by Isabel Wolff
Peter sniffed, then he took Jaya’s chess set out of his suitcase. With a regretful sigh, he put it in a corner of the room.
Family photos had also been banned, but my mother refused to leave behind the photo of our father, so she stitched it into Peter’s teddy bear along with the one postcard that we’d received from him.
We all tried to figure out why we were being moved. No one seemed to know. There were all sorts of rumors flying around: that the Japanese were losing the war; that they were winning it; that the Allies were on their way, advancing across the Pacific, island by island. Someone said that Tjihapit was a punishment camp, run by the Kempeitai, which no one came out of alive. Someone else said no, it was better than Bloemencamp, with more food and fewer people.
But I didn’t care what it was like. It was at least a change—something to break us out of our harsh routine.
Ten
Klara and I had been recording for about an hour on Tuesday afternoon when I suddenly realized, guiltily, that she was exhausted.
“You’re tired, Klara,” I said. “Let’s stop for today. I was so engrossed in what you were saying, I didn’t notice.”
“Yes.” She heaved a weary sigh. “I don’t think I can do any more reminiscing today.” She glanced at her watch. “In any case, I have to open the shop soon.”
I turned off the tape recorder. “I’ll leave you to have a little rest before that.” I put the recorder into my bag, then stood up.
“Don’t go yet, Jenni,” Klara said. “There’s something I want to show you.”
I sat down again, pleased that Klara wanted to share something with me, unprompted. She lifted the lid of the wooden box, which had been intriguing me. “As I told you, we left Java with nothing,” she said quietly. “But I do have a few mementoes, which I treasure, as a reminder of what we survived. This is one.” She took out a white handkerchief, neatly folded, opened it out, and laid it on the table. Edged in lace, it was made of fine cotton lawn and embroidered in a red-and-blue script. In the center of it was a circle, inside which, in small square capitals, was sewn BLOEMENCAMP, BANDUNG, JUN 43–44. Around this, in tiny letters, were thirty or so names.
“My mother made this,” Klara explained. “She stitched onto it the names of every woman and child who’d been in the house with us.”
“Loes van Rozelaar,” I read. “Lisbeth de Jong, Kate van der Velden, Hanke Sillem, Martha Tromp.” I stared at the hanky, fascinated. KIRSTEN SWAAN. “Here’s Kirsten—there’s no other Kirsten, so it must be her.” MARJOLEIN DE BRUIN. “That’s Marjolein, whose house it was. And there’s Ina.” INA BOGAARDT.
“And here’s my mother,” added Klara. ANNEKE BENNINK. “She worked on this hanky at night. I remember thinking how hard it must be, doing such minuscule stitches by lamplight, but she said that it was important to her, because in years to come she wanted to be able to remember everyone’s name.”
“Some have just the first names.” I peered at them. CORRIE, ANGELIKA, YAN.
“Those are the children,” Klara explained. “My mother did it like that in order to differentiate them from the adults.” SASKIA, SOFIE, KLARA, PETER…
“I’d like to photograph it, for the memoir. I’ll bring my camera either tomorrow or the day after. Would that be okay?”
Klara folded the handkerchief. “Of course.” As she put it back into the box, I caught a glimpse of something else.
“What’s that?”
She lifted it out. It was a bound notebook. The green leather cover was sun-stained and scratched. Klara looked at it, then passed it to me. I gazed at the embossed initials. AKB. “This was your mother’s?”
“Yes. Anneke Katrien Bennink.”
“Is it her diary?”
“No. She didn’t keep a diary.”
“May I open it?” Klara nodded. Gently I turned the first few pages. The edges were yellowed and brittle.
Irish Stew, I read in a small neat hand. Een pond rundvlees … twee uien … vijf wortels. I turned the page. Apple Charlotte … Vier Kookappels … 200 gram bloem … 200 gram poedersuiker … een theelepel vanille … I went to the next page. Rice Pudding …
“She compiled it when we were in Tjihapit,” I heard Klara say.
