Under the Java Moon, page 2
Even now, the joyous reunions playing out at Tjideng didn’t erase the burden of the past. The heaviness sat upon Rita’s shoulders like a metal box full of memories waiting to be opened again.
Her heart thumped as, only meters away, a teenaged boy—lean and lanky with sharp edges for cheekbones—embraced his petite mother.
They each wept. Reunited at last. The mother and son had both survived their internments. What would the future bring now?
All will be well, her mother’s voice echoed in Rita’s mind. Would it ever be well? The human heart was on its own timetable it seemed. To continue beating, or to stop. She didn’t know if all would be truly well, for her, or for anyone. But she had to believe in something, so she chose to believe and let her mother’s words imprint themselves on her skin.
Chapter One
“Pray for us.”
—Jeroen Brouwers, Tjideng Camp
Four Years Earlier: December 9, 1941
Rita
“What are they digging, Ita?” Georgie asked, pointing his stubby finger in the direction of their neighbor’s house, where a group of men dug a trench between the properties.
Rita looked up from where she’d carefully laid out the set of new clothing for her teddy bear on the veranda. Oma had sewn them this past week, and it was time to try them on. Rita especially liked the little white shirt with its stitched-on Dutch flag.
“It’s a bomb shelter,” Johan cut in.
Rita narrowed her eyes. Johan was always about, joining in, and then playing with Georgie so that Rita was left on her own. At nine, Johan was a know-it-all. And his scruffy dog, a black retriever, was never far behind. Kells trotted across the yard, bounded up the veranda steps, and nudged his head against Rita’s arm.
“Don’t say that, Johan,” Rita said, giving the dog a scratch. She didn’t want her little brother upset or scared about why they had to build bomb shelters along Laan Trivelli.
“He’s going to know soon enough,” Johan said in that superior tone of his.
A sliver of sunlight bounced off Georgie’s blond curls as he looked from Johan to Rita. “What’s a bomb shelter, Ita?”
Rita’s real name was Marie. She wasn’t sure when her parents had started calling her Rita, but it had stuck since her mother’s name was Mary—very close to Marie’s own given name. Since her little brother couldn’t say the “R” when he’d learned to talk, he’d started calling her Ita.
“It’s a place that will protect us from bombs, I think.” Rita said this with a sigh, a little uncertain herself about what was truly happening across the yard, though she’d been told many times that she was wise for her age. She shot Johan a glare, as if silently telling him not to say more. “There won’t be bombs here, though. We’ll be safe, Georgie.”
Johan leaned his tanned arms against the railing of the veranda. His blue eyes were the same blue as many of her own family’s. Instead of the blond hair that was so common among the Dutch, however, Johan’s was nearly red. He wore it parted and combed to the side.
“Why are they digging, then?” Georgie pressed.
This was a very good question. The war had always been in Europe. The Netherlands was occupied by Germany. But there were no Germans on Java, and the war wasn’t here.
“They are just being safe, but we’ll be fine—” Rita started to explain.
“They’re digging trenches because of what happened yesterday.” Johan’s gaze went to Rita. “Don’t you know that Japan bombed Pearl Harbor yesterday?”
Rita stiffened, glancing at Georgie. “Of course, I know it.” Just because Johan was older didn’t mean he was smarter at everything.
“Pearl Harbor is far away,” she said. “What does that have to do with us? We’re not part of the war.”
The war in Europe was always talked about on the radio. Every kid on Java Island, even Georgie at two, knew who Hitler was. Sometimes Rita would ask Johan questions because she was too curious about the things Mama and Oma wouldn’t tell her. Papa was busy with his job at the Netherlands’ naval headquarters and only came home at night.
But right now, she didn’t want Georgie to be scared about being bombed. He was too young to worry about things that wouldn’t happen anyway. Johan waved at a fly that had started pestering him. Then he hopped up on the veranda and sat cross-legged next to Georgie. The dog, Kells, settled next to Georgie, who gave the dog a fierce hug. The black retriever rolled over onto his back to get a belly rub.
