Ghostwritten (10 page)

‘We need some clothes for the future,’ she told us, ‘because we don’t know what will happen, or where we’ll be.’

My parents kept the radio on constantly during this time. The news was terrifying. We heard of naval battles in the Java Sea and of two Dutch warships that had been sunk.

‘What about the sailors?’ I asked, imagining them flailing in the water.

‘Some may have survived,’ my mother said after a moment. ‘But I’m afraid that many won’t have done, and we must pray for them.’

One day it was announced that the retreating Dutch
had managed to destroy half the oil wells on Borneo and Sumatra.

‘What heroes,’ my father murmured.

Then the announcer said there were rumours that the Japanese had beheaded these men, or hacked off their limbs, and that their wives and daughters had been raped.

My mother gasped.

‘What does “raped” mean?’ I wanted to know.

‘It means that they were … tortured,’ she answered after a moment.

‘Tortured?’

‘Yes. Hurt very badly, on purpose.’

I turned to my father, bewildered. ‘What about the rules, Dad? You said there were rules.’ But he just shook his head.

It was reported that there was now fighting on Java itself, around Surabaya, near the beach where we’d had such a wonderful holiday. I imagined the white sand being strafed by Japanese planes, and couldn’t sleep.

A week later, Peter and I were in the garden when we saw a red glow in the sky and heard low rumblings. It was as though one of the island’s volcanoes was awakening.

Frightened, we ran to Mum, who told us that it was just thunder, but I knew it must be gunfire, because by then we’d heard that the Japanese had made landings in West Java. Peter and I sat together on the verandah. How, I marvelled, could something as dreadful as war make the sky look so lovely? Within days, Batavia had been taken, soon followed by Bandung. Java was now in Japanese hands.

The day after the invasion I went with my mother
to the market to get extra supplies of rice, sugar and flour. There was an eerie silence as we walked through the streets. The shopkeepers, who usually stood outside their stores, chatting, were all inside. Many of the shops were closed. When we got to the square I saw that the Dutch flag that always flew there was gone. In its place was a white flag with a blood-red ball in the centre of it.

My mother looked stricken. ‘They’re already up here – in the mountains; we must go home.’ So we hurried back, got everyone inside, then locked all our windows and doors.

The knowledge that we were now occupied was terrifying. Everyone knew of the atrocities that the Japanese had carried out on other islands. We’d also heard that in some parts of Java, gangs of youths were taking advantage of the situation and were
rompokking
– looting – the houses of Europeans, and killing anyone who tried to fight back. It was reported that the soldiers of the Dutch East Indies army, having surrendered, were being sent to prisoner-of-war camps. I imagined Corrie’s father among them, his hands shackled.

‘Should we leave Java too?’ I asked my father. ‘Like the Jochens did?’

‘No, Klara,’ he replied. ‘There’s nowhere for us to go; we must just pray that the occupation doesn’t last long.’

Stories of cruelty began to circulate. We heard that in the towns and cities, European civilian men were being herded into schools and government buildings, but that their families were not being allowed to visit them. We were told that in Bandung a
kawat
, or barbed-wire fence,
had been put around the perimeter of these buildings, turning them into a prison camp.

One night, we learned, three men who’d been interned in one of these camps were caught climbing out. The next day the Japanese lined them up outside the gates. They left the men standing there, in the sun, for two days, without shade, food or water. Then they were severely beaten and brought back inside. A few days later three other men had been caught doing the same thing. But they weren’t made to stand in the sun. They were tied to posts and bayoneted in front of all the prisoners.

There were also rumours that the European civilian men would now be transported to an old military barracks, called Tjimahi, and that their wives and children would be moved into ‘protected areas’.

‘To be protected from what?’ I asked my parents.

My father’s mouth became a thin line. ‘From the local people, with whom we’ve lived, peacefully, for more than three centuries.’

‘I don’t need to be protected from Jaya,’ Peter volunteered. ‘He’s my friend.’

‘These “protected areas” are really camps,’ my father explained. ‘They’re for holding lots of people, so that they can’t go round causing trouble for the Japs.’

‘Will
we
have to go into a camp?’ I asked.

