Shadows Over Paradise (22 page)

“All right.” I closed my eyes. “I will.”

Klara

In October 1944 we left Tjihapit to go to our next camp. Because there were so many of us, we were transported in groups. Our group was one of the first to go.

As I walked to the gate I saw that, as usual on these occasions, everyone was weighed down with suitcases, sacks made of knotted sheets, and bulging canvas backpacks to which clanking pots and pans had been tied. Just in front of us were Greta and Mrs. Moonen, Shirin and Ilse. Mum, Peter, and I stood with Kirsten, and with Corrie, Ina, and the twins. In Corrie’s eyes was the usual blend of grief, outrage, and determination. Weighed down by her rucksack, she held Saskia, while Ina carried Sofie. Kirsten and I picked up the rest of Corrie’s
barang
. As we shuffled forward, I felt that we were no longer just a
group of women and children but a family, doing our best to help and protect one another.

As I passed through the gate, I saw two large trucks. Onto the back of these, some European prisoners, stripped to the waist in the searing heat, were loading our mattresses and luggage. It had been two years since I’d seen any European men. I was shocked at how thin they were, with corrugated chests and sunken eyes. They worked slowly despite the repeated
Lekas!
from their guards.

We had to line up to be counted; then we were told to stay in our rows and wait for the bus, which would transport us to our destination.

“It’s so good to be outside the camp,” Ina said wonderingly. She stroked Sofie’s hair. “Isn’t it, darling?”

“It really is,” I murmured. “Even this little bit of freedom is wonderful.”

We stared at the people as they just walked around, chatted, or rode bikes. A street seller with a basket of bananas approached us, and I longed to buy one—not that I had any money—but a guard chased him away.

Finally the buses arrived.

“The windows are painted black,” my mother remarked as the vehicles pulled up in a cloud of exhaust.

“The Japs obviously don’t want us to see where we’re going,” Ina said.

“Or to be seen,” Kirsten pointed out. I repressed a shudder.

The doors were opened and we piled on.

“Lekas!”
the soldiers yelled at us.
“Lekas!”

The engines started. We had braced ourselves for a long
journey, but after just a few minutes the bus juddered to a stop and we were ordered off.

As I descended, I saw that we had been brought to a railway station. We sat on the platform in the rising heat, slumped against our bags. I wondered where the shining train tracks led.

Finally, a small locomotive pulled in, and a cloud of gray-white steam blanketed the platform, making us cough. The soldiers pushed us aboard. The carriages were fourth-class coaches with no seats, just a backless wooden bench that ran along the sides. Miraculously, my mother managed to find places for us on this, while Kirsten, Ina, and Corrie sat opposite us, with the twins on their laps. Our view of one another was soon blocked by the crowd of people getting on.

The windows, which would normally have been open to the air, were screened with split bamboo that darkened the interior. Once again, I reflected, we were being made to feel like vermin, not fit to be seen.

“Did you see the toilet?” Peter whispered. “It’s just a hole in the floor, with no door.” He grimaced. “I shan’t use it!”

“I don’t know how anyone will be able to get to it,” my mother pointed out. “Let’s hope we’re not on the train for long.”

An elderly woman near to us was clearly in distress; a teenage girl stood up and gave her her seat. The woman sank gratefully onto it, breathing heavily. The heat was intensified by the crush of so many bodies, and by the metal roof on which the sun beat down.

“It’ll be better when the train moves,” my mother said. “Not long now, my darlings.” But, to my dismay, the train just waited
on the track. An hour later we were still there, drenched in sweat, gasping for air. Then, just as the ovenlike heat seemed impossible to bear a moment longer, the train squealed, clanged, and lurched forward. A collective sigh ran through the coach, like a zephyr.

“Thank you, God!” Ina shouted from the other side of the coach. “Nice to know you were listening!”

As the train picked up pace, some women parted strands of the bamboo, letting a few shafts of light into the dim interior.

“We’re going through northern Bandung,” my mother said. Luxuriating in the breeze, I began to feel I could cope. But after a few minutes the train stopped again.

“Oh
no
,” Peter murmured.

“They’re doing it on purpose!” someone shouted. “To make us suffer as much as possible, God damn those rotten Japs!”

