Under the Java Moon, page 3
By the time Mary reached her mother’s bedroom, she was already coming out, carrying her own flashlight. With the blackout order in place, no one was allowed to turn on lights after curfew, and flashlights had become a popular purchase item. Down the hallway, the children’s voices echoed with questions. Little Georgie’s higher-pitched one asked for his mama and was quickly followed by her husband’s lower, rumbling tone of assurance.
“Is everyone ready?” George asked, his deeper voice reaching Mary and her mother.
“Yes,” Mary said.
As long as the family was together, they were ready.
George reached the front door and held it open, then motioned for them to step onto the veranda. On his hip, he carried their sturdy, blond-haired son. Grasped in his large hand, he held onto Rita. She’d brought along her teddy bear.
Mary’s heart tugged at the sight. Her young children had already been exposed to things they shouldn’t have to be, Rita at nearly five years old and Georgie almost three. War half a world away was terrible enough, but with the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the Japanese military had increased their offense, literally arriving at Java Island’s doorstep. The Royal Netherlands East Indies Army had mobilized, and every male Dutch citizen, aged eighteen and up, was asked to join the navy, army, or air force to fight for the Queen and their fatherland against Japan.
With so many teachers joining the military forces, schools had been shut down. Every day, the newspapers called for seventeen-year-old volunteers to work in civilian defense jobs. At the fire department, the radio stations and telephone switchboards, the airports and harbors.
How had this all become their world? Arm in arm with her mother, Mary hurried across the lawn to the bomb shelter. Their neighbors, the Vos family, were already inside.
George guided the two children inside, then he held out his hand to aid Oma, and finally Mary.
“Everyone here?” Willem Vos asked. He and his wife, Claudia, were sitting across from them, on the opposite bench. Their son, Johan, sat next to Greta. She was twelve, a petite girl, who kept mostly to herself.
Once everyone was seated on the crude benches, George adjusted the grass turf roof. The first few times they’d had air raid drills, the entire neighborhood of hiding people had kept completely silent, listening for any sound of an approaching plane as the siren wailed from its tower.
Now, Mary could hear chatter from various shelters. The voices were indistinct, yes—but it somehow made her feel less afraid and less alone. The entire neighborhood was in this together. Somehow, they’d make it through, come what may.
“Mama,” little Georgie whispered against her neck.
Mary pulled him onto her lap in the near darkness. His small body nestled against hers, and she breathed in his scent of warm sun and leaves. As much as Mary loved both of her children, there was something different about Georgie. He hadn’t gone through the terrible twos like most toddlers did. He was eager-to-please, affectionate, quiet, but joyful. Almost too good for this world of harshness and pain and doubts.
Rita sat on the other side of her. Oma kept a firm arm about Rita, while George remained near the entrance of the shelter, peering out into the black night.
“I can’t even hear any airplanes,” George said, as if it were possible to hear them over the sirens. “Everything will be fine.”
“It’s a practice drill,” Willem added. The man was a few inches taller than her own George, with rusty-brown hair. He also served as a naval officer at the Netherlands’ naval headquarters in Batavia.
Next to Willem, his wife Claudia threaded her arm through his. She was a heavyset woman nearing fifty years old. Her skill as a seamstress was unmatched in the neighborhood, and she sewed baby clothing designed with beautiful embroidery.
“At least it didn’t rain much today,” George said. “Not much water in the trench.”
It was monsoon season, so the water in the trenches would only grow worse as the days wore on. Mary wasn’t surprised that Claudia wasn’t doing any talking; she didn’t feel like talking either. She wanted to be back in bed, with the covers pulled tight around her, even if it was too hot for blankets.
“Did you hear about the Dutch submarines from Soerabaja that sunk a couple of Japanese transport ships?” Willem continued, as if he were merely discussing the weather.
“I did.”
