Ghostwritten (13 page)

My mother feared that being exposed to such violence would affect Peter and me. She worried that it would make us hate the Japanese.

‘Why shouldn’t we hate them?’ Peter demanded. ‘They’re horrible to
us.
’

‘I don’t want you to hate
anyone
,’ my mother replied. ‘Hatred is destroying the whole world.’

Not long after this, one of the twins, Sofie, became ill with dysentery. There was no hospital, and Kate was frantic. One morning I saw her run outside holding Sofie. She stopped two soldiers who’d been passing the house. Still cradling Sofie, she bowed, then implored them to get medicine for her ‘very sick child’.

‘Imatin,’ she said. ‘I need Imatin for my baby.’

The first soldier stared at her, then shook his head. Kate fell to her knees, still clutching the little girl, and begged him to help. But the pair just shrugged then walked on. Kate sobbed as she carried Sofie inside.

That night my mother and I were woken by footsteps on the
emper
that ran along the side of the house. We pulled back our
kelambus
and saw, standing by the open window, the second soldier. Without speaking, he handed my mother a small brown bottle; she looked at the label, then ran with it to Kate, who let out a cry of joy.

‘You
see
,’ my mother said triumphantly to Peter and me once Sofie had recovered. ‘That just proves that there’s good and bad in everyone; we must
never
forget that.’

My mother had said that running the plantation on her own had been too hard; but life in Bloemencamp was far worse. Peter and I hated having to see her doing such back-breaking work; we hated being hungry all the time. We loathed being crammed into such a confined space, with so many others you could hear every cough, snore and burp. I couldn’t bear the filth, the dreadful food, or the utter boredom. But what I hated, more than anything else, was
tenko. Tenko
was hell.

Morning and night we’d have to stand there as the soldiers counted us in our rows, shouting out the numbers:

Ichi! Ni! San! Shi! Go! Roku! Shichi! Hachi! Kyuu! Ju!

If they made a mistake, which they nearly always did, they’d go back and start all over again. There’d be people groaning and crying and leaning on each other, then they’d jerk straight up to bow as the commandant would stride past. We’d have to listen to him ranting at us, that
we had been defeated and must therefore be obedient, polite and grateful for the ‘hospitality’ and ‘protection’ that we were being given. As if this wasn’t enough, it was made far worse by the fact that the soldiers would always find someone to pick on. It could be for anything. Once they picked on Greta’s grandmother, Mrs Moonen. Her mouth lifted up a little on one side; perhaps she’d had a stroke, I don’t know, but she was standing at the front when the commandant suddenly seemed to notice her. He must have thought that she was laughing at him, because he barked an order at a guard and the next second she was being dragged off the field. The following morning I saw Greta winding a bloodied bandage around Mrs Moonen’s shorn head.

Of the many punishments that the Japanese used, head-shaving was the most common. It was done in public, very badly, and was humiliating. Most would just tie a scarf around their head, and carry on. Often, other women would cut off bits of their own hair and glue it to the front of the shaved woman’s scarf. My mother had done this so often that her once luxuriantly long hair now barely reached her collar.

‘Why don’t we just escape?’ Peter suggested one morning.

‘Why don’t we?’ I agreed. ‘After all, there are thousands of us, and just a few of them.’

‘But they have guns and bayonets,’ my mother responded. ‘And they’d use them.’

‘In any case,’ added Kate, ‘it would be hard to hide. We’d soon be spotted, brought back, and probably executed. Don’t worry, darling,’ she said to Corrie. ‘That’s not going to happen.’

‘I’m not going to try and escape,’ my mother stated. ‘My priority is just to stay alive, for my children.’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Kate, ‘and I’m going to stay alive for my girls – even if it kills me!’ she added with a grim laugh.

I remember how painfully slowly time went by. We lost all track of it, though my mother tried to keep count of the passing weeks and months by making a daily mark on the wall. Our main aim was not to be noticed by the guards, so that we wouldn’t be punished. So during
tenko
I’d stand there, my face a mask, thinking about my father, and about the plantation, and about Ferdi and Sweetie and about how much I’d like to eat a mango, barely listening to the commandant ranting away. Then, during one
tenko
, after we’d been in Bloemencamp for about a year, I heard the interpreter announce that we were to be moved. A murmur of surprise rippled through the lines. My mother whispered to Peter and me that we were going to another camp, called Tjihapit. Then the interpreter raised her megaphone again, and told us that we were to go and pack immediately. We were to bring whatever we could carry, but were not to try and smuggle in any ‘forbidden items’. Our bags would be searched at the gate.

