After the Ashes

by Sara K. Joiner

  At thirteen, I could fill a steamship with my misdeeds—small and large. Would leaving Java mean leaving those memories behind? I didn’t think so, but Oom Maarten and the Brinckerhoffs seemed to believe it would. Or maybe what they meant was that leaving would give us all a proper distance.

  But what if I didn’t want distance? What if I wanted to see Java recover?

  “When do you sail?” Oom Maarten asked.

  “March,” Mr. Brinckerhoff answered.

  “We would need to find a place to live,” Oom Maarten said thoughtfully. “I’ll begin making inquiries at once.”

  Epilogue

  Groningen, The Netherlands

  JANUARY 1885

  “Katrien, we need to leave soon,” Oom Maarten said, popping his head into the kitchen.

  “Homo sapiens!” I cried. Then I slapped my hand over my mouth. “Apologies, Oom.”

  “Whatever for?”

  I stood at the stove with a slotted spoon in my hand and blinked at him. “For—for—my poor language.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Good grief, lieve, if you want poor language, I’ll teach you better words to use.”

  I blushed. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Fine, but hurry.” Torben followed him through the door.

  I dipped the spoon into the steaming water. The last of the Rhagonycha fulva beetles I had collected in the fall floated on the surface. I would have to work on this later. I scooped the beetles out of the water and placed them on a wooden cutting board to dry. Oom Maarten was not as picky as Tante Greet had been. He didn’t mind my using kitchen utensils to create my new beetle displays. But I still only used specific items and kept them separate from the ones used for cooking.

  The little insects—no bigger than peas—rested on the cutting board. They were much smaller and less intimidating than my Hexarthrius rhinoceros rhinoceros. I let out a short sigh, and my breath made them skitter across the board.

  “Come along, Katrien,” Oom Maarten called from the front hall. Torben scratched at the door. “Torben, stay.”

  My cane leaned against the table. I grabbed it and hobbled to join him.

  Once I’d mastered walking with the crutches, I had moved to two canes. Now I was down to one. I still walked with an odd, shuffling gate and needed the cane for balance, but I could stand up from chairs and climb stairs without too much trouble and with no assistance from anyone.

  I could not, however, climb any more trees.

  Not that it mattered. Most of the trees were in parks here, and people weren’t allowed to climb them. We had only one weeping beech in our small outdoor space beside the canal. It was a good place to read in the summer. At the bookshop, I discovered The Descent of Man by Mr. Charles Darwin and was busy committing new passages to memory—when I wasn’t buried in my other studies.

  The University of Groningen accepted female students, and Oom Maarten thought I should apply when I graduated from school. “Your father would have wanted you to,” he said.

  Two of the girls in my class—Inge and Paulien—had befriended me. Although neither of them had an interest in science, they both wanted to help me get accepted to the university. They had plans of attending themselves—though they intended to study literature—and said another friend would be welcome indeed. Inge was even helping me improve my penmanship. I looked forward to introducing them to Brigitta.

  Outside, the snow crunched beneath my heavy shoes and cold seeped up my legs as I struggled toward the train station.

  “The world is glorious today, isn’t it?” Oom Maarten said as he walked slowly beside me. “Though it is colder than I remember.”

  “All those years in Java made you forget,” I chided.

  He laughed. “Fifteen years in the tropics will do that.” He stamped his feet. “But I truly don’t recall it ever being this cold.” Puffs of steam shot out of his mouth as he spoke. “What about you, Katrien? What do you think of Old Man Winter?”

  “He’s a force to be reckoned with,” I said with a wry smile.

  My first winter was certainly a new experience. The snow, the ice, the roaring fires blazing in the fireplace, the heavy clothes, and the oppressive, unyielding cold . . . I did not like any of it, but I would never say so to Oom Maarten.

  I recalled that when we arrived in the Netherlands, the weather had been warm, the countryside green, the trees dripping with new leaves. It had not been as hot as Java, but it was nice. I thought I could learn to love it.

  That had all changed with the first winter storm.