‘Fortunately, we won’t,’ my mother answered. ‘The Japs have said that they’ll leave the planters alone, as they need us to go on growing our crops.’

‘Which they’ll then send to Japan,’ my father added sourly.

‘Yes, but at least we’ll be together, Hans,’ my mother
reminded him gently, ‘and still in our home. We must just be thankful for that.’

My father gave a defeated sigh. ‘I am.’

All the Europeans had to go and register with their local police station, as though we were now aliens on Japanese territory. So we drove to Garut, where my parents were given ID cards by an official. He told my parents that within the week all privately owned cars would be confiscated. ‘They’re not taking
my
car,’ my father said furiously as we drove back home. ‘I won’t let them!’

Two days later we were in the living room. My mother was doing some darning, while Peter and I played cards with Dad. Suddenly mother looked up: we heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel.

My mother froze, then lowered her sewing.

My father went to the window. ‘They’re here,’ he said quietly. ‘Klara and Peter, go and sit with your mother.’

As we did so, she looked at my father, alarmed. ‘Do
whatever
they ask, Hans,’ she whispered. ‘If you don’t, God knows
what
they might—’

We heard heavy steps on the verandah, then loud banging. Dad opened the front door and two Japanese soldiers marched in. The first man was an officer, with a brown uniform and gleaming black boots. At his waist was a gun, and a long curved sword in a leather scabbard. Was he going to shoot us, I wondered? Or behead us? The second man was an ordinary soldier. His uniform was green; he wore a cap with a strip of white cloth at the neck, and carried a rifle with a steel bayonet. I stared at the blade with horrified fascination, imagining it being plunged into human flesh.

The officer’s eyes swept the room. Seeing the rack that held the weapons for our platoon, he barked an order at the soldier who took the rifles and carried them outside, piled in his arms. The officer opened Dad’s gun cabinet and took out his pistol, his hunting rifle, and the ammunition; these he handed to his subordinate too. Next, he went into the dining room and to my dismay emerged with the radio, my mother’s beloved Agfa, and the Bolex cine camera that Dad had given her for her birthday. Then the two soldiers went outside.

Mum, Peter and I ran to the window. We watched them walk towards the garage. The officer looked at the Ford, then he turned to my father and held out his hand. My father hesitated. Beside me, I felt my mother stiffen.

‘Just
do
it Hans!’ she hissed.

As if he’d heard her, Dad handed over the key. The officer opened the car door, removed his sword, then slid behind the wheel. He drove the Ford away, followed by his minion in the other car, the back of which was filled with our things.

Now, without any means of self-protection or escape, we felt very vulnerable. All we could do was to carry on, as best we could, thankful that we were at least still together as a family, which was rare, as by then nearly all the European men had been interned.

One big problem was that without a car it was much harder to bring back food from the market. Dad walked Sweetie down there, and loaded him up with sacks of rice and flour; but getting there and back took a long time. And all the while I knew that there’d be shortages.

‘We’ll grow our own food,’ my father said to Peter and me. ‘We’ll grow enough to feed all the families on the plantation. We’ll dig up the lawn for corn and we’ll use the flowerbeds for spinach, carrots and sweet potatoes. Sorry, Annie,’ he added to my mother, who looked stricken at the thought of her roses being destroyed, ‘but we’re going to need every bit of spare land. We’ll plant the Jochens’ garden too – Wil can hardly complain, given that the wretch has abandoned us.’

I wondered again if Flora had managed to get to Singapore and, if so, whether that was better or worse than being on Java. I’d watch Arif as he went about the plantation and wonder whether he was still thinking about Susan or was trying to forget her.

We all set to work. Dad showed Peter and me how to germinate seeds and taught us to space the seedlings out, with the tallest crops at the back and the shorter ones at the front so that every plant would get the sun. He stressed the importance of watering only at night, so that the earth would stay damp for longer. We’d run out of sugar, but received an unexpected gift one afternoon when we heard a high-pitched sound that was getting louder and louder. I looked up and saw a black cloud flying towards us.

‘Bees!’ my mother screamed. We all ran inside and banged the shutters closed. The swarm went past the house, but we could still hear the buzzing. When we ventured out we saw a black ball on a low branch of the cherimoya.

