Ghostwritten (18 page)

Realising that we were not going to be talking about Java, I reached forward and turned off the tape recorder. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You were.’

‘I
knew
I recognised you. From the moment I saw you. Of course you’ve changed – you were just a child – but I was certain that we’d met.’

‘I really didn’t remember you, until yesterday – I must have blocked it out.’ How odd, I thought, that my mind had obscured some memories, while preserving others with crystal clarity. ‘Then seeing you with Jane brought it all back. You were at the hotel.’

Klara nodded. ‘I spent most of last night thinking about what happened that day. I remember it quite clearly. I was in the farmhouse and had heard the siren. Then Henry came back and told me what had happened; he’d been walking back from Trennick and had seen the
ambulance. Later, Jane phoned me. In a low voice, she told me that she was at the hotel, looking after a young girl while her mother was at the hospital with the little boy who’d fallen on the rocks.’

‘Then you came and sat with us.’

‘Yes. I thought I’d keep Jane company in a sensitive situation. It was late by then and I imagined you’d be asleep; but you were playing Snap. I remember thinking how brave you were being.’

‘I wasn’t brave at all, Klara – far from it! But I remember you coming into the room and chatting with Jane and me as though everything was perfectly normal. We all played cards, and after a while you left. Then, at last, my mother returned.’ My throat ached. ‘And then …’ The albums, the carved box, and the coffee cups had blurred. I fumbled in my bag for a tissue, then pressed it to my eyes.

I heard Klara sigh. ‘It was just so sad, Jenni.’

I was silent.

‘I’ve never forgotten it,’ she said. ‘I think everyone in this small community felt the tragedy of it for a very long time. There’ve been a few close calls on the beach; five years ago two boys made a tunnel that collapsed on them; they were dug out just in time. But there’s only been one death and from time to time people here do mention it.’ A silence enveloped us. I could hear the hum of the fridge. ‘Now I understand why you were so vague about when it was that you came here.’

‘I didn’t want you to know.’

‘I’ve been thinking too about you saying that you don’t have any siblings.’

‘I don’t – not for a long time now.’

‘The thing is that I
had
been thinking about it, for the book. So I would have mentioned it to you when we got to that part of my life.’

‘I knew that, and I was dreading it. I don’t know how I would have reacted; I think I’d just have kept quiet and pretended that it had nothing to do with me.’

‘But if it’s still
so
painful, that you couldn’t bring yourself to say who you were, or what your connection with Polvarth is, then why come back at all?’

‘I’ve been trying to work that out.’ I clutched the tissue. ‘When Vincent phoned me about doing your memoirs I was immediately excited by your story and I felt very drawn to it. But just as I’d accepted the commission, he told me where you lived.’

‘That must have given you a shock.’

‘It was like a physical blow; the thought of not only coming here again, but having to stay here, was agony. So I tried to get out of it. And I was making these increasingly desperate excuses when I suddenly heard myself telling Vincent that I
would
do it. I don’t even know why.’

‘Perhaps you wanted to – what’s the expression? Lay a ghost?’

I laughed grimly. ‘I did. And I thought I could, just by being here, but I can’t. I feel Ted’s presence. I feel haunted by him.’

‘Haunted?’

‘I hear him saying my name; he always called me “Evie” because when he was little he couldn’t say Genevieve. Now his voice is always in my head.’

Klara lowered her cup. ‘That’s how I feel about Peter. So you
do
understand that.’

‘Oh, I do! Except that I probably feel worse than you do, Klara.’ I closed my eyes. ‘Because what happened to Ted was my fault.’

‘But …’ Klara’s voice was sharp, suddenly. ‘It was an accident, Jenni. He fell.’

‘Yes – he was startled by a dog and lost his footing.’

‘So … how could that have been your fault? If anything it would have been the fault of the people who owned the dog. It shouldn’t have been off its lead if it wasn’t safe with children.’

‘I think it was just trying to play. But Ted was terrified of dogs. He was screaming, and perhaps that made the dog more excited; I’ll never know. I only know that I didn’t look after him.’

‘Was it your job to look after him?’

‘Yes. I was four years older.’