“Since Germany conquered the Netherlands last year,” Johan continued, reaching over to scratch his dog’s soft, floppy ears, “we aren’t safe anymore from Japan. They’re coming here next.”
Rita pulled her knees up to her chest and peered at Johan. “Why does Japan care about us? We’re not doing anything wrong.”
Johan sighed like her question was silly. “Japan wants our oil fields. The Allies have cut them off, and we have lots of oil.”
Biting her lip, Rita gazed at the men clustered around the trench they were digging. Was Johan speaking the truth? She wasn’t sure because he liked to tease a lot. Yet something prickled her skin, and it wasn’t an insect.
Next, Johan spoke in a low voice as if hoping the adults inside the house wouldn’t overhear through the screened windows. “My father said that the bomb shelter is for your family too.”
That caught Rita’s attention. What would her parents think about that?
“Can we play in it?” Georgie asked in his innocent tone.
Rita wasn’t sure how to answer, but she didn’t want Johan to, so she hurried to say, “No, we can’t play in it because it’s going to be muddy with all the rain. We’ll only go there if we have to, but I’ll hold your hand.” Georgie gave a solemn nod, and she reached for his hand and squeezed. “It will be like a game. You can close your eyes, and I’ll tell you stories. Like at bedtime.”
Johan, for once, didn’t counter Rita. But now she was distracted and found herself watching the Javanese men, including their gardener Bima, in their digging. There were other dug-out trenches along Laan Trivelli. Six feet deep and five or six feet long. The roofs were made out of grass turf, held up by bamboo, giving an opening to see the sky at least.
Even though the December weather was warm and humid as usual, a shiver skated across Rita’s arms. She didn’t want to get inside a trench that was the size of a grave. Even if there were bombs coming. Maybe she could hide in her bedroom under her bed.
Johan’s mother called him from their veranda, and he hurried off, Kells loping behind him.
By the time the sun had shifted against the horizon, Rita didn’t feel like playing with her teddy bear anymore. “Come on, Georgie,” she said. “Let’s help Kemala in the kitchen.”
They found their cook, Kemala, making egg rolls, which she called loempia—a favorite food of the family’s. They usually bought them from a Chinese man at the market, but he hadn’t been around the past week. Kemala was a Javanese woman, native to the island of Java. She wore a peach-colored sarong and her long dark hair in a braid. Rita often helped their cook with whatever needed to be done.
Most of the Dutch families living in their neighborhood on Laan Trivelli had servants. Rita’s family had a gardener, a cook, a maid, and a nanny. Mama told Rita to always help whenever she could. Mama didn’t like housework much, so she spent most of her time sewing the children’s clothing, making dresses for herself and the servants, and working on embroidery, crocheting, and knitting. She even made carpets and tapestries. Since Papa was so busy, their gardener worked in the gardens and made repairs around the house and yard.
Now, Kemala was making the egg rolls.
“Where’s Mama?” Georgie climbed up on a chair.
Rita moved close to him so he wouldn’t fall off.
“Your mama is resting,” Kemala said. She spoke Malay, but she’d learned some Dutch, and Rita had learned some Malay. Their conversations were always a mixture of both.
Rita frowned over Mama, though. She had been resting almost every day. Midafternoon was always the hottest part of the day, and that was when Georgie had to take a nap, but it was almost sundown. Was Mama sick?
“Can we help you make the egg rolls?” Rita asked.
“Of course,” Kemala said with a smile, showing the small chip on one of her front teeth. She’d once told Rita it happened when she’d crashed on her bicycle.
Rita had been fascinated with the story because when she was Georgie’s age, she’d almost been run over by a bike when she’d been with their nanny, or baboe, on their way to the market. Rita had pulled away from their nanny, Anja, and run straight into the bicycle. The pain was so terrible that she’d cried the whole way home.
“Can I help?” Georgie asked in an eager voice.