We remained stationary for another two hours. In the suffocating atmosphere, women and children wept. Someone asked for a rag, as her child had had an accident. The elderly woman was wheezing badly, her shoulders hunched with the effort of drawing air into her lungs. She managed to tell us that she had lost her flask, so my mother gave her some of our water in a tin cup.

Eventually the train jerked forward again. A few miles later, we pulled in at a station. The name Tjimahi rushed through the carriage. Tjimahi was where so many husbands and fathers had been interned. I parted the bamboo and peered out, desperate for a glimpse of my own father, or at least of the place where we still believed him to be. On the platform I saw soldiers, their bayonets at the ready should any of us try to escape.

The train waited at Tjimahi for two hours. The temperature in the coach was over one hundred degrees, and the air was
acrid with sweat. There were other foul smells too, as people had to relieve themselves where they stood. There were shrieks and sobs. I could hear Corrie trying to comfort the twins.

“Don’t cry, girls,” she crooned. “Don’t cry, my darlings. We’ll be there very soon.”

I heard Ina’s voice. She was reciting a psalm—something about lifting our eyes to the hills. Someone else began to sing “Ave Maria.” Now we heard an argument start; it quickly escalated, with shouting and crying, then there was the sound of a slap.

“Stop it!” Kirsten yelled. “For God’s sake, stop it, and stay
calm
!”

At long last, the train jerked forward.

At dusk the heat died down, and so did the anguished voices and the weeping. Late at night we stopped at a station and someone made out the name: Purwakarta. At daybreak we reached another town, Tjikampek. There again we waited, hunger clawing our insides.

To my joy, we now moved off again, and as the sun rose I caught glimpses of the landscape through which we passed; a paradise of palm trees, woodland groves, and flowering jacarandas. Everywhere were rice paddies, the shining water reflecting the blue sky and puffs of white cloud.

“This land is so lovely,” my mother murmured. Suddenly Peter began to cry. Then he pressed his face against my mother’s arm, his thin shoulders heaving with distress.

“Don’t be upset, Pietje,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll clean you when we get there.”

“I’ve done the same, Peter,” I said. “Everyone has—we can’t help it. Don’t cry.”

“They transport cattle with more dignity,” Kirsten remarked bitterly.

“Where are we
going
?” someone else wailed.

As the air now became ever more humid, we realized that we were heading for the coast. After a while we stopped yet again, this time in a siding. Two hours later we lurched forward with a squeal of metal. I saw that we were traveling past suburban villas surrounded by lawns and trees. Finally, we drew to a halt. Looking out, I saw that we were at another small station. But this time we could hear guards running up and down, yelling and banging sticks on the sides of the train and shouting,
“Turun! Turun!”
Get out!

“Where are we?” I asked.

My mother shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Peter sniffled. “What will happen now?” His face was streaked with dust, sweat, and tears.

“We have to get off.”

Mothers were shaking their children awake. People were picking up their bags. The soldiers unlocked the doors and we slithered across the soiled floor, then stumbled, blinking, onto a platform. It was drizzling. A dilapidated sign read
TANAH ABANG
.

“We’re in Batavia,” my mother said.

The journey from Bandung normally took four hours. We had been on the train for twenty-eight. We huddled together, exhausted, frightened, hungry, and filthy, and gratefully turned up our faces to the rain.

As I looked back at the train, I saw that some passengers had been so shattered by the journey that they couldn’t walk and were being lifted out. I saw soldiers carrying several women, holding them by the shoulders and feet, one of them the elderly
woman who’d been sitting near to us. A soldier held a little girl in his arms; she was limp, like a doll, a thin arm dangling. Another soldier carried a baby. They laid them all on the platform, side by side.

We stared at them, shocked.

“Dead?” Peter whispered to my mother.

She nodded, then looked away.

Suddenly an officer barked an order, and now we were being herded out of the station toward big trucks that were covered in tarpaulins. The soldiers yelled at us to climb in. The motionless bodies and a knapsack were left behind on the platform.