‘You were only a child yourself. You were what? Eight?’

‘I was nine – nine and a half,’ I added. The extra six months seemed to matter. ‘But my mother had told me to hold Ted’s hand, and I didn’t, not because I was “only” a child myself, but because I was angry with him.’

‘Angry?’

‘We’d argued over the net. Then he’d grabbed it and we’d lost a crab that I’d just caught and I was furious. Then I saw that the tide was coming up and said we had to go back. But I was still angry – not just about the crab, of course; I was angry with my mother for bringing her horrible new boyfriend on the holiday. I hated him being there with us, on the beach, and in the house, and in my mother’s bedroom; it was embarrassing, ruining everything, and I’d been looking forward to the
holiday so much. So I took my anger out on Ted, and I walked away.’

‘Did you know where he was?’

‘I knew that he was following me.’

‘How did you know?’

I felt a wave of shame. ‘Because I could hear him crying. He was calling my name, begging me to wait. But I pretended not to hear, and then his voice became fainter and fainter as I got further and further away.’

‘What did you think would happen to him?’

‘I must have thought that he’d just follow me and get back on his own. I knew it wouldn’t be nice for him, but I thought he’d manage. But when I eventually turned round, there was this dog on the rocks, barking at him, snapping at him. Then it suddenly leapt up,

and Ted fell …’

‘I understand so much about you now, Jenni,’ Klara murmured. ‘I understand why you’ve seemed so … guarded; as though you somehow feared exposure.’ It was true. This was why I always felt safer in the shadows. Invisible. ‘And is this why you don’t want children?’

I didn’t answer for a moment. ‘I don’t trust myself to have them. I was angry, so I abandoned my little brother. What if I were to do that again, with my own child? What if I didn’t take enough care, through incompetence – or worse, was negligent, as I was then? Because if I’d simply done as my mother asked, which was only what I should have done, then Ted would probably still be alive. I could have driven that dog off, or at least stopped Ted from falling, because I would have been holding his hand. But I
didn’t
hold his hand, and he died.’ I
swallowed. ‘And after that my mother never held …’ My voice trailed away.

‘Your mother never held
your
hand?’ Klara suggested gently.

I nodded. ‘She said I was too old, but I knew that wasn’t the reason. She was punishing me for not holding Ted’s that day.’

‘She blamed you for what happened?’

‘She’s always blamed me – which is why we’re not close.’

‘But you were a little girl. Didn’t she help you? Console you? You must have been traumatised.’

‘I was; of course I was. But she thought only of her own grief. She asked me how I could have walked away from Ted, on a beach. She asked me again and again – what had I been thinking of? Why had I done it? She kept
on
asking – I thought she’d never
stop.
’ I exhaled, blowing out my breath. ‘So, finally, I told her the truth. But I soon wished that I hadn’t. She just stared at me, shocked. Then she said the fact that I’d done it on purpose made it so much worse – impossible to forgive.’

Impossible to forgive …

The words had echoed in my head for twenty-five years.

‘Where was
she
when it happened?’

‘At the top of the beach, with her boyfriend.’

‘So she was distracted.’

‘I think she was so glad to be with a man again after all her unhappiness that she focused on him instead of her children. She was very young – twenty-eight; six years younger than I am now.’

‘Young or not, she was the mother. Didn’t she blame
herself
for what happened to Ted?’

‘No. Or at least she didn’t seem to.’

‘But parents are responsible for their children, and you were only nine.’

I shrugged. ‘Old enough to have done the right thing.’

‘But you said that the tide was coming in; shouldn’t she at least have been aware of that?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘And she knew that your brother was scared of dogs. Why should you take all the responsibility for what happened?’

‘Why shouldn’t I, when I walked away?’ I drew the tissue under my eyes. ‘Ted would be thirty now. I think of him every day and wonder what he’d look like, and what job he’d be doing and how often we’d see each other. Then I think of him standing on the rocks, in his red trunks. And it’s as though he’s still there, waiting for me to go back and help him.’ I clutched the tissue. ‘And how I wish, wish,
wish
that I had!’

‘It must have been very hard, afterwards,’ Klara said quietly, ‘living with your mother. It must have felt as though a wall had gone up between you.’

