Shadows Over Paradise (27 page)

“True, but don’t you think I’d remember when I gave birth to my own child? In any case, why has the decision been reversed?”

Mrs. Nicholson hesitated. “I’d rather not say.”

“I want to know,” my mother demanded. “I have the
right
to know.”

Mrs. Nicholson stared at her before answering. “All right … It’s because, since the original decision was made, we’ve received reliable information that Peter is ten.”

My mother blinked. “From who?”

Mrs. Nicholson bit her lower lip. “A few days ago, Marleen Dekker came to see me. She’d overheard your conversations with Mrs. Cornelisse. She told me that her family had visited you on Peter’s sixth birthday, and that this was four years ago.”

My mother’s face flushed. “Mrs. Dekker is mistaken. She and her family did visit us, but it was Peter’s fifth birthday that day.”

“Why would she be wrong?” Mrs. Nicholson asked.

“Because she’s erratic and confused. I’m sure it’s only due to the pressures of camp life, and it’s very sad, but it means that her word can’t be trusted.”

I was suddenly aware that Lieutenant Kochi was looking at us.

“Peter,” said Mrs. Nicholson. “How old are you?”

Peter reddened, then glanced up at my mother. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “I’m … nine.”

Lieutenant Kochi came into the room, and we all bowed. In Malay, he said that he was tired of listening to us squabbling.
He
would establish the truth—“with help from the girl,” he added, gesturing to me.

My mother looked stricken. “I don’t want my daughter to be questioned,” she said to Mrs. Nicholson. “Please, tell Lieutenant Kochi not to talk to her.”

“I don’t have the authority,” Mrs. Nicholson responded. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bennink.”

My mother bowed to Kochi again. Then, averting her eyes from his face, she implored him, in Malay, to let me go. “She’s just a child,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “She’s very young—only twelve. Please, Lieutenant Kochi, I respectfully, and in the name of His Imperial Majesty the emperor, beg you
not
to …” But by then I was being led out of the office by Lieutenant Kochi. He marched me across the courtyard into the guardhouse.

I was taken past the rack of rifles into a bare room at the back of the building. It had only a table with two chairs, no windows. What light there was filtered in through the gaps in the bamboo, casting slatted shadows onto the dusty floor. Seeing discarded cigarette ends, I felt sick to think of the use to which they might have been put. Some women, I knew, had had bamboo pins
pushed under their nails, or had had their toenails pulled off with pliers.

Kochi sat behind the table. I stood in front of him. My breath grew shallow. My knees trembled.

“How old is your brother?”

“My brother,” I answered falteringly, “… is nine.”

“How old is your brother?”

“My brother is nine.”

“On what date was your brother born?”

“On 8 April 1936.” Maybe Kochi wouldn’t understand “1936,” I fretted, because I knew that the Japanese calendar was different from ours.

“How old is your brother?”

“My brother is nine.”

Kochi must have asked me two hundred times, sometimes pausing for a minute, or even two minutes, between each time. I stood there, terrified to show any emotion, staring at a corner of the table. Then another soldier came into the room—a man with round glasses, named Sergeant Asako. The two men conferred in Japanese; then Asako questioned me too, in Malay, but I said the same thing over and over.

“You are not telling us the truth,” Sergeant Asako insisted. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. “So now we will try something else.”

I don’t know how much longer I spent in the guardhouse. I was aware that the room was getting darker and colder as the sun began to set. Then, finally, after the line of questioning had taken a much darker turn, my ordeal was over. They jerked me to my feet, gave me a message for my mother, and pushed me out of the room.

I was fighting back tears as I walked out. I dreaded seeing my mother, but there she was, watching for me from the front of our house. She ran to me, her face twisted with anguish.

“What did they
do
to you?” she whimpered as she helped me away. “What did they do to you, my darling? Tell me,” she wept, as she looked at my arms and legs for signs of injury. “Please, Klara. I’m your mother; tell me what they did so that I can comfort you.”

But my mother was the one person in the world that I
couldn’t
tell. We got back to the house, and now, in a voice I barely recognized as my own, I gave her the message.

“Tomorrow morning?” she repeated faintly. “Peter has to be at the gate tomorrow morning?” I nodded. “So they’ve brought the transport forward?”

“Yes.”

Her face filled with terror and despair. Then a different expression came into her eyes, one of disappointment. “So you told them his age.”

“No.”

“You
must
have done.”

I tried to swallow but my mouth had gone dry. “I promised you that I wouldn’t tell anyone, and I didn’t. You have to believe me, Mummy.” She didn’t answer. But now, accepting that there was nothing to be done, she opened Peter’s case. Into it she put some malaria pills, a blanket, the few clothes that he still possessed, and his bear, inside which she left the cherished photo of my father. She packed a small saucepan, a plate, cup, and spoon. Then she took down our
kelambu
, ripped it in half, and out of it made a new net for Peter, stitching it with thread that she’d
pulled out of a dress. When it was finished she showed him how to hang it up and tie it, then she packed it. She sewed up the remainder, and the three of us lay beneath it, curled together, for one last night.

I couldn’t sleep. Peter was awake too; I could see his eyes, shining in the darkness. Our mother, exhausted by despair, had drifted off.

“I’m sorry, Pietje,” I whispered.

“What for?” he whispered back.

“For every mean thing I’ve ever said to you, or done to you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “Anyway, I can’t even remember.”

“I bossed you around, and quarreled with you, and called you names.”

“Well … you didn’t mean it. Anyway, the war’s going to be over soon, and Daddy and I will come back, then we’ll all go home to Sisi Gunung.”

