Shadows Over Paradise (20 page)

“Welcome, ladies,” Kirsten called out to them as they walked by. Some of them held hankies to their faces because we stank. “Welcome to our delightful camp, and we very much hope that you enjoy your stay—not that we’ve the slightest idea where you’ll all fit.”

More houses were cleared, and everyone had to squeeze up. But with so many extra people, the water supply became a trickle. The sanitation was revolting, and we were catching illnesses from one another. Worst of all, there was even less food.

One morning Shirin announced that the Japs had figured out how to solve the overcrowding problem.

“How?” Kirsten demanded indolently. “Are they going to kill us?”

“No,” Shirin answered seriously. “They’re going to send more boys to the men’s camps.”

Mum looked up, alarmed. “From what age?”

“Thirteen.”

My mother closed her eyes with relief.

At the start of internment, boys up to the age of fifteen had been allowed to stay with their mothers, but some women had complained that the boys were staring at them, or flirting with their daughters. So these fifteen-year-olds, having been deemed a “danger to women,” were transferred to the men’s camps. Then fourteen-year-olds were sent away too; and now it was to be the thirteen-year-olds. Some of the mothers in Greta’s house mounted a protest against it. They all wore white—the Buddhist color of mourning. They told the commandant that these boys were still children and begged him to reconsider. Instead, he had them beaten and locked up. The women were let out three days later, to be told that their sons were to be transported at first light.

“They don’t even know where they’re being sent,” my mother murmured as the boys walked past our house to the waiting trucks. Some of the mothers were brave and refused to cry; but as the engines started, many of them wailed and surged forward, clawing the air as they tried to reach their sons. The soldiers crossed rifles and pushed them back. Then the trucks drove away through the gate.

Now, with no teenage boys left in Tjihapit, we girls had to do the heavy work. I remember having to lift the huge food drums
in the
dapur
, or wheeling the garbage cart out through the gate. Yet, still more people were arriving, and now, in August 1944, we heard that boys of twelve were to be transported. A few weeks later, it was announced that boys of eleven would have to go into the men’s camps. Then it was rumored that soon even boys of ten would be picked up. At this my mother became distressed, because Peter was coming up to nine and a half.

Once, when she and I were alone together, she told me how worried she was.

“I
must
keep Peter with me,” she said. “We don’t know what these men’s camps are like; the conditions might be worse than they are here, with even less food. And I don’t think he’d survive another bout of malaria if he were on his own.”

I don’t think he’d survive …

The words sliced into my heart. But at the same time I was aware that my mother was now treating me as though I were another adult, not a child, and I wanted to help her. “So what can we do, Mummy?”

She lifted her finger to her lips. “No one, apart from us, knows how old he is,” she whispered. “So we’ll simply lie about his age.”

“Yes,” I whispered back. “And because he’s so small, I’m sure we’ll be believed.” I felt proud to be my mother’s ally, taking important decisions with her.

“You will help me protect Peter, won’t you, Klara?” my mother asked.

“Of course I will,” I promised.

But soon we were distracted from our anxiety by two startling events. We learned that a month before, Paris had been liberated. Without a radio, we hadn’t known. We were so euphoric
that we had to be careful not to smile or sing in front of the guards. A few days after that, we were informed, at
tenko
, that the camp was to be “liquidated.” At this there were wails of despair, because many women thought it meant that we were all going to die. It had been whispered for months that once the Japanese realized that they were losing the war, we would all be machine-gunned, or locked inside churches and schools, which would be set on fire. We’d heard rumors of a plan to send us all to Borneo and release us into the jungle without food or water. So at the word
liquidation
, there were screams and cries. Then the translator raised her megaphone again and ordered us to be calm.

“Liquidation,” she explained, meant only that Camp Tjihapit was to be closed. We were to be transported again.

On Wednesday morning Klara and I covered a lot of ground, though I’d found it hard to focus. We would soon come to the part about Peter’s death, and I dreaded it. I needed to think of him being alive, surviving, growing up.

“Are you still not sleeping well?” Klara asked as I turned off the recorder. “You look pale.”

“I’m sleeping better, in that I
go
to sleep—I think the valerian helps—but the problem is, I have these … dreams.”