The truck started off, and once again we were riding along in a darkened interior, not knowing where we were going, completely hidden from human eyes. Here and there the tarpaulin was torn, and I caught glimpses of fine houses on residential streets. Then the truck drew to a halt, the cover was raised, and we were ordered out. We were on a long, wide avenue. My mother handed Sofie to Ina, while Corrie carried Saskia.

“This is Laan Trivelli,” Corrie said. “I’ve been here before.”

On our right was a canal with a bridge, and the soldiers prodded us toward it.

As we inched forward, I was able to see where it was that we were going. Ahead of us, beyond the bridge, was a gate. It was like the one in Tjihapit, but taller and wider, the watchtowers on either side of it much higher. As we passed through it, I saw a guardhouse. It had a verandah on which stood a long rack, full of guns.

As we shuffled forward, three emaciated women in heavily patched clothes came toward us. In a loud voice, one of them told us that we had arrived at Camp Tjideng.

Suddenly we became aware of a commotion.

“What’s going on?” Kirsten asked.

A few feet ahead of us another
barang
inspection was being carried out, but this time the officer in charge of it was behaving like a madman. If people didn’t open their bags immediately, he would slap them. If a suitcase had a lock that didn’t work, he’d kick it, and its contents would spill onto the road. He wore the uniform of an officer, but on his feet were bedroom slippers.

Our turn came. My mother gathered our bags and put them on the table. She then bowed, a few seconds too late it seemed, for as she straightened up, the officer leaned forward and gave her a blow on the head that knocked her to her knees.

Peter gasped and rushed forward. “Leave her
alone
!” he screamed. “Leave my mummy alone!”

I lunged for him and dragged him to one side. “Be
quiet
,” I whispered as Mum got to her feet, “or he’ll hit her again!”

We waited there while Mum went silently, white-faced, through the inspection; then she rejoined us, still shaken, and we walked on.

“So this is Tjideng,” I said. It was as though we had passed through the very portals of hell.

Peter was tugging at my arm. “Look!”

Following his gaze, I saw, beside the gate, a large cage on stilts. From inside it peered out two pairs of quizzical, dark brown eyes.

“Look, girls, monkeys,” I heard Corrie say cheerfully.

Suddenly the creatures began to screech. They hurled themselves at the bars, making the cage rock. The twins shrieked in terror, then began crying. Corrie tried to comfort them.

“Why do they have monkeys?” Peter asked me.

I shuddered. “Don’t know.”

Now we saw that the avenue, Laan Trivelli, stretched all the way ahead of us, flanked by a row of broad-canopied trees. A group of women had gathered nearby and were staring at us. As we trudged by, they called out, “Dirty Tjihapiters!” and “Fatsos!”

We were too shocked at their appearance to take offense. The expression “just skin and bones” sprang to mind. Most were barefoot, but some wore rough wooden sandals, tied on with string or strips of old tires. Others wore what looked like tea towels round their breasts, and many had wound bandanas around their shaved heads.

A tall, gaunt-looking woman in a heavily patched yellow dress approached us. She wore an armband and clearly had some sort of official role.

“Good afternoon,” she began as we gathered round. “My name is Mrs. Cornelisse, and I’m your
hancho
, or group leader. It’s my job to help you settle in. Those six houses there have just been cleared for you.” She pointed to a row of villas nearby.

My mother’s jaw slackened. “Six houses?” she echoed. “For
five hundred
people?”

Ignoring her, Mrs. Cornelisse explained that the man who’d inspected our luggage was the commandant, Lieutenant Sonei, and that we should keep away from him, as he could be nasty. My mother nodded knowingly. Mrs. Cornelisse then told us that the building on the left of the gate was the camp office. The big villa on the right of the gate, she added, was Sonei’s. My heart sank to know that our accommodation was so close to the living quarters of this monster.

Mrs. Cornelisse led us to our house. It was a large bungalow
with the usual verandah, covered walkways, and red-tiled roof. Once it would have been considered attractive, but now the door and window frames were shattered and the front garden was a patch of bare earth. We went inside. Kirsten, Ina, Corrie, and the twins came with us, as well as Greta, her
oma
, Shirin, and Ilse.

The living room was already crammed with women and children, the bedrooms taken, but my mother found three floor spaces in the dining room, beneath the open window.