Then we talked about the plantation. We remembered the day the bees came and how bravely Suliman had dealt with them. We talked about Sweetie and Ferdi. Then we shared other memories—our father squirting us with the hose on hot days; our mother’s pink and white orchids in their pots; our games with Flora and Jaya; the panther padding past; the bats swooping out of the Indian fig tree at dusk.

The following morning we rose at first light. Peter got dressed and rolled up his mattress. Then he opened his case, took out his jacket, and put it on. It was the first time he’d worn it since the war started, but it still fit him because he’d hardly grown.

My mother smiled at him. “You look so smart.”

“I need to,” he replied, “because I’ll be seeing Daddy. I shall run to him.”

My mother nodded, unable to speak. She did up the gold buttons, then we picked up his things and went outside. As we came out of the house we saw small, solemn groups walking down Laan Trivelli. Each group was clustered around a little boy. Some women and girls were already in tears. I glanced at my mother; her face was pale but her eyes were dry.

Irene, Susan, and Flora fell in step with us as we walked to the gate. There a large truck was waiting, its engine running; the smell of petrol hung in the air. Boys were being herded into a lineup. Some were wearing their school backpacks; others carried worn-looking soft toys. Mrs. Nicholson shouted out names and numbers from her list, and as the boys answered, the guards hurried them onto the truck.

“Lekas! Lekas!”

All too soon, it was Peter’s turn. His arms went round my mother, and he leaned into her as she held him tightly.

“This is just another part of the adventure,” she promised him, “but we’ll all be together again very soon.” She kissed him, then laid her cheek against his. “I love you, Pietje,” she whispered. “Goodbye, my darling. Goodbye for now.”

I put my arms round my brother. “Bye, Peter. I love you too.”

Irene, Susan, and Flora all hugged him, then my mother kissed Peter once more and handed him his suitcase; then he stepped forward into the line. As he climbed onto the vehicle Irene put her arm round my mother—they were both crying—then the tailgate slammed shut. Some boys were weeping, but Peter, in his smart jacket, was smiling and waving as the truck moved off, through the gate, out of sight.

The rest of Honor’s visit passed quietly, my revelation seeming to have subdued her. On Friday we visited the small castle at nearby Caerhays, then later, while I was with Klara, Honor stayed in the cottage and read. On Saturday morning we went to Truro Cathedral, and then I took her to the station to get her train home.

“I’m so glad I came,” she said as we waited on the platform. “And I’m glad you told me what you did,” she went on. “But Jen, whatever happens with Rick, you should tell him as well.”

If only it were so easy, I thought as Honor’s train pulled in. Surely Rick would want to break up with me, because if I’d concealed something so huge for so long, then how could he ever really know me or trust me?

I waved to Honor as the train pulled away, then left and drove back to Polvarth. I worked all afternoon and early evening,
transcribing Klara’s interviews. As I reread it, tears sprang to my eyes at the thought of Peter leaving his mother and sister, not knowing whether he’d ever see them again.

But they had been able to say goodbye, and express their love, I reflected enviously. And at least Klara wasn’t to blame for what happened to her brother, whereas
I …
 I closed the document and tried to pull myself together. After a few moments I looked at my emails. The first was from Nina.

Godmother …
 I impulsively clicked to a number of baby-wear sites and looked at pink and blue blankets, and onesies and tiny hats and shoes. Like Honor, I had to fight the urge to buy something straightaway.

I looked at the photos Nina had sent. There was the one that the photographer had taken of Rick and me outside the church; it was good, though our smiles didn’t quite reach our eyes. There was the group photo, Honor laughing into the camera as
she stood a few feet from Al, who at that stage she hadn’t met. There was a candid shot of us all at our table; Amy and Sean were chatting to Rick; I was talking to Carolyn, while Vincent was looking at me with a thoughtful expression. That had been only two weeks ago.

There was also a message from Vincent’s daughter, Gill.

I was about to close the in-box when another message arrived. It was from Honor to say that she’d just got back to London.

“Thank you for a lovely stay,” she wrote. “I also wanted to
say that I was on my iPad on the train back and found a website that you might want to look at, if you haven’t already. It’s called ‘Tjideng Revisited’ and has survivors’ stories. Just thought it might be useful. In haste, and much love to you, H x.”

I wrote down the name of the website—I would look at it later. But now, heeding Honor’s advice, I picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and called Rick.

Afterward, I went down to the beach—the moon was enormous and so bright that I could see my shadow as I walked down the lane. I sat on the bench by the tea hut, looking at the lights of Trennick shimmering on the dark water. Rick and I had spoken for over an hour. I’d let him tell me his news—that half term had started but that he wasn’t going to go away because he needed to write job applications. He said that he’d seen a head teacher’s job advertised in
The Times
, for a school in Norwich. I’d said how nice that might be, with the Broads, and the Norfolk coast, and he’d said that he’d give it a shot. He wanted to know how the writing was progressing. It was going well, I replied, then I told him about Honor’s visit and he asked what we’d done. I answered that we’d walked and talked, about all sorts of things. Then, somehow, I found the words to tell Rick what had happened at Polvarth twenty-five years before.

When I’d finished there was a silence so deep, I thought that he’d hung up. Then I heard him say that he now understood why I’d hesitated to go to Polvarth, and why I hadn’t wanted my mother to know where I was. I told him that Klara had been there that day, and that I’d met her. Rick asked me how I could remember, given that it was so long ago, and I explained that I
remembered it very clearly because I’d spent years going over and over it in my mind. I asked him if he was angry that I hadn’t told him before. He said that he wasn’t angry, just shocked, and bewildered—he couldn’t imagine keeping something so huge a secret. I told him that I’d been unable to talk about it, out of shame.