  I decided at once that I did not like snow. It fell in silence, piling and drifting, very much like ash. And it stuck to the ground and never seemed to leave either. It transformed everything familiar into an eerie world of strange white shapes.

  When the wind blew, icy air crawled into the sleeves and under the hem of my heavy wool coat. Even my gloves and boots were not enough to keep it at bay.

  My feet ached in the cold, too. They were completely healed, but the frigid temperatures brought all the original pain screaming back.

  No, I did not like winter one bit. I longed for the sticky heat of Anjer. The salty breezes from the Sunda Strait. The gentle rains and raging thunderstorms of the wet season. The Netherlands was so very different from what I’d known before.

  Oom Maarten’s decision to move here had shocked me at first, especially his seriousness. I had never seen him so serious as he was while trying to find a place for us to live. He must have spent a fortune in telegraph fees before he found our little house, but he refused to accept any place that couldn’t accommodate my needs—such as no room on the ground floor that could be used as a bedroom.

  I loved him for that. He had taken me in and cared for me as if I were his own daughter, and I knew if I had ever asked him, he would have stayed in Batavia for me. At one point I considered taking advantage of his kindness. When I saw how determined he was to move, I thought about telling him I wouldn’t go—that I would get by on my own. But the truth was, I still needed help then. I couldn’t have managed. And he would never have left me in Batavia alone, so he would have stayed, too.

  I was glad I hadn’t forced him to make that choice, but now, so many months later, as the dark winter enveloped Groningen, there were still days when I wished we could return to Java. Part of me wanted to know that Anjer was being rebuilt, even though I knew it would take years to complete the job and that the town would never be the same as it was. I imagined there would be some comfort in seeing its reconstruction with my own eyes. And of course, I knew for a fact that I would find comfort in the climate. I wouldn’t be cold anymore, and my feet wouldn’t hurt.

  But my heart would. Of that I was certain. Here, in the Netherlands, I was far more removed from the loss I had suffered. Oom Maarten had been right when he said that part of healing was moving ahead, avoiding getting caught up in remorse and regret. In Groningen, I had far less fear of coming around a corner and stopping cold, remembering an incident with Vader or Tante Greet. There were no kampongs surrounding me here or smells of native cooking to regularly remind me of my arguments with Slamet.

  I still thought of my loved ones all the time. But here, at a distance, I knew I could get through my days and plan for my future without constant reminders of my loss.

  This knowledge was both welcome and unwelcome.

  Oom Maarten often asked me how I was faring. But how could I explain all this without sounding ungrateful? For my uncle, I wished only to concentrate on the positives, for I was happy here. Vader had been correct. I did find much to study and observe and see.

  Now, in the throes of winter, I mostly observed the slippery ground, though sometimes my watchfulness did me no good. As I pushed my spectacles up and hurried alongside Oom Maarten, I hit a patch of ice and skidded. My legs flailed under me, my arms spun like windmills, and I dropped my cane.

  “Oops!” Oom Maarten righted me before retrieving the silver-handled cane. “Here you are, lieve.”
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  I laughed and thanked him. Despite the dreary weather and my near fall, my spirits now flew like sparrows. Brigitta was arriving for a visit, and I could not wait to see her.

  “What time did she say her train would arrive?” Oom Maarten asked, glancing at his pocket watch.

  “Around three.”

  His eyebrows twitched in concern. “We should hurry. I don’t want to leave your friend waiting. Come along, my little cripple.” He laughed and picked up speed.

  His nickname gave me a soft chuckle, and I tried to move a bit faster, though it was difficult in wet snow with heavy boots and bad feet. “Wait, Oom!”

  He immediately turned and rejoined me.

  Just then, a flash of sunlight shot through the gloomy sky and lit up the trees. The sight of the snow piled on the leafless branches stopped me in my tracks.

  “What are you looking at?” Oom Maarten asked.

  “The ash.”

  “The what?”

  I shook my head. “The snow. I meant the snow. It reminds me of the ash.”

  He turned grave. “If you ever need to talk, lieve, you know I’m here for you.”

  Smiling, I took his hand. “I know that, Oom Maarten. You are my hero.”