Back in the house we all discussed what was forbidden.

‘Anything Dutch,’ said Kirsten. ‘That means no Dutch money – notes or coins – or anything with an image of Queen Wilhelmina on it.’

‘Nothing orange,’ Ina added, ‘
although
…’ She lifted up her dress to reveal an orange ribbon sewn along the hem of her pants. She grinned. ‘Like my royal knickers?’

‘They’re lovely,’ said Loes. ‘At
tenko
I tie a piece of orange wool to one of my toes so that I feel I’m bowing to Holland, not to the rotten Japs.’

‘No Dutch flags,’ Kirsten went on as she packed her case. ‘No radio parts,’ she added in a singsong voice; ‘no scissors or knives or – even more dangerous –
books!
’

This grieved my mother as reading was, as she often put it, a way of ‘restoring’ herself at the end of each day. But we had to leave our books piled up in the front gardens to be collected and burnt; not even Bibles were allowed. Ina beckoned to me and opened her jacket; hidden inside the lining were a few pages that she said she’d torn out of her Old Testament. ‘A few of my favourite Psalms,’ she whispered, then put her finger to her lips.

‘No paper or pens,’ Kirsten intoned as she packed her bag, ‘no cards, and no board games.’

My mother turned to Peter. ‘You’ll have to leave Jaya’s chess set behind.’

‘But I said I’d bring it back to him! I can’t leave it!’ His eyes had filled. ‘I
can’t
, Mummy.’

‘You’ll have to, Pietje,’ she said. ‘We can’t risk them finding it.’

‘Because if they
did
,’ I said crossly, ‘it’s Mummy that they’d punish, not you. Do you want that?’

My mother wiped away his tears. ‘After the war I’ll buy Jaya a beautiful new chess set for you to give him.’

Peter swallowed. ‘Do you promise?’

‘I do. I’ll get him one that’s
even
nicer.’

This seemed to cheer Peter. ‘He’s always wanted one made of onyx and marble.’

Mum smiled. ‘Then that’s what he’ll have. I’ll get him
the most beautiful onyx and marble chess set that I can find. This is my solemn promise to you, darling.’

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 rumours 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.

Klara and I had been recording for about an hour on Wednesday afternoon when I suddenly realised, 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. 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 in 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 was embroidered in a red and blue script. In the centre of it was a circle, inside which, in small square capitals, was sewn,
Bloemencamp, Bandoeng, 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.
Liesbeth de Jong … Kate van der Velden … Hanke Sillem … Martha Tromp … Kirsten Zwaan …

‘Here’s Kate,’ I said, staring at the hanky, fascinated. ‘And here’s Kirsten – there’s no other Kirsten, so it must be her.’
Marjolein de Bruin.
‘That’s Marjolein, whose house it was. 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 in 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 unravelling 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, like Jane, my memory is failing.’

‘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 towards 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 who would you ask? Henry and Beth? Vincent?’

‘Yes, and their children. 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 e-mail me something.’

‘I’m sure Jill 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 do 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 problems, receded.

There was an e-mail 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 e-mailed 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 brutalised.’

‘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.’

‘It must be hard, being with someone you don’t know, hearing them tell you such harrowing things.’

‘It is harrowing, 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. And where in Cornwall does she live?’

‘In the south, on the Roseland.’

‘Oh, I don’t know it; I’ve only ever been to the north. Anyway, I have some news …’ There was a theatrical pause.

‘Yes?’

‘Nina’s back from honeymoon.’

‘Great.’ I wondered why Honor was phoning to tell me this. ‘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—’

‘What? Gone back to work?’

‘No – or rather she has, but that’s not what I meant. 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 … mid-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 realised 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 he gave me his card. 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 gynaecologist did once say that I have a
very
nice – ooh, my producer wants me; I’d better go. But call me any time, 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’d want 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. I found a percolator in the cupboard, but there was no ground coffee. 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.