I looked at her in surprise. ‘That’s
just
what it felt like.’

‘You couldn’t comfort each other.’

‘No. But I longed for her to comfort me – but she couldn’t, because she blamed me’. At that Klara nodded, feelingly. ‘Being so much in the wrong, I became withdrawn. I didn’t want to get to know people in case they found out what I’d done. When I started at my new school I called myself “Jenni”, as though the name “Genevieve”
had nothing to do with me. I didn’t make any friends. Because if I did, they might come to the house, and they’d see the photos of Ted, and I’d have to tell them what happened, and they would judge me for it.’

‘Do you really think they would have judged you?’

I shrugged. ‘My own mother had, so I felt sure that they would. She even said that the reason we’d moved was because she didn’t want people in the village to find out that Ted’s death was my fault.’

Klara blinked. ‘She didn’t spare you, did she?’

‘No. So I didn’t spare myself.’

‘Didn’t she feel
any
responsibility for what had happened?’

I shrugged. ‘Not that she would ever admit to. When I was seventeen, we had this awful row. It was Ted’s birthday; she’d had a couple of drinks, and began crying. Then the blaming started. I couldn’t bear it. I said that
she
should have been looking after us but that she’d been messing about with her boyfriend – a man she’d only just met – and who she never saw again. She retorted that I’d behaved in a wickedly negligent way. She said I’d deprived her of Ted, that I’d ruined her life. She said worse things than that – far worse.’ I couldn’t bring myself to tell Klara what they were. ‘So as soon as I’d finished my A levels, I left home.’

‘That must have been a relief in many ways.’

‘It was liberating. After nine years of my mother’s reproachful gaze, I could try to move forward, get away from the constant sadness, and be
myself.
Since then I’ve seen her no more than once a year. We phone occasionally and send birthday cards, but we both know that we’re just paying lip service to our relationship.’

‘Poor woman,’ Klara murmured. ‘I feel sad for her. But did you ever talk to anyone about what had happened?’

I shook my head. ‘I didn’t want any of my friends to know.’

‘I mean a professional person.’

‘A therapist?’

‘Yes – or a counsellor of some kind.’

‘No.’ I heaved a sigh. ‘People didn’t do that back then. Maybe it would have helped, because with no one to confide in I had to absorb all my unhappiness, and guilt. You could tell me ten thousand times that I was only a child, but that would never take away my certain belief that I was entirely at fault for what I did – or rather, failed to do – that day. I’ve tried reading self-help books,’ I confessed. ‘But they only make me feel worse, so I get no further than a few pages.’

‘I think you were meant to come back to Polvarth,’ Klara said after a moment.

‘Perhaps I was.’ I shrugged, then picked up my pen, hinting that I was ready to shift the focus back to Klara. I wasn’t sorry that I’d confided in her – in fact I was glad – but now it was time to move on.

‘You talked about emotional honesty in writing a memoir,’ Klara persisted. ‘What if, fifty years from now, you were writing your own? Would you write about Ted?’

‘Well, yes. It would be too huge a thing to leave out.’

‘But would you have the courage to tell the truth? To say what really happened, rather than just the surface story, that there was an accident?’

‘I’m not sure that I’d be brave enough.’ I stared at her. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I … wondered.’

‘Klara, I’m here to write about
your
life, not mine. A week ago you asked me whether you’d get to know me, and you have, surely more than you would have liked.’

Before Klara could protest, I started the tape, with a sigh of relief.

Klara

It was still dark when we were woken for morning
tenko.
My mother, Peter and I set out from the house in the pink light of dawn and walked out onto the street where hundreds of women and children were walking, in silence. I caught a glimpse of Irene, Susan and Flora, who was clutching her doll, before they were swallowed up in the vast crowd. The soldiers counted us, then the hubbub of conversation around us resumed as they moved further on down the rows. It was two hours before we were dismissed, then Mrs Cornelisse came and told us to send two women to fetch breakfast. This time my mother volunteered. Carrying the empty bathtub, she and Louisa set off along Laan Trivelli towards the
dapur.
An hour later they returned with the full tub which they’d had to keep putting down because the metal handles cut into their palms.