“What do you dream about?”

I hesitated. “Peter,” I answered quietly.

Klara looked puzzled. “You dream about my little brother?”

“I do. It’s as though your memories of him have brought him to life. I feel that I know him myself, and I’m worried about what’s going to happen to him. In fact I can’t bear to think of
it … because …” Klara’s face had blurred. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Klara looked bewildered. “You don’t have to apologize, Jenni—I’m very touched; it’s as though you feel my sadness, and just as deeply.”

“I do feel it—and I know how hard it’s going to be for you to talk about what happened to him.”

“It will be. But then it’s hard for me every day—even without this memoir it’s still so much on my mind.”

I wondered again why Klara’s grief seemed not to have been softened by time. Then I remembered something I’d once read about trauma: that if a traumatic event isn’t integrated into a person’s life, so that the person can at least accept it, then they’re destined to relive it, again and again.

Evie … Evie …

“I dream about someone else too,” I went on softly. “Someone I knew a long time ago.”

“Your father?” Klara asked after a moment.

“No.” My voice fractured. “It’s …”

Klara looked shocked. “Jenni, my dear, please don’t cry.” I groped in my bag for a tissue. “I don’t know who this person is, but couldn’t you perhaps get in touch again, if not seeing them upsets you so much?”

“I can’t. It’s too late.”

“Well, I … wish I could help you, Jenni.”

I fought the urge to tell Klara everything, fearful that if I did, it might destroy our rapport. In any case, I was here to do a job, I reasoned, not to talk about myself. I blinked back my tears, then looked at my notes.

But the time was going to come when I would
.

“Klara, you talked about having faced a dilemma; I wondered what you’d meant by that.”

She grew pale. “I had to make a very difficult choice—one that’s haunted me ever since. I do want to tell you about it, Jenni, but I’m not ready to do so yet. So please bear with me until I am.”

As I unlocked the cottage door, I could hear the landline ringing. I picked up the phone.

“Jenni?” It was Honor. “Listen, I’m going to take a few days off. I’ve done all the pre-records for Sunday’s show, and as the rest of the program’s going to be live, I’ve got a little gap in my schedule.”

“Well, make the most of it.”

“I intend to. That’s why I’m calling—because I thought I’d come and see you.”

“What? Down here?”

“Yes—if it’s okay.”

“You mean you want to stay with me?”

“Well, I don’t have to stay—I could go to a B and B. But it would be great if I could spend some time with you and see a bit of south Cornwall. I thought I might even get tonight’s sleeper train so that I can be there by the morning. They’ve got berths available—I’ve just checked.”

“Honor, it would be
great
if you came. I’d love you to stay, but let me ask Klara and call you back.”

I rang Klara. “Of course Honor can stay,” she said at once.
“It’ll be good for you to have company, Jenni. I worry that you’re working too hard.”

So early the next morning I drove to the Truro station. As I arrived, the sleeper train was just pulling out. Honor walked toward me, dragging her pink-and-black suitcase behind her like a huge Liquorice Allsort, its wheels thundering across the platform.

“Jen-ni!” She grinned. “This is so nice of you!” She wrapped me in one of her hugs. “And thanks for picking me up at ungodly o’clock.”

“Of course I’d pick you up! It’s so nice that you’ve come. How was the journey?”

“Gorgeous—I was rocked to sleep. I love night trains, and it gives me a bit more time with you. But I won’t interrupt your work,” she promised as I beeped open the car. “I’ll go for walks, and I’ve got a couple of books, and my iPad; then we can chat in the evenings.” I put her suitcase in the boot. “So is it going well with your Dutch lady?”

“I think so; we’re making progress, at any rate.”

We drove off, Honor admiring Truro’s Georgian architecture; then, as we sped toward Roseland, she talked about Al, who’d finally phoned, and asked her to have dinner with him the following week. She chatted about Nina, who was having acupuncture for her morning sickness. I was enjoying listening to Honor and felt comforted by her presence. As we wound our way through Trelawn, I remembered that this was where Klara’s friend Jane lived. I stopped and bought some groceries at the village store, then we drove on to Polvarth.