Her easy smile still in place, Kemala slid over the bowl of rice, bits of egg, and chopped vegetables for Georgie to stir.
“Very slowly,” Rita said as she scooped out a spoonful and set it in the middle of a wrapper. Then she began to roll—it was her favorite part of making egg rolls.
Next Kemala asked Rita to stir the pecel—a sauce made with peanuts and spices, while Kemala began to fry the egg rolls.
Georgie said he wanted to watch for Papa to come home. One of his favorite activities.
“I’ll come,” Rita said, finished with her mixing. Then she could see the progress on the trench too.
Just as they reached the veranda, Georgie called out suddenly, “Papa’s here!”
Sure enough, Papa had wheeled his bicycle into the front yard. He strode up the long walkway to the house, carrying the newspaper. He wore his naval officer uniform, but his sleeves were pushed up, and the collar of his shirt was stained with perspiration. Rita felt proud when she saw Papa in uniform. Mama had said he was a very hard worker and everyone respected him. He’d become a chief engineer officer with a Diploma C, which meant he could serve on Dutch submarines and any size ship.
“Papa!” Rita called, hurrying down the steps.
Georgie scurried behind her.
Papa scooped off his hat. The orange of the setting sun gleamed against the black waves of his hair. His brown eyes crinkled at the corners as Rita hugged him around the waist. He smelled as he always did, of starched cotton and pine and the sea air. He pulled her close for an instant.
Georgie’s arms clamped around Papa’s leg.
“Let’s get inside.” Papa said, his tone stern. “I’m burning up.”
His tone sent Rita on alert, and she released her father. Was he worried about what had happened at Pearl Harbor? Perspiration darkened the back of his shirt as he strode up the steps to the veranda.
Rita grasped Georgie’s hand and followed Papa into the house.
Mama walked into the front room just as they arrived. Her blonde hair was wispy about her face from her nap, but her fair skin was paler than usual. Was she sick? Or maybe she was worried like Papa?
“George,” Mama said in her soft voice.
Papa stepped close and kissed her cheek. “How are you feeling, Mary?”
Mama was nearly six feet tall, making her a couple of centimeters taller than Papa, but she still wore heels when she dressed up. Her blonde hair contrasted with Papa’s neat dark hair. Rita loved the way her mother’s eyes sparkled when she looked at Papa. Usually when they greeted each other, he had a smile that he shared only with her.
Right now, no one was smiling.
“What’s this?” Mama said as Papa handed her the newspaper.
The headlines on the front page were set in large, bolded type. Rita knew a couple of the words, but Mama whispered the rest: “Netherlands Indies Declares War on Japan.” Mama covered her mouth with a hand. “Oh, no.”
Rita gazed at the printed words that made her stomach hurt for some reason. What would Johan say about this? Did he know yet?
“Can it be true?” Mama asked, her tone shaky.
Papa scrubbed his fingers through his hair, making it stand up. “Let’s sit down. We need to talk.”
It was then that her parents must have realized their two children were watching and hearing everything.
“Rita,” Papa said. “Take Georgie into the kitchen. Help out Kemala with dinner.”
She didn’t want to say that they’d already helped. Instead, she grasped Georgie’s hand and once again took him into the kitchen. His lower lip was trembling—not because he’d been able to read the newspaper headlines—but because her brother felt the things other people felt. If they were upset, he was too. He didn’t need to know why.
“I want Mama,” Georgie whispered, his large hazel eyes filling with tears.
Rita looped an arm about him, pulling him close. As she ruffled his blond curls, she said, “She has to speak to Papa. Then we’ll be together for dinner.”
Georgie bit his lip and nodded.
“Come on,” Kemala interrupted. She’d been watching from the doorway. “You can both help wipe off the table.”
His eyes brightened then, and with another word of encouragement from Kemala, they wiped down the already clean table.
Even though Rita’s hands were busy, and the kitchen had begun to smell delicious, she listened hard to make out the hushed conversation between her parents. Words like blackout and curfew were spoken by her father.
