“They must have come from Mr. Stuyvesant’s trees!” His grove of orange and lemon trees grew at the northern edge of Anjer. Had I walked that far?
I pushed Sister Hilde’s spectacles up and scoured the area for more oranges but didn’t see any.
I dumped the fruit into what was left of my skirt and returned as quickly as I could to Brigitta.
When I reached her, she hadn’t moved. I dropped down beside her and shook her shoulders. “Brigitta, wake up. I found something to eat.”
Her eyes snapped open, and she inhaled deeply. Rubbing her face, she said, “Oh, Katrien.” The disappointment was thick in her voice. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“Ja.” I thrust the fruit in her face, like a hunter returning with food for his family. “I found oranges.”
“But it’s green.”
I frowned. “It’s just not ripe yet.”
“Is it safe to eat?”
“Of course,” I answered with as much certainty as I could. I didn’t truly know if the fruit was safe or not, but it was food. And I thought any food—especially food we didn’t have to cook—was worth eating.
Brigitta gave me a skeptical look, but she took the orange and began to peel it.
I did the same. The inside was a pale, translucent color. I tilted my head back, tore off a segment, and bit into it.
My lips puckered around the fruit, sealing shut like the lid on a pickle jar. It took all my effort not to spit it back out. I had never eaten anything so sour.
Fighting back a gag, I managed to swallow the bite.
“Katrien,” Brigitta said. Her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared as she choked down her own segment.
“Ja?” I struggled against the laughter that threatened to bubble up and took another bite.
“This is the worst orange I have ever eaten in my life.”
My laugh escaped, and the sound surprised me. I thought I would never laugh again. “I know, it’s terrible. But it’s food. Doesn’t it taste wonderful for that reason alone?”
“Well.” She dragged the word out before shrugging and eating another segment.
“I have another one.”
“I can’t eat another one, Katrien.”
“Ja, you can. We need to eat. Mr. Charles Darwin says, ‘Though food may be now superabundant, it is not so at all seasons of each recurring year.’ ” Or when a volcano and giant waves obliterate the landscape, I thought. I handed Brigitta a second orange.
She gave the green fruit a dubious look. “Superabundant?”
I waved my hand and chuckled. “He was using it in a different context. But we’ll stay here, eat our abundant oranges and regain our strength.”
We both gave in to the absurdity and roared with laughter.
Chapter 41
Sunlight warmed my face. My aunt would knock on the door soon, telling me I had slept too long. Spent too much time staring at the stars on my ceiling or reading. Or both.
I cracked my eyes open. The stars weren’t over my head. The sky—a beautiful blue sky—was.
The sky!
I shot up, ignoring the aches and pains in my body.
The sun!
I could see.
Some ash remained, floating to the earth, but the sunlight glowed on our surroundings.
“Brigitta, wake up!” I shoved her. “Wake up! There’s sunlight!” I grabbed Sister Hilde’s spectacles and put them on.
“Oh, my goodness.” She rubbed her eyes. “I forgot how bright it was.”
“Me, too.” I squinted.
Brigitta stared at me. “Where did you get those spectacles?”
She must not have noticed them the day before. “I . . . found . . . them.” My throat closed around the words.
“What, just lying on the ground?”
“No.” I traced my fingers in the dirt and avoided her gaze. “They’re Sister Hilde’s. I found her.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “Where?” Her question was a solemn whisper.
“Back there.” I pointed south, behind us. “She was lying on the ground. Half buried in mud.”
Brigitta’s lip quivered. “She was my favorite teacher.”
“Mine, too.”
“She let me help her in the herb garden. Those were my favorite days.” Her voice turned wistful.
We sat in the bright silence. No birds chirping. No frogs croaking. No insects buzzing. The remaining leaves didn’t even rustle.
Brigitta took in my swollen, crusted feet and the handkerchief tied around my big toe. “Perhaps you should wear my shoes today,” she suggested.
I shook my head. “No. I can’t take your shoes. I’ll find some somewhere. Besides”—I scratched my arm—“I think they’re too swollen for your shoes.” My normally long toes resembled rookworst sausages. The skin stretched tight and shiny as if it were too small. My toes only moved the tiniest bit when I wiggled them.
“Can you even walk?” Her expression was filled with concern and worry.
Taking a deep breath, I said, “I . . . don’t know.”
“Should you even try?” she wondered.
“We can’t stay here,” I said, wishing I could hide my feet under a blanket. “We have to get to Anjer. Why don’t we split the last orange, and we’ll see if I can walk then.”
We finished our meager breakfast, and Brigitta helped me stand.
“Oooh.” My feet screamed, like a thousand pins were plunged into the soles at one time.
“Do you want to sit back down? Do you want to rest some more?”
I shook my head, my voice tight with pain. “More rest won’t help until we’ve gotten food and water. But I will have glorious scars when this is over. As Mr. Charles Darwin says, ‘Male stag-beetles sometimes bear wounds from the huge mandibles of other males.’ ”
“You want to look like a beetle?” Brigitta scolded. “Oh, I wish I had some sangitan. Lean on me.” She offered her shoulder, and I didn’t protest, grateful for the help.