  His eyes twinkled again, and he blushed. “At least I’m someone’s hero.” He squeezed my hand. “Now, come on. We’ll be late.” He winked.

  We walked into the huge redbrick train station, even larger than our church in Anjer. People streamed in and out of the doorways to the platforms.

  I pushed my spectacles up. How would we ever find Brigitta in this mass of humanity?

  Oom Maarten and I stood near the main entrance staring in every direction. People jostled us as they hurried past. I gripped my cane tighter. Oom Maarten took about three steps toward one doorway and then another before stopping and rejoining me. “This is madness. We’ll never find her.”

  Then, a tap on my shoulder caused me to turn, and Brigitta stood before me, smiling. Her golden hair was styled into neat braids. My own mess of hair lay hidden beneath a wooly hat.

  She spread her arms and kissed me. “It’s so good to see you, Katrien!”

  “You, too!” I exclaimed, embracing her back.

  “What?”

  I was against her bad ear. “Sorry.” Pulling back, I said, “I’m glad to see you, too.”

  She reached her hand out to take Oom Maarten’s.

  He shook his head. “No, no, no. I won’t have a simple handshake.” He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her cheeks.

  Brigitta gave a little squeak, but she smiled.

  “Where’s your trunk?” he asked when he released her.

  “The porter has it.” She handed the ticket to Oom Maarten.

  He nodded. “I’ll get the trunk, and we’ll take a cab back home. Torben can’t wait to see you.”

  We watched him scurry off before facing each other. Brigitta grinned and pointed to my cane. “The crutches are gone, I see.”

  I showed her the cane and then tilted the handle toward her.

  “Is that—”

  “A Hexarthrius rhinoceros rhinoceros. Oom Maarten had it made for me as a gift.”

  A bark of laughter escaped her lips. “Only you would have a monstrous bug as a handle on a cane.”

  More than surviving the eruption of Krakatau, more than surviving multiple giant waves, more than learning to walk again, more than moving to the Netherlands, more than everything I had so recently accomplished and overcome, I thought my friendship with Brigitta would be the thing Vader and Tante Greet would be most proud of.

  My personal evolution astonished even me. “He has great power of adapting his habits to new conditions of life,” Mr. Charles Darwin wrote in The Descent of Man, but until recently, I never thought I was capable of much changing. I didn’t think it necessary. I thought I knew everything I needed to get by in the world.

  Vader had been right, though. I did need people. I needed Brigitta in the jungle. I needed complete strangers at the hospital. I needed Oom Maarten, period.

  Tante Greet had been right, too. Brigitta and I hadn’t seen each other in more than a year, but there was no awkwardness between us. We picked up right where we left off.

  I linked arms with my friend, and we shuffled after Oom Maarten. “I have so much to tell you.”

  Author’s Note

  Like many works of historical fiction, this story was inspired by true events. In this case, Krakatau, a volcanic island located in the Sunda Strait between Java and Sumatra, really did erupt on August 26 and 27 in 1883. If you have heard of this event at all, you may be more familiar with the name Krakatoa, which is how the name was misspelled in telegraphs in the aftermath of the disaster. Krakatau is the Indonesian name of the island.

  Most of the characters in this story are entirely creations of my own imagination. However, a few are based on historical figures.

  A man named Mr. C. Schuit ran the Hotel Anjer and was the inspiration for Mr. Caspar Schuyler. In addition to running the hotel, Mr. Schuit was also an agent for Lloyd’s of London, an insurance company, and reported information of potential interest back to the home office in London.

  Thomas Burkart, Brigitta’s father, is inspired by Thomas Buijs who was in fact the Assistant Resident of Anjer and lived in a fine brick house on the water. Although the Burkart family in the story is fictional, the real Thomas Buijs did die in the catastrophe.

  The Brinckerhoff family is based upon the Beyerinck family, who lived in Ketimbang and lost their youngest child in the disaster. Although I have been unable to determine if the Beyerincks left the Dutch East Indies or not, the last sentence Mrs. Brinckerhoff says to Katrien in the hospital (“However cruel nature may be, Katrien, and however mysterious God’s ways, He did save us. His name be praised.”) is paraphrased from the real Mrs. Beyerinck’s diary. During the course of my research, a translated, abridged version was available online. Unfortunately, it has since been taken down.