I looked at her, bewildered. “Why would anyone compile a recipe book in a concentration camp?”
“I will tell you why, Jenni.” She nodded at the clock. “But not until next time, because I have to go down now.” She stood up stiffly. “I hate to keep people waiting—it’s bad manners and bad business.”
I carried the coffee things to the kitchen and put them on the counter. “It must be hard for you,” I said, “recalling these very painful events, then having to go and chat to your customers as though it’s just a normal day.”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “It’s very intense, as you said it would be; but it’s less difficult than I imagined—perhaps because I find you so easy to talk to, Jenni. I find that I want to talk to you—I feel you pulling my story out of me, like a length of wool.”
“As though I’m unraveling you?” I teased.
“Yes, which, in a way, you are.” Klara studied my face for a moment. “But I’ve been racking my brains as to where we met.”
“We didn’t,” I asserted gently.
She shook her head. “I feel sure that we did. Perhaps we chatted in the lane, or on the beach.” She sighed. “Or perhaps my memory is failing, like Jane’s.”
“But why should you remember, given that it was twenty-five years ago?” I felt my face flush.
“So you came here in … 1987?”
My pulse was racing. “That’s right.”
Klara blinked. “Something will jog my memory and I’ll suddenly remember.” We walked toward the door. “And are you happy with what we’ve recorded so far?”
“Very happy,” I answered, glad to change the subject. “But there’s another element I’d like to include, which is to get your family to share something about you; one or two anecdotes, or just a paragraph about how they see you as a person and what you mean to them. This will add some other perspectives as well as involving your nearest and dearest in the creation of the memoir.”
“That’s a nice idea. So you’d ask Henry and Beth? And Vincent?”
“Yes, and your grandchildren. I could chat to Adam when I see him around the farm; and I could interview Vincent’s daughter over the phone, or she could email me something.”
“I’m sure Gill would do that. She lives in Rome. I’ll give you her contact details tomorrow.”
“I thought I’d also ask one or two of your friends.”
“Well, Jane of course,” Klara suggested. “Some things she can still recall, though I can never predict what. Her memories seem to wash in and out, like waves.”
“Does she live nearby?”
Klara nodded. “She’s in sheltered accommodation in Trelawn. I see her every week, so I could take you with me, or I could bring her here, or we could meet in St. Mawes.” We walked down the stairs into the yard; Klara unlocked the shop door, then turned to me. “Can I give you some bread, or a cake? Would you like some fruit? We’ve got lots of eggs, so do take a box.”
“I’m fine, thanks, Klara, I’ve still got plenty of food in the fridge, and I can buy anything I need in Trennick.”
“That’s true—the shop there’s open until nine, and the Boathouse does good fish and chips if you don’t want to cook. Or you could always have supper with us—just knock on the door.”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful, but I didn’t think I could face another big family meal. “That’s very kind, Klara, but I think I’ll stay in.”
“I understand. So”—she smiled—“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It was still light as I walked back to Lanhay. Klara’s story filled my thoughts: her mother hauling the furniture cart; Kate trying to pickaxe the dusty ground; Greta and Marjolein being slapped and hit; hatless babies, crying in the sun. My own life, and my own pr
oblems, receded.
There was an email from Honor waiting for me when I got back to the cottage. I’d been trying to speak to her since the wedding but had kept on missing her. I emailed her back to say where I was and why. As the mobile signal was so poor, I gave her the number for the phone in the cottage. A minute later it rang.
“Jenni!”
“Honor!” I laughed. “That was quick.”
“I really wanted to talk to you. I’m sorry I haven’t called—I’ve been busy—but hey, what’s been happening with you? I turn my back for a second, and you disappear to the other end of the country!”
“Well, it all happened very quickly. And where are you?”
“In the studio, waiting to do an interview for Sunday’s show. So you’re in Cornwall—let me get this right—ghosting the memoirs of the mother of Nina’s godfather?”