Rita had heard these words on the radio before. They were always about Europe and Germany. Not Java and Japan.
“What’s all this?” Oma said, coming into the kitchen.
Rita turned to see her grandmother. Oma was a tall woman, too, but her hair was more brown than blonde. And her eyes were hazel—which meant they had more than one color in them. This had always fascinated Rita.
“Oma!” Georgie said, dropping the cleaning rag and lifting up his arms.
Oma chuckled and stepped close to hug the little boy. Then she drew away. “Smells delicious, Kemala.”
The woman dipped her chin, and next Oma fastened her eyes on Rita. Her smile always calmed Rita’s heart—no matter what she was worried about.
“Can I help with anything?” Oma asked, squeezing Rita’s shoulder.
Somehow Rita felt better. Her grandmother had come to Java after visiting Uncle Jack in America. Rita hoped that Oma could stay with them forever. She played games with them, bought them trinkets or treats at the market, and told them stories about the Netherlands.
“We need to set the table for dinner,” Rita said. “Georgie, you can do the forks.”
He slid off one of the chairs and gleefully hurried to the utensil drawer.
The screen door shut, and Rita turned to see her father crossing the yard, tugging on a pair of worn gloves. He’d changed out of his navy uniform and wore a loose tan shirt and shorts.
“Where’s Papa going?” Georgie said.
Rita had no idea, but then Mama spoke from the doorway, “He’s helping our neighbors dig a trench.”
Oma released a long breath. “Has it come to that?”
Mama nodded.
Rita’s heart was thumping again like a racing rabbit. She rose from the table. “Can I help him dig, Mama?”
Her gaze seemed about to say no, then she glanced outside. “Maybe there is something you can do. Take drinks to the working men. They must be thirsty.”
Oma crossed to Mama, and the women clasped hands.
Even though the women weren’t speaking, Rita knew they were both worried. She didn’t want to imagine exactly what they were worried about. Rita helped Mama fill up four glasses, three for the Javanese workers, and one for Papa.
Then she headed out of the house, walking slowly to carefully carry the first two glasses to the men. She wanted to get away. Inside the house, the emotions were becoming too heavy. Outside, with her father, there was air, trees, and an orange sky. Maybe she could help dig, or maybe she could help with the roof. Whatever it was, she wanted to stay busy. To drown out her fears that her island was now at war.
Chapter Two
“I was 17 years old then, and all my Dutch teachers were recruited into the military service; as a consequence, the schools were closed. Every healthy Dutch citizen 18 and over was also inducted into the navy, army or air force. They had to undergo a physical. They received their uniform, underwent an accelerated military training of approximately 30 days, were issued a rifle and ordered to go ‘fight the [Japanese] for Queen and fatherland.’”
—Willem H. Maaskamp, Werffstraat Prison
Mary
“Please be a dream,” Mary Vischer whispered as a wailing siren split apart the darkness of the night. But waking up with a jolt screaming through her whole body was no dream.
Her husband, George, was already moving about the bedroom in the dimness, pulling on a shirt, then grabbing a flashlight they’d set aside for air raids. “We need to go, Rie,” George said. “I’ll get the children up if you fetch Ma.”
Mary turned over in bed, squeezing her eyes shut for another half second. Exhaustion pulsed through her.
“Rie,” George said again. He’d started calling her Rie, pronounced ree, when they’d met in Holland—since her mother’s name was Mary, too.
“Maybe it’s a drill,” she suggested, her eyes still closed. She felt the warm weight of her husband’s hand on her shoulder.
“I’d like to believe it’s a drill, but we’re not making that bet.”
With a groan, Mary opened her eyes and rose to a sitting position. Why was she so tired? It might be the middle of the night, yes, but over the past week or so, she’d been dragging. She picked up her eyeglasses from the bedside table, then pulled on a robe, not for warmth, but because the trench her husband had helped dig days ago wouldn’t be all that clean.
