Shadows Over Paradise (34 page)

Our relief at having somewhere to live soon gave way to dismay. Crowds of local Dutch used to gather at the fence, shouting abuse. They called us
uitzuigers
—leeches—and Indos. Holland had suffered so much during the Nazi occupation and was now so impoverished that its people didn’t want all these colonials, who had come back with nothing and were now expecting to be fed and housed. To make matters worse, we had double the food rations, because we’d been starved, and this caused deep resentment because the Dutch had been starving too. I used to go with my mother to a local grocery; one day, as she opened her handbag and got out her food stamps, there was furious tut-tutting from the woman behind us.

“Look at
you
,” she shrieked, “coming here and asking us to help! While you were sunning yourselves in the tropics,
we
had the Germans. You people should look after yourselves!” I became very upset, but my mother told me to ignore her and we quickly left. This kind of incident happened several times, increasing our sense that we were once again isolated and unwanted. But it was worse for the
Belanda Indos
, who, in addition, suffered racial abuse.

I was enrolled in a local high school, where like the other repatriates, we were given a “bridging” education to try to fill in the huge gaps in our learning. Sometimes another evacuee, Carola, would try to explain to our classmates what we had experienced under the Japanese, but they didn’t want to know.

“At least you were warm,” they would say. “You weren’t
freezing like we were. Or eating tulip bulbs or raw beets, or hiding in a ditch or being sent to die in Auschwitz like all our Jewish friends were.”

To which there could be no answer. They’d suffered in their way, and we in ours, but where the Dutch children talked openly and volubly about the war, we now knew to keep quiet. As I cycled to school each morning, past scorched and shattered trees, steering my wheels around holes left by shells and grenades, I vowed to look only to the future.

We were in Nijmegen for a year. Then we moved into a village closer to Rotterdam, where we stayed in the basement of a large villa. These were “contract pensions” in which the Dutch government paid the owners of large houses to open up part of their homes to evacuees. Usually there was just one room per family. We were lucky. We had two rooms, and our own small bathroom; there was also a large garden, fragrant with roses. I used to watch my mother walking about in it, and I knew that she was thinking about her garden at Sisi Gunung.

During the day I didn’t think about the plantation, but it would return to me in my dreams and I’d travel back there on a wave of memory. I’d be sitting on the verandah with my mother and Peter, watching the
tjik-tjaks
come out, or I’d be playing with Flora or riding Sweetie, or walking through the rubber forest with my father, trying to match his long strides. He had seemed a giant to me then, but now he seemed shrunken and old, a shadow of the man he’d once been.

My father wanted to work, but most of the jobs to be had were laboring jobs, to rebuild the shattered city, and he was quite unfit for this. The coal dust inside the mine, and the freezing
conditions outside it, not to mention the lingering effects of being starved almost to death, had left him with fragile health.

We often heard from the Jochens, who were by now in Fremantle in Western Australia, where Wil had cousins. Wil helped my father get the pension due to him from the Dutch agricultural company that had owned the plantation; to my father’s surprise it was enough for us to live on, albeit modestly. Wil also mentioned the growing demands for war reparations from Japan, but we knew that this, if it ever happened, would be years, if not decades, away.

I remember my parents avidly following the coverage of the Dutch War Crimes Court, and when, in September 1946, Kenichi Sonei was sentenced to death, we felt that the suffering of thousands of innocent women and children had been avenged. As I thought of him facing the firing squad, I could not summon one shred of pity for the man.

Even as late as 1948, the war for independence still raged. But in 1949 the flag of the Indonesian Republic was raised over the archipelago and the last Dutch officials left.

In that year my grandmother died. She had left her apartment to my mother, and this now became our home. I attended the Erasmiaans School, and now, at sixteen, I tried to put the war years behind me. My mother’s relationship with me had improved, inasmuch as she was still a concerned mother, doing her best. But deep down her resentment toward me remained, and at times I saw it in her expression, just a glance, and I felt accused all over again. I had nightmares about the camps. In these dark dreams I saw again the train journey to Tjideng, and Flora’s gray face, and emaciated women lined up under a full moon,
their children curled at their feet. But I drew comfort from my father, who I knew still loved me unequivocally. He told me to look only ahead.

What should I do with my life? I wondered. Should I become a teacher, or a nurse? Perhaps I could train to be an interpreter—thanks to Irene, my English was good. With my planter’s background I became drawn to the idea of working in the flower trade, as the Dutch bulb industry was rapidly reviving.