“Correct.” I told her how the job had come about.
“I did notice that he was listening to you rather intently,” she said. “I know you can’t say much, because of confidentiality, but has she got a good story?”
I explained, in general terms, what it was.
“So these were concentration camps?”
“Yes, in which people were neglected, starved, and often brutalized.”
“My God—you’d carry that with you all through your life!”
“Klara has. This is the first time she’s talked about it.”
“So you sit with her and just listen?”
“I ask a few questions, but yes.”
“You must find it pretty harrowing.”
“I do, but it’s worse for Klara, having to talk about it when she still feels the pain of it so strongly. It’s as though it was yesterday for her.”
“Does she get upset?”
“Yes. Sometimes she cries.”
“So do you stop recording?”
“No. I just pass her a tissue and carry on. It may sound harsh, but her tears are an important part of the story.”
“I can understand that—it happens to me too, at times, when I’m interviewing people about something sad. And where in Cornwall does she live?”
“In the south, on the Roseland Peninsula.”
“Oh, I don’t know it; I’ve only ever been to the north. Anyway, I have some news.”
“Yes?”
“Nina’s back from her honeymoon.”
“Great. Did they have a good time in Provence?”
“Lovely, apparently; she said they wished they could’ve stayed longer. She also said that she’s—” There was a theatrical pause.
“What? Gone back to work?”
“No—or rather she has, but she’s … oh, can’t you guess, Jen?”
“Pregnant?” I murmured.
“Yes! Isn’t it fabulous?” To my surprise, I felt my eyes fill. “She’s just told me,” I heard Honor say. “She hadn’t dared breathe a word, even to us, until she was sure.”
“That’s understandable.”
“But she had her first scan this morning and everything’s fine. She tried to call you but couldn’t get through, so she gave me permission to tell you.”
“It’s wonderful.” I blinked back a tear, then began to work out the dates. “The first scan’s done at twelve weeks.”
“Is it?”
“Yes; which means that the baby will arrive in … early May.”
“That’s what Nina said. She’s hoping to have the christening on their first wedding anniversary—so we’re to save the date. What do you hope she’ll have—a girl or a boy?”
“A boy.”
“I’d like it to be a girl so that I can buy her some gorgeous dresses, but we’ll love it whatever.”
“Oh, we will.” I saw myself with Nina’s baby in my arms, its dimpled hand clutching my finger. “We’ll adore it …”
“And how’s Rick?” Honor prattled on happily.
“He’s fine …”
“Will he be coming down to Cornwall while you’re there?”
I hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“But it would be a chance to have a few days together outside London—and isn’t half term coming up?”
“Yes, but—”
“You don’t have time? Too busy?”
“It’s not that. In fact Klara did suggest it, very kindly. But … things are a bit tricky between Rick and me at the moment.”
“Oh … I did think you seemed a bit subdued at the wedding.” Honor gave a frustrated sigh. “I wish you’d told me before, Jen—I blab away to you about everything in my life, but you always bottle things up. So … what’s happened?”
“Nothing dramatic. We’ve simply realized that we want … different things. But I’d rather not talk about it now, if that’s okay. I need to concentrate on getting the job done. One thing at a time.”
“Sure.” Honor knew better than to push me. “But call me at home if you want. I’ll be there later.”
“Thanks, Hons. I might. But, just quickly, have you heard from Al?”
She exhaled painfully. “No. I’m a bit upset about it, as we swapped cards. Al’s short for Alastair, by the way—not Alexander or Alan, in case you were wondering.”
“Ah. That question was keeping me awake at night, yes.”
“I did think that he’d phone,” Honor wailed. “We talked a lot at the wedding.”
“Why don’t you ring him?”
“No. Too pushy.”
“Not in this day and age. You could always pretend that you want to interview him about modern orthodontics.”