Yes . . . they had. And it made Mary want to take the first airplane out of Java. Soerabaja was the naval base in East Java. The fact that the Dutch military had begun an offensive attack on Japanese ships wasn’t good news in the least. Soerabaja might be hundreds of miles away, but it was still on the same island.
Her stomach twisted hard. Too close, Mary thought. Much too close. She pulled Georgie nearer and realized he’d fallen asleep. What a blessed thing. The pain in her stomach eased into something softer, but it lingered, like faint nausea.
Oma whispered a prayer, ignoring the conversation of the men. Mary had been born Catholic, but like her mother, she leaned more toward less-structured Protestant beliefs. George wasn’t much for religion. Born Lutheran, he’d been forced to go to church as a child. That might have contributed to him protesting such formality now. She and her husband made a fine pair. Having her mother in their home here on Java had been wonderful in more ways than one. It had reminded Mary of her roots, and of the harsh trials her mother had dealt with in her life, particularly during World War I. She’d endured an alcoholic husband, who she eventually divorced, then raised three children on her own. Only to come out as a giving, loving, faithful woman.
If there was something to be grateful for on this night of blaring sirens, deepening darkness, and growing fear, it was having her family together, gathered safely. Food in the house. A husband with a job. Everyone was healthy. Mary closed her eyes and joined in Oma’s prayers, although Mary’s were silent pleadings in her heart.
About an hour passed before the sirens stopped. The quiet returned, and no one spoke for a long moment, letting the stillness stretch. Finally, George ushered everyone out of the shelter when the sirens didn’t come back on. He took the sleeping boy from Mary’s arms, and Rita held onto her father’s other hand as everyone walked tiredly back to the house. Mary rotated her shoulders, bringing feeling back into her arms after holding Georgie for so long.
She turned to wave goodbye to their neighbors. The children and Willem had already gone inside, but Claudia stood gazing up at the sky.
“Have a good night,” Mary said. “I hope there aren’t any more interruptions.”
Claudia set her hands on her hips and tilted her head as if she were studying the phases of the waxing moon. “It’s been foretold. Did you read the Malay paper from earlier today?”
Mary shook her head. She didn’t read Malay, the native tongue of the island, although she could get by with speaking a little at the markets and to their employees. “What did they say? More military attacks?”
Claudia took a few steps until she was on Mary’s property. “They printed the story of the Djojobojo legends. Mr. Venema explained it to me.”
The neighborhood was full of European contract workers and their families. The Dutch family, the Venemas, lived a few doors down, and they were joint friends. Captain Jan Venema and his wife had three daughters, the youngest fifteen.
“Ah, I know a little about the legends. What did the article say?” Mary had heard about the twelfth-century monarch who’d made predictions that some Javanese believed in. The monarch had ruled over Kediri, one of the Hindu kingdoms.
Claudia smoothed back hair from her face. The moon bathed her in a pale light, making her features look at bit ghostly.
“This one is about how the Javanese were warned centuries ago that their misdeeds would be punished by living under the rule of a seafaring people.”
Mary blinked. “The Dutch?”
Claudia shrugged. “Perhaps. The sea-faring people would divide the land up for themselves, but then they’d be driven away by the people coming from the north.”
Hairs stood up on Mary’s arms. Japan was north.
“The people from the north would remain here for the time it takes for corn to ripen, or however long a rooster lives.”
“Which is . . .”
“Three months or three years,” Claudia provided. “After that, a Ratu Adil would appear and take over, ruling over the islands and bringing them to independence and prosperity.”
Mary released a breath. The legend was hauntingly accurate about the past. Could there be truth in all of it? Regardless . . . it was uncanny that a twelfth-century monarch had revealed such details. “Let’s hope that whatever is about to happen with this war, the duration is three months instead of three years.”
Claudia rested her hand on Mary’s shoulder for a brief moment. “I feel like I’m praying every moment.”
Mary nodded, thinking of Oma’s prayers and her own inside the bomb shelter.
Claudia’s hand dropped. “It’