In September 1949 I went with a school friend, Mina, to a dance in a new music hall on Delft Street, where we jived to the Andrews Sisters and Buddy Clark. There were some boys there from our school, and while Mina was talking to one of them, an attractive man, two or three years older than I was, approached me. He asked me if I spoke English, and I said that I did. He then told me that his name was Harold and that he’d love to dance with some of these girls but didn’t know how to ask them in Dutch. Could I help him?

“Of course,” I answered. “It’s
‘Wilt u met me dansen?
’ Or you could, if you like, say
‘Ik zou graag met u willen dansen?’
Either would be fine.”

“Your English is very good,” he told me. “Or
are
you English?”

“No, but I grew up hearing it. Anyway, now you know what to say, and … good luck.”

“So what I have to say
is …
” Harold frowned as he tried to remember. “Will you mit me … dancern?” He smiled at me. “And what should she say in reply?”

“Well, that all depends on how she feels. If it were me, I’d say ‘
Ik zou graag’
—‘I’d be delighted.’ ”

Harold grinned, then offered me his arm. “I was hoping you’d say that!”

I laughed as we took to the floor.

Harold told me that he was a sublieutenant in the Royal Navy, and was in Rotterdam with the HMS
Vanguard
, on which he would serve for another two years.

“What will you do after that?” I asked as we sat out the next dance.

“I’ll go and help run the family farm. It’s in Cornwall.”

“Is it a flower farm?” I asked. “Do you grow daffodils?”

“It’s dairy, but we do have one small field of daffodils that we sell to local shops.”

We danced and talked some more, and then Harold walked me home. As we stood outside the building, he asked me if he could take me out for supper one night. I said that I’d have to check with my parents. They gave me permission to go, but only if Harold came up to the apartment to meet them beforehand. So he did, and was charming, and I could see that my parents liked him. He told them that he’d been too young to serve in the war but had joined up as soon as he was sixteen.

“Why did you choose the navy?” I asked him later, as we had supper.

“Because our farm’s by the sea, so I know about boats.” Then he asked me about the plantation. “So you’re a farmer too, Klara.”

“I suppose I am.”

The night before Harry’s ship was due to leave, we went out one more time. Now he asked me more about what had happened to us on Java. His eyes were full of compassion as I described
our lives in the camps. He sat very still as I told him about Peter, and then Flora. I told him about what we ate, and our struggle to grow food, and about my dream of having a walled garden one day.

Harry smiled. “You
will
have one, Klara. I know you will.”

“How?”

“Because I’m going to build it for you,” he said.

Harry returned to his ship, and we wrote to each other every week while he was in the Atlantic and I was at school. In this way we got to know each other very well.

My parents weren’t worried that I was marrying so young. They wanted me to seize my chance at happiness; they knew too well how easily everything that we love or value can be snatched away. So in May 1952, Harry and I were married in Rotterdam’s Town Hall, one of the few historic buildings to have survived the Luftwaffe. We had a wedding breakfast in a nearby hotel and honeymooned in Devon en route to Cornwall.

I will never forget my first glimpse of Polvarth. I looked at the headlands and coves, the patchwork fields, the light sparkling on the sea, and I drank in lungfuls of the wonderful air. Harry had told me the truth—it
was
a beautiful place—and I settled happily into my new life.

My parents visited me every spring. In June 1953 they helped me inaugurate the walled garden. It was Coronation Day, and Harry and Seb had just finished building it. We decked it with bunting and toasted it with champagne. Then my parents helped us to mark out the beds, my father rolled up his sleeves, and he and I planted the peach tree, which has thrived for sixty years.

I’d go to Holland every two years. If I ever tried to talk to my mother about Java, she would simply say that she “couldn’t remember.” But I’d get out the albums and sometimes she’d come and sit with me and I’d turn the pages, and we’d talk about Sisi Gunung. Gradually she and my father were able to look at the photographs and smile, and in 1955 they went back.

My mother had been in touch with the Netherlands War Graves Foundation, and in late 1954 she was informed that Peter had been reburied in the Ereveld Pandu cemetery in Bandung. The letter gave the number and location of the plot. So my parents bought second-class tickets on a cruise ship and went there the following spring. I couldn’t go with them, as I was pregnant, but I didn’t need to return to Java to have Peter in my heart. I was trying to put the past behind me, to concentrate on my new life with Harry, and on the new life that was growing inside me. But my mother wrote to me at the very end of the trip, and her letter is among my most treasured possessions.