“Actually, that’s not such a bad idea. Did you know that kids with perfectly straight teeth are having braces put on because they think it gives them a geeky kind of chic—isn’t that weird? But I still can’t get over what Al said about my bite. No one, apart from my mother, has ever told me that any part of me was perfect. Though my gynecologist did once say that I have a very nice—ooh, my producer wants me; I’d better go. But call me anytime, Jen! I mean it. Bye.”
As I put the phone down, smiling, I wished that I could have told Honor what was happening with Rick. But it wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have over the phone. And I’d meant what I said—I did need to concentrate on Klara’s story. I wanted to do it justice.
I sat at the kitchen table and began to transcribe the day’s material. As I typed out the part about the handkerchief, I wondered how many of those women had survived. I thought of Klara’s mother, stitching her son’s name onto it, unaware of the sorrow to come. Peter was so alive in Klara’s narrative. It was awful waiting for the tragedy—whatever it was—to unfold.
By seven thirty I’d finished the transcription and read through it twice. Feeling wrung out, I opened the wine and had a large glass. I made myself some pasta and drank two more glasses, after which all I wanted was an espresso, but there was no ground coffee left—I’d already finished it. But so strong was my craving that I decided to go and get some.
The car key was next to the phone. I picked it up; then I glanced at the half-empty bottle and set it down. What had I been thinking? I couldn’t possibly drive. Instead, emboldened by the wine, I slipped on my coat, grabbed the torch, and set off on foot.
The moon was low and large, bathing everything in a milky light. As I went down the lane I could hear an owl, then the faint roar of the sea, growing louder as I approached the beach. As I stepped onto the slipway the wind rushed up, slapping my cheeks and tugging at my hair. The sand was half exposed, the jagged rocks black against the moonlit sea.
The tide’s coming up.
The time’s coming up?
The tide, silly …
We’ll have to be quick.
I crossed the beach, inhaling the scent of the sea, then went up the granite steps onto the path, followed it round the cliff through a screen of wind-sculpted trees, then found myself on the edge of the village. The scent of wood smoke hung in the air. I remembered Trennick’s narrow streets and white-painted cottages, the Three Feathers pub,
and the Boathouse café. I walked up to the square, where the light from the shop window cast a yellow rectangle onto the road. I bought the coffee, dropped it into my bag, then walked back the way I’d come.
I stood on the cliff for a few moments and looked out; the moonlight had pooled on the sea, like a slick of molten silver. I went down the steps, then instead of crossing the beach, I walked to the water’s edge. I stood there, watching the waves curl over the sand, listening to the gentle scrape and rattle of the pebbles. I turned to go, started walking, then suddenly stopped, my pulse racing. I’d heard a cry.
Evie … Evie … Wait …
Eleven
Klara
On the day of our move we piled our mattresses in front of the house ready for a truck to pick up, then we walked to the gate with our barang. Our packing had been quick. After a year in Bloemencamp we possessed only a fraction of what we’d arrived with. Ina had just one small bag, and so she carried one of the twins, Sofie, while Corrie carried Saskia. Kate strapped on her rucksack and picked up their bags, and we all walked together to the gate.
There were already hundreds of women in the queue, many of them wearing several layers of clothing, surrounded by their suitcases, trunks, baskets, bags, and impromptu sacks made of knotted sheets. Most had saucepans strapped to their rucksacks, as well as kettles, potties, feather dusters, enamel buckets, and even folding chairs.
“How can they possibly carry all that stuff?” I asked Kirsten.
“Because they know they don’t have far to take it,” she answered. “I just heard someone say that Tjihapit is only across the street.”
“Really?” said my mother.
Kirsten nodded. “Seems it’s just another part of northern Bandung.”
We moved forward with painful slowness; this was because, far ahead of us, we could see that the soldiers were inspecting every piece of luggage, unfolding clothes, checking pockets, shaking things out, their fingers probing for any forbidden items.
By now the sun was high. A woman standing near us fainted and had to be revived. All around us children were crying. Sofie began screaming; I remember wanting to scream too. Suddenly she was sick on Ina’s shoulder.
