net. In a short while we heard ‘lights out!’ and the room was plunged into darkness.

‘It’s noisy, isn’t it?’ Peter murmured after a while.

‘Very,’ I murmured back.

I could hear people talking, coughing, yawning and praying. Several children were crying; someone was singing a lullaby –
Sleep, baby, sleep.
I realised that Peter had drifted off. But I stayed awake, listening to his soft, steady breathing. It reminded me of the sound of the sea.

We were woken early. Everyone rushed out of bed – I soon understood why: there was only one loo in the house and one basin, and a mad dash for both.

‘I wonder what happens now?’ my mother said to us as we waited in the line to wash. ‘Could you tell us, please?’ she asked the woman standing in front of us. She was about twenty-five, blonde, with a broad face, and hazel eyes that were flecked with gold.

‘What happens now?’ The woman laughed. ‘What happens now is what happens every morning – and evening – blooming
tenko.
’

‘Blooming
tenko
?’ Peter echoed. ‘What’s that?’

‘Roll-call,’ the woman replied wearily. ‘
Tenko
means
“counting”. You’ll soon know your Japanese numbers, young man.’

We had some of the food that we’d brought with us for breakfast, then we followed everyone out of the house, down the street, onto a field where soldiers were harrying the women and children into rows and columns, five across, and about a hundred deep.

‘Now what?’ I asked my mother as we lined up on the pale, dry grass.

She bit her lip. ‘I don’t know.’ It was the first time I’d ever seen my mother look vulnerable and unsure. It scared me.

As I looked around, still exhausted and confused from yesterday’s journey, I spotted a classmate in the row behind me. Greta and I had never been especially close, but I was elated to see her and we grinned at each other. She had coppery hair and very pale freckled skin, except that her skin wasn’t pale, I now saw; it was brown, as though all her freckles had joined up. Standing next to her was her grandmother, Mrs Moonen, who was also her guardian, Greta’s parents having died of typhus when Greta was three.

My mother turned to Mrs Moonen. ‘What are we all waiting for?’ she asked.

‘We’re waiting for the commandant to come,’ Mrs Moonen whispered. ‘But don’t talk, or they’ll punish you.’
Punish.
It was a word that we were to hear again and again.

We faced forwards, and now saw that at the front of the field was a platform on which a woman was standing. She was
Belanda Indo
– a person of Dutch and Indonesian parentage. Holding up a megaphone, this woman
informed us, in Malay, that she was the camp’s translator. She told us that during
tenko
we must all face East towards Japan. She explained that the commandant would soon arrive, and that when he did, she would shout
Kiotsuke!
– ‘Attention!’, and then
Keirei!
which meant ‘Bow!’ It was important to bow in the correct way, she went on, because we were really bowing to the Japanese Emperor. To bow in a sloppy way would be to insult His Imperial Majesty, and we would be punished. She then explained that we had to bend from the waist at an angle of thirty degrees, and that we must stay like that until we heard
Naore!
– ‘At ease’, after which would come the command
Yasume!
– ‘Dismiss’. The translator added that we must also bow to any and every Japanese soldier, but must never look them in the eye since we were ‘not worthy’. Should we dare to do so we would be severely punished.