As I helped them haul it onto the verandah, my mother gave me an ecstatic smile.

‘I
found
them!’ she whispered. ‘They were at the kitchen. We couldn’t talk for long, but Irene told me where their house is and we’ll go and see them this afternoon!’

I felt tears of happiness prickle my eyes. ‘I can’t wait, Mummy. I just can’t
wait
to see Flora!’ Louisa ladled out the food as a hundred hungry faces crowded round for their cup of tasteless porridge and five-centimetre piece of hard grey bread. Everyone watched, gimlet-eyed, anxious that no one should get more than their share. The youngest children were allowed to scrape up the residue. I watched the twins do this, licking their fingers. They were nearly three but had the bodies of one-year-olds.

After breakfast Mrs Cornelisse told us which work parties we’d have to join. There was a team to work in the
dapur
and another to help in the hospital, washing the linen and bandages. There was also a ‘hygiene’ party to deal with the septic tank. The sewage first had to be stirred with a stick, then scooped out with little buckets and poured into the drainage ditch that ran along the
gedek.
Each house had a crew of young women to do this utterly disgusting job, and Kirsten now learned that she was to be one of them.

She stared at Mrs Cornelisse in disbelief. ‘Are you saying that I have to stir
poo
?’

Mrs Cornelisse nodded.

Kirsten clasped her hands, in prayer, then looked up to the sky. ‘Come on, God! It was one thing to make me eat snails, but
poo-stirring
?!’

There was also a
kawat
team to fix the camp boundary, which was just rolls of barbed wire with wooden posts
that often needed repair; to her relief, my mother was put in this group. I was assigned to the team that swept the streets and carried rubbish to the gate. We were told that from two p.m. until four, the hottest part of the day, was rest time.

‘It’s important to sleep,’ Mrs Cornelisse told us, ‘to conserve energy.’

I failed to imagine how anyone
could
sleep amidst the noise and stress of these hideously overcrowded houses. In any case my mother, Peter and I were not even going to try. We were going to find the Jochens.

My mother had the directions to their house, and we set off. I was so excited, I wanted to run, but my mother made me walk. As we went down Ampasiet Weg we saw a soldier coming towards us. We bowed deeply, then, once he’d passed us, we straightened up and hurried on. The houses here were smaller, and less well built, though their gardens, strung with lines of ragged washing, had more shade. The street was deserted, but now we saw three figures under a tree. Unable to contain myself I ran towards them, then stopped, shocked.

Irene’s blue linen dress hung about her in deep, loose folds. Flora’s sweet sturdiness had gone and her hands and feet seemed too large for her rake-thin limbs. Susan’s face was gaunt, her cheekbones sharp, her eyes huge. Her long hair had been ruthlessly cropped. I ran forward and gently hugged Flora, and then Susan. My mother put her arms round Irene and they stayed like that for a few moments, not speaking, just patting each other’s shoulders.

Irene wiped away a tear, then laughed. ‘
Look
at us! We’re like scarecrows – scruffy scarecrows at that!’

We shook our heads in bewilderment at what had happened to us; then, keeping an eye out for soldiers, we sat down in the shade and talked.

Irene said that they knew that Wil had been in Tjimahi – they’d had two postcards from him, although nothing for a year now. ‘But we assume he’s still there as we haven’t heard otherwise.’

‘Perhaps he and my daddy are together?’ Peter suggested happily.

Irene stroked his cheek. ‘They probably are. I just hope my Wil’s not bossing your dad about too much!’ she added with a laugh.

‘So … what happened after you left the plantation?’ Mum wanted to know.

‘We headed for Batavia,’ Irene answered. ‘Wil had booked passages to Singapore on the
Star of Asia
, but we missed it because our car broke down. The next day we were queuing to get on another boat when we heard that the
Star of Asia
had been sunk by a Japanese submarine that had been lying in wait off Bangka Island.’ She shuddered. ‘I told Wil that we’d had a blessed escape and were
not
going to tempt Fate any further. I told him that it was too dangerous to try and get to Singapore. We’d just have to take our chances on Java and pray that the Dutch army would hold out.’