  While the real Mrs. Beyerinck’s account of Krakatau’s eruption greatly informed my writing, the relationships I created between the Brinckerhoffs and the Courtlandt family, and all related dialogue, are entirely fiction.

  Mr. Charles Darwin, whose words fill Katrien’s thoughts and permeate her dialogue, was very much a real person. His book On the Origin of Species; Or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life, published in 1859, revolutionized science. His theory of natural selection— the idea that all life around us evolved from a few simple organisms over millions of years—was, and still is, controversial. His suggestion that the world was much older than religious scholars, preachers and most ordinary people believed, and that life was not created by God, caused tremendous upheaval throughout society. When Darwin published The Descent of Man in 1871, he postulated that humans evolved from apes. This theory has proved to be even more controversial and problematic and continues to be a lightning rod to this day.

  The Dutch had a physical presence in what is now Indonesia since 1602. That was the year the United East India Company (known as the VOC) was granted a twenty-one-year monopoly in the spice trade. In addition to trading in spices, the VOC had the authority to wage war, treat convicts as it saw fit, negotiate treaties, coin money and even establish other colonies.

  Its first permanent trading post was established in Banten, Java, in 1603. Over time, the VOC expanded its influence in the region by establishing additional trading posts throughout Java and defeating both the British and the Portuguese, who also had economic interests there, in various battles in the region.

  The VOC eventually went bankrupt, and the Dutch government took over the colony in 1800. With few exceptions, much of Indonesia remained under Dutch control until World War II when Japanese forces invaded Java in 1942. When the war ended, the Dutch tried to reestablish their domination of the colony. However, Indonesians had long wanted to control their own country and seized this opportunity to do so. In the story, Raharjo makes it clear to Katrie
n that the Dutch should not control the destinies of the native population. Katrien, herself, has had an inkling of unrest since the time she was small and first overheard adults discussing fighting in Aceh, a region in Sumatra, where war between the Sultanate and the Netherlands went on for decades.

  Indonesia proclaimed its independence in August 1945 after the end of World War II. Fighting between pro-Indonesian and pro-Dutch forces continued for four years until the Dutch finally acknowledged Indonesia’s independence in 1949. However, many reminders of Dutch influence remain. Buildings erected by the Dutch still stand. Even some of the language remains—Slamet’s word ya is the Indonesian version of the Dutch ja.

  The history of the Dutch presence and influence in Indonesia is long, complicated and tempestuous. I have not even scratched the surface in this description, but I hope it provides a little more context. I have suggested further reading about it in the Resources section of this author’s note.

  Finally, the eruption of Krakatau marks one of the first natural disasters to receive worldwide media coverage relatively soon after the event transpired. The fast coverage was possible thanks to the invention and spread of the telegraph.

  In the 1860s, engineers began connecting the world via underwater telegraph cables. Eventually Java joined the rest of Asia and Europe through underwater wires. These were connected to the United States and other countries. Messages from Java, which used to take weeks or months by ship to reach the Netherlands, could now be relayed to Europe in a matter of a few days. That was close to instantaneous in 1883. When Katrien marvels at this technology, she does so with good reason: the telegraph was revolutionizing communication worldwide.

  Accounts of the eruption itself differ among survivors. Some described the smoke coming from Krakatau as black; others swore it was white. The final blast from Krakatau on the morning of August 27 was heard 3,000 miles away on the island of Rodrigues in the Indian Ocean. People there thought it was cannon fire from a nearby ship. Although it seems incredible, given how loud the sound was elsewhere, not everyone near the center of the eruption heard the explosion. This is most likely due to the pressure wave generated by the blast. The pressure wave traveled at 675 miles per hour and hit many people’s ears silently. In several instances, sailors on ships nearest the explosion in the Sunda Strait had their eardrums ruptured. Barograph readings from all over the world showed that the pressure wave circled the globe seven times before dissipating.