My father stared at the seething mass. ‘If only we could put them in a hive …’

‘Suliman knows how to do that,’ Jasmine said. So she
fetched him and he looked at the swarm; then he and my father found an old keg, took it to the workshop, made some frames to go inside it, and cut a hole in the lid. Then, while we all retreated onto the verandah, Suliman went right up to the bees.

‘He should wear a veil,’ my mother said anxiously. ‘Jasmine, let me get him a muslin.’

Jasmine shook her head. ‘He’ll be fine, Mrs Anneke.’

To our amazement Suliman plunged his hands into the buzzing mass.

My father’s jaw slackened. ‘What are you
doing
, Suliman?’

‘I’m looking for the queen,’ he replied, then carried on pushing the bees aside, as if parting hair. ‘Ah,
here
she is.’ Gently, he pulled her out; we saw the long, golden body wriggling between his thumb and forefinger. Suliman lifted her to his mouth.

‘Is he
eating
her?’ Peter gasped.

‘No,’ Jasmine answered. ‘He’s just biting the tips of her wings so she can’t fly away, which means the bees will stay.’

Suliman took the queen over to the keg and dropped her inside; then he carefully sawed off the branch and shook the swarm inside. Once he’d closed the lid, he and my father carried the hive to a clearing in the forest, by the stream.

I never forgot Suliman’s courage. And the bees must have liked their new home, because a few weeks later we tasted our first honey.

‘This will help us to survive,’ Dad said as he scraped the honeycomb.

By now three months had gone by. The school was
closed indefinitely, and I kept thinking about my classmates. What had happened to Corrie and Greta, I wondered, and to Edda and Lena? Were they still in their homes, or were they in camps too? What about Miss Broek and Miss Vries and all the other teachers?

Without a radio we had no idea what was happening in the world, and so, oddly enough, this was, for us, an almost innocent time. The rubber production continued, we tended our crops, swam in the pool, and went for rides on Sweetie, though never very far from home, for fear of meeting Japanese soldiers. Peter still had Jaya to play with, but I missed Flora so badly and prayed that, wherever she was, she was safe. Every night I thanked God that my family were at least still together, and still at Tempat Sungai, just as my mother had said. Then, one morning, our lives changed.

I was with my mother and Peter in the garden when Dad came to find us. Looking shaken, he told us that he’d just had a telephone call from the local police. They’d told him that the official policy of not interning planters had now ended.

My mother looked alarmed. ‘Which means what?’

My father frowned. ‘That I have to leave the plantation.’

‘So they’ve gone back on their word?’

‘They have. The Japs believe that the planters are hiding weapons on their land and they don’t like it. So a truck will come for me at the end of the week.’

My mother closed her eyes, as though trying to shut out the image. ‘This will be hard,’ she said quietly.

‘It will be,’ my father agreed; ‘but we must just keep our heads up, and hope it won’t be for long. But, Annie,
I’ll need you to run things while I’m away. Suliman will help you.’

Dad spent the remaining days with my mother, going over the rubber production and showing her the accounts. Then, the day before he left, he took Peter and me aside.

‘You both have to make me a solemn promise,’ he began, ‘that you’ll help your mother and do everything she tells you, with
no
argument.’ His concerned eyes shone into us. ‘Do you understand?’

We said that we did and solemnly promised to do as he asked. Then we went inside and tried not to cry as we watched Mum pack our dad’s case.

Early the next morning, a big open-topped truck rumbled up to the house. When the back was dropped down I saw five men, three of whom I knew from our neighbouring plantations, including Ralph Dekker. As there were no seats, all five were sitting on the floor, by their cases. They were guarded by four soldiers with rifles and bayonets. One opened Dad’s case and inspected its contents. He took out Dad’s razor, compass and penknife, then thrust the case back at him.

‘
Lekas!
’ he shouted, jerking his head at the truck. ‘
Lekas!
Hurry!’

Dad kissed Peter and me, hugged us hard, and told us that everything would be fine. ‘Keep your heads up, children,’ he whispered. Then he held Mum, kissed her, and climbed on. The tailgate was slammed shut and the vehicle moved off.