“Why? What’s sangitan?”
“It can be used to relieve pain.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Although it does need to be boiled with water.”
“I suppose it’s just as well you don’t have any, then.”
“Banana could be used to treat the wounds.”
“Stop telling me these things. It doesn’t matter now.”
The oranges, despite their awful taste, had helped. My mouth wasn’t as dry as yesterday. My thirst was not as urgent.
We were weak, but the sun warmed our skin, giving us energy. “I never thought I would miss sunlight so much,” Brigitta said.
“How could you not miss it?”
“I try to stay out of the midday sun. So I don’t turn brown like the natives.”
“I suppose I’m not in the sun much either. I’m usually in the jungle at midday. Or I was until . . . well, lately I’ve been at home.”
She gazed at me questioningly.
“Anyway, the light in the forest is dim. Not much sunlight gets through. It’s dappled and lovely.” The sight of all the downed trees stabbed me through the heart. “I suppose that won’t be true now.” My voice broke.
“It will grow back,” she said, reassuring me with a gentle squeeze. “No matter how many times my father cuts down plants, they always return.” A bitter note filled her voice.
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “Plants. They grow back.”
“No.” I struggled to ask my question. “What did you mean about your father?”
“Oh.” She sighed. “He thinks—thought—my interests in plants were unladylike.”
“What? Tante Greet has a flower garden, and she is forever trying to get me to help her in it. I thought flower gardens were a woman’s domain.”
She adjusted my arms around her. “Gardening can be something for women to occupy their time. But I don’t want to merely garden.”
“What do you want?”
“To know plants
’ medicinal qualities. To help people. Kuwat assisted me. His mother practiced jamu—native medicine. I needed Kuwat’s help with the plants and he taught me what he remembered about his mother’s knowledge. But after Father caught us with the hibiscus cuttings from the Ousterhoudts, he threatened to fire Kuwat and ripped all the cuttings out of the soil.”
Her words astonished me. “You do have an interest in botany.” Even though I knew she was clever, I never thought of Brigitta as someone with a scientific mind.
“It’s not botany. It’s native remedies.” A pink tint colored her cheeks. “But please don’t tell anyone.”
I arched my eyebrows. “Who would I tell?”
“I don’t know, but I would prefer—”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Dank u.” She smiled. “And don’t worry about the jungle. It will grow back.”
“I suppose.” It would take years for the forest to return. “After all, ‘Every one has heard that when an American forest is cut down, a very different vegetation springs up.’ ”
“Why do you do that?” she asked, shifting me in her arms.
“Do what?”
“Say such odd things.” Her face rumpled in confusion. “Are you quoting Darwin again?”
“Why wouldn’t I quote him? Who else should I quote?”
“I don’t know. The Bible?”
“Mr. Charles Darwin makes more sense to me.”
She stumbled a bit, and I slipped along with her. “Darwin makes more sense than the word of the Lord?” She shifted me back into a firmer grip.
“Brigitta, if you think the word of the Lord makes such sense, why don’t you quote Him?”
Shrugging, she said, “I don’t know. I suppose I don’t feel a need to. I don’t need to quote the Bible to prove how well I know the book.”
“To prove . . . ?”
“You don’t think you do that?” Her round eyes were wide with the question.
I pushed away from her and sank to the ground. Did I do that?
No. That was not what I did. I refused to believe that was what I did.
After Vader, Mr. Charles Darwin was the greatest man I knew. His words helped me make sense of the world.
Brigitta sat beside me. “Katrien, I would much rather hear what you have to say than what Charles Darwin does.”
I blinked. “You would?”
She nodded.
“You?”
“Ja,” she said firmly. “In your own words.”
I turned away from her, unsure what to think of this kinder, more interesting Brigitta. The only other person who ever wanted me to think and speak my own mind was Vader. I pushed Sister Hilde’s spectacles up and forced myself off the ground. Brigitta grasped me under my arm and helped me to stand once more. “In my own words,” I said, “I think we should keep going. Despite my swollen feet.”
She squeezed my shoulder. “Then that is precisely what we’ll do.”
We walked in slow silence for a long time. Snails were probably passing us—if there were any snails left.
More bodies lay scattered around the forest, wedged under fallen trees, piled on top of each other. Like something out of a nightmare.
We kept going.
“I think I can walk on my own now,” I said. I no longer felt the pain in my feet, and when Brigitta released me, I found I could stumble along with a clumsy, shifting gait. My puffy, tight toes left odd impressions in the mud. As long as I focused on moving forward, I avoided thinking about all the dead around me—and the reality that I might just find Vader and Tante Greet or Indah and Slamet among them.
After hours of slow progress, at last, we passed what had been the edge of the jungle and beheld Anjer.
No amount of mental preparation would have ever been enough. Even the darkest, most insidious workings of my imagination could never have conjured the scene before us.
A new pain struck me as I gazed out over the remains of my home.
Chapter 42
I pushed Sister Hilde’s spectacles up, hoping to wake from the nightmare in front of me, but Brigitta confirmed what I knew in my heart was the reality.
“Nothing’s left,” she whispered.
“Ja.”