Honor exclaimed over the cottage, the cows, and the sea.
“It’s all so lovely,” she said as I showed her first her room, then mine. She studied the seascape on my bedroom wall. “That’s good.”

“It’s by Klara’s grandson, Adam.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“It’s the local bay, just at the end of the lane here.”

“Oh, I’ll walk down there later.”

The thought of Honor being on the beach gave me a strange, hollow feeling.

We went downstairs, and now, over breakfast, Honor asked me about Rick.

“Oh God,” she murmured when I’d explained. “You’ve always said that you don’t want kids. I assumed that Rick knew and didn’t mind.”

“He did know, and
said
he didn’t mind; but now he does, which gives us a huge problem.”

“That issue
is
a deal breaker. So what will you do if …?” Honor’s meaning hung in the air.

“I suppose we’ll split up.” The thought of not being with Rick made me feel ill. I imagined leaving him, my clothes and books packed into suitcases and crates. But where would I live? Not nearby, as Rick would still be at the school. I’d have to stop doing the reading; I suddenly realized how much I’d miss the children. I saw them crowded round
Stick Man
or
The Tiger Who Came to Tea
or running to the Book Corner. Would Rick and I say goodbye, never to meet again? Or would we stay friends? If so, how would I be able to bear it when he met someone else? I imagined another woman in our flat, cradling their baby—Rick’s baby. Then I realized that the woman I was imagining was Kitty, only too happy to commit to Rick at last.

At eleven I walked up to the farm.

“Has Honor arrived?” Klara asked me.

“Yes, she got the night train. She’ll be here until lunchtime on Saturday.”

“Will she be okay on her own?”

“Oh, she’ll be fine. She’s good at keeping herself busy. She’s going to go for walks and read.”

Klara looked anxious. “I do hope you’ve got enough to eat.”

“We’ve got plenty; and thanks again for letting her stay. I promise it won’t interfere with the memoir.”

“Well, you must take
some
time off while she’s here. In fact, Jenni, it would suit me if we didn’t do our four o’clock session today.”

“In that case I’ll do something with Honor this afternoon. But before we start recording I’d like to take photos of the handkerchief.” I took out my camera and the piece of black card that I’d brought as a background.

Klara opened the carved box. “I’ve been wondering when you could meet Jane.” She took the hanky out and laid it carefully on the card. “I think it would be best if I brought her here. We could chat over a cup of tea and some cake.” I zoomed in on the handkerchief, focusing the names. “That would be great,” I said as I snapped away. I peered at the screen. “These are good.”

Klara folded the hanky and put it back in the box. “Do you want to photograph the recipe book too, Jenni?”

“Yes, please.”

She took out the green notebook. As she did so, I caught a glimpse of some of the other things in the box: a large brown envelope, a thick blue airmail letter, and something wrapped in white cloth.

Klara handed me the notebook. I put it on the card, then photographed its front cover and several of the inside pages. I tried to imagine the desperate hunger that had inspired its creation. I checked the photos, then returned the camera to my bag and got out the recorder. “So how did you and Jane meet?”

“Through our children.” Klara put the notebook back in the box and closed the lid. “Jane’s son, Frank, was at school with Vincent. That was fifty years ago, goodness me.”

“And did Jane work?”

Klara nodded. “She did dressmaking and alterations—she was very skilled. That’s what she’d do in the winter. In the summer months she ran the tea hut.”

A warmth rose in my chest. “For how long?”

“Oh, all day. She used to ring a bell when she was about to close.”

“I meant … how many years did she run it for? I just wondered,” I added as I registered Klara’s puzzlement at the question.

“Let me think.” Klara narrowed her eyes. “Jane and her husband bought it in the early eighties, and she only sold it in 2006, after he died, so … twenty-five years. But it used to be open every day from Good Friday until Halloween, rain or shine. It was lovely then; now it’s a bit posh. When Jane ran it, it was teas and coffees, ice creams and sweets, buckets and nets; it was so nice.”

“It was.”

“Oh, of course you’d remember it yourself—you were here in ’87, didn’t you say?”

“I think that’s when it was; I’m not quite sure.” I tried not to stutter. “But you know, Klara, if Jane’s memory’s not going to
be reliable enough, perhaps I could interview someone else—another friend of yours?”