She went on to explain that they’d rented a house in Batavia so that they could be ready to leave if any safe passage could be found to South Africa or Australia. But then the battle for Java had begun.

‘We saw it,’ Peter said, his eyes wide. ‘The sky was all red.’

‘We were right
in
it,’ said Flora. ‘We watched the
Japanese planes fly overhead – they had suns painted on them. We saw a bomb being dropped – it looked like a bell. Then we heard this horrible loud explosion and there were these clouds of black smoke everywhere. We ran into an air-raid shelter, where we were given bits of rubber to bite on so that our teeth didn’t shatter during the bombardment. It was so
loud
even though we’d stuffed our ears with cotton wool.’ On Peter’s face was a mixture of awe and envy. ‘Amazing …’ he murmured.

‘No, Peter, dear.’ Irene shook her head. ‘It was terrifying. We thought we were going to die. Then, within the week, Java fell. After that things moved very quickly. There were thousands of Japanese infantry marching through the streets, and surrendered Dutch soldiers sitting on trucks.’

‘Did you see Corrie’s father?’ I asked. ‘She’s here as well – I meant to tell you. We came together – on this horrible train.’

‘Corrie’s mum’s dead,’ Peter blurted out. ‘The Japs killed her because she bought some eggs. They hanged her.’

Irene’s hands sprang to her face. ‘Dear God …’

‘Corrie has to look after her little sisters,’ I explained.

‘She’s their mum now,’ Peter added. He glanced at our mother, then at me, and I knew what he was thinking.

‘We help Corrie as much as we can,’ my mother told them. ‘Another friend, Ina, does a lot for her, but it’s very hard for the little girl.’

Tears shone in Irene’s eyes. ‘The poor darling,’ she murmured.

‘Greta’s here too,’ I told Flora. ‘With her
oma
.’

‘And how long have you three been here?’ my mother asked.

‘From the start of internment,’ Irene answered. ‘Two and a half years. But now tell us, what happened to you?’

My mother explained that we’d been able to stay on the plantation until June 1943. ‘But it’s been unbearable, having no word of Hans. We’re so worried about him.’

‘It’s better to hear nothing,’ Irene said. ‘The way most people here learn that a loved one has died is if they have a postcard to that person returned with the word “Dead” stamped on it. Or they’re sent a little parcel that contains the man’s name, with a lock of his hair, his nail clippings and his watch – it’s brutal. So believe me, Annie, no news is
good
news.’

‘How was Arif?’ Susan asked us. ‘Did you see him? Is he all right?’

‘He was working for us until we left; he was fine,’ my mother replied. ‘But I don’t know what’s happened to him since – or anyone else on the plantation.’

‘Susan still loves Arif,’ Flora declared. ‘Don’t you, Sue?’ Susan glared at her.

Peter was leaning against mum’s shoulder. He looked up at her. ‘Will we be going back home when the war’s over?’

She kissed his head. ‘Of course we will,’ she answered, though I’d heard the uncertainty in her voice.

‘We
have
to go back,’ Peter said. ‘I promised Jaya. And
don’t
forget the chess set we’re going to get him.’

‘I won’t forget,’ she assured him.

Now we asked them about Tjideng.

‘At first, life here wasn’t too bad,’ Irene explained. ‘We
were allowed to cook and we could even leave the camp during the day as long as we were back for evening
tenko.
We could hold church services and even concerts – the pianist Lili Krauss played to us a few times; she’d been on tour and got caught by the invasion. But then, on 1 April, like some hideous April Fool, Kenichi Sonei arrived. One of the first things he did was to have all the pianos chopped up.’

Peter blinked in astonishment. ‘What for?’

‘The fuel for the
dapur
was running low. So all the furniture was burned – even the doors. He halved our rations and doubled the number of
tenkos.
He did utterly evil things too. He had all the sick people dragged out of their hospital beds.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Because he didn’t want them dying in the camp, as that would look bad for him in Tokyo. So he just dumped them outside the gates – elderly men and women – and left them there to die. It was dreadful. And
then
…’

Irene closed her eyes, as if preparing herself for some ordeal. ‘Many people had brought their dogs into the camp with them,’ she explained quietly. ‘One night Sonei had all the dogs put into sacks; then he gave the teenage boys cudgels and ordered them to club the poor creatures to death, or be clubbed themselves.’ She shuddered. ‘The boys were crying – we all were. Many of them refused to do it, and were badly beaten but, eventually, it was done.’

Peter clenched his fists. ‘I’d like to put Sonei in a sack and club
him
!’

‘Morale is very low,’ Susan said. ‘We count every grain of rice, and each drop of soup. We constantly accuse
each other of stealing – clothes mostly, but also soap and food.’ She explained that if anything went missing, the Tjihapiters were usually prime suspects because they had fewer possessions.

My mother nodded. ‘That explains the hostile reception that we had at the gate.’

Irene laughed bleakly. ‘But we’re
all
paupers now. Think of what we once had! Now we measure our “wealth” in terms of spoons, cups, plates or garments – even an old rag has value. Have you seen what a lot of the women here are wearing as tops – tea towels! They wear frocks made out of sheets, and most of us have no shoes, because they’ve fallen apart.’

‘Look how callused our feet are,’ Susan said, gesturing to hers.

I asked her what had happened to her hair. I was worried that she might have been shaved, but she nodded at her mother, then made a scissoring motion.

‘I cut it,’ Irene explained. ‘I didn’t want the soldiers to notice Susan. I’m going to cut Flora’s as well soon, Anneke, and I suggest you cut Klara’s.’ Peter, clearly puzzled, asked why. ‘Because the soldiers sometimes try and find girlfriends amongst the young women here,’ Irene answered carefully. ‘If they refuse, the soldiers force them. For that reason it’s best for girls to look as plain as possible, and so Susan’s lovely tresses had to go.’

‘Don’t worry, Sue,’ said Flora. ‘It’ll only take five years to grow back.’

Susan scowled at her. ‘No need to rub it in!’

‘I wasn’t,’ Flora wailed.

Susan tugged at Flora’s hair. ‘Yours is going to be chopped off too, missy.’

Irene pushed herself to her feet. ‘Don’t fight, girls,’ she said wearily. ‘Life’s quite hard enough. Come and see our luxurious accommodation,’ she said to my mother.

We followed them inside.

‘It
is
luxurious, having a bedroom,’ Peter said.

‘Yes, though it has no door,’ Irene responded. ‘But at least we have a little privacy.’

On the way to their room we’d had to step around several sleeping women and I noticed that two had the swollen legs of hunger oedema. We went into the Jochens’ room and sat on their mattresses. Flora showed me her dolls; the china doll, Lottie, had lost a hand, and one side of Lucie’s smiley mouth had come unstitched.

Flora picked up Lucie, then put her finger to her lips. ‘All our precious things are sewn inside her,’ she whispered. ‘Mummy’s jewellery, and our passports. I take her with me when we go to
tenko
to keep it safe. I keep my other treasure
here.
’ She picked up her pillow, and out of it pulled a piece of wadded cloth. Inside was the brass lizard, gleaming softly. Impulsively, I ran my fingers over its sinuous beauty and, once again, wished that it was mine.

Irene asked us where on Laan Trivelli our house was. When my mother told her, a shadow crossed Irene’s face. I thought this must be because she knew that it was so near to the gate, but that wasn’t the reason. ‘You’re living in the Boys’ House,’ she told us. ‘That’s where the boys were held in the days before they were sent to the men’s camps. The youngest were ten. Some were holding their teddy bears as they climbed onto the truck.’

‘How heart-breaking,’ my mother murmured, ‘and how wicked to classify little boys as men.’

‘Annie,’ Irene said, ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but there’s something you should know …’

‘Yes?’ my mother said anxiously. ‘What?’

Irene drew in her breath. ‘We’ve heard that Sonei’s planning another transport of ten-year-old boys.’

It was a huge comfort to have found Flora again. With so many women and children now pouring into Tjideng, I recognised other people as well. Two more classmates of ours arrived – Edda Smits and Lena Bosch. Lena and her mother were sent to Flora’s house and I worried that Lena and Flora would now become best friends.