I thought the first wave had been bad. But now, there truly was nothing. Not a single building, not a wall, not even fences stood. Only splinters remained where homes and offices once sat. Small bits of shredded bark and twigs were all that remained of trees. Even the huge stones of the Catholic church had been scattered like beach sand. There was nothing to indicate that a town had been here. That people had lived here.
Anjer had been annihilated.
I swayed, and Brigitta steadied me. My heart pounded in my ears.
Brigitta gasped and pointed. “Katrien, look. The lighthouse.”
The sturdy Anjer lighthouse that once rested so proudly on its rocky spit of land was gone.
In its place was a piece of coral so large and heavy that it had obliterated the stone beacon. I never realized nature had that much power.
Brigitta squeezed my hand. “There are so many people, Katrien.”
It was true. Bodies were strewn everywhere. What was, three days ago, a thriving, beautiful town full of thousands of vibrant, healthy people was now nothing but an open mass grave.
A numbness settled over me.
“We should see if anyone needs help,” she said.
“Needs help?” I gestured to the devastation. “Is anyone even alive?”
She bit her lip. “Someone has to be. Don’t they? We can’t be the only survivors.”
I wasn’t sure about that, and I was suddenly gripped again with the dreadful fear that somewhere down there I might find Vader and Tante Greet.
As we wove around the dead, Brigitta called out the names of those she knew. She recognized so many. “There’s Mrs. Van Tassel. And that’s Mr. Bleeker. Over there is . . .” Her voice faded.
“Who?”
“Adriaan Vogel.” She stared at the body about halfway between us.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything.
“I hope he found his brother before . . . well . . . before . . .” She let out a watery breath.
I turned away. I had no interest in identifying bodies, only in finding my family. “Vader! Tante Greet!” My voice rang out across the desolation.
Behind me, Brigitta continued moving through the bodies. “Oh, no.”
“What?” I made my clumsy way toward her. My swollen feet were acting like heavy clubs as I stepped gingerly through the carnage. “Is it Vader?”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s old Mrs. Schoonhoven. She always called me ‘Bibby’ and never seemed to remember my real name.”
“How can you tell that’s her?” All that was visible was the back of a yellow blouse and gray hair.
“She always wore a yellow blouse. Did you not notice?”
“Oh.” I didn’t notice. For all my observational skills, I never paid much attention to details about other people. “I never realized it was always.”
The thought weighed heavily upon me. I had lived here my whole life. Could I not name anyone in this mass of death? Perhaps if there was just one person lying before me, like Sister Hilde, or even a few at a time, then I could identify them. But the hundreds scattered around us now were too much.
I took a wobbling step over another body and then fell. Brigitta caught me before I crashed into the corpse. When I saw its face, I gasped. There was no mistaking its identity, and I immediately decided it had been easier not knowing.
“Is it your aunt? Or your father?” she asked, trying to steady me.
I shook my head. “It’s Wilhemina De Graff.”
“From the hotel?”
I nodded.
We knelt beside her. “She was so nice,” I said. “She lent me a handkerchief to get home in the ash.” As I spoke I realized that made two people whose kindness—and handkerchiefs—had helped me since the eruption. I
wished I could tell Wilhemenia and Sister Hilde how grateful I was.
“She waved at me whenever she saw me,” Brigitta said, brushing Wilhemina’s hair out of her eyes.
“I used to think she was independent and adventurous.”
“Why?”
“Because she had come here from the Netherlands all alone. But then she told me she was only trying to find a rich husband. That’s why she came to Java.” Disappointment filled my voice, and I instantly regretted it. Wilhemina had had a dream, and her dream didn’t come true.
“That’s ridiculous,” Brigitta said.
Amazed that she and I agreed about something like husband-hunting, I said, “I thought so, too.”
“She should have stayed in the Netherlands. I imagine you would find richer men in Amsterdam.”
I smiled wryly as Brigitta helped me to my feet.
Picking our way past more and more friends and neighbors, we reached the shoreline. The tide was in and the coral was covered, and then our living nightmare became something far worse.
“My God,” Brigitta murmured, and crossed herself.
Floating in the Sunda Strait were more bodies, as far as the eye could see. In every direction. Nothing but bodies.
“It looks like they go all the way to Sumatra,” I whispered.
A mournful awe filled her voice. “So many people, Katrien. How could so many people die at one time?”
“The waves.” They tore through Anjer and ravaged not just buildings, but people, too. They seemed to have taken every person they met. Except us.
And maybe, maybe my father and my aunt.
But I still could not find them. Turning my mind from darker thoughts, I shifted my gaze to Krakatau. A choked cry escaped my throat.
“What?” Brigitta clutched my arm. “What is it?”
“Krakatau.” I squinted through Sister Hilde’s spectacles. “It’s gone!”
“Don’t be silly. How can an island be gone?”
I pointed where the island used to stand.
“That’s not poss—” She stopped when she saw.
Where Krakatau once stood, guarding the entrance to the Sunda Strait, there was now nothing. I scoured my memory to find an instance in history of a volcano erupting and disappearing. But I could think of nothing. “Vader would know,” I muttered to myself.
After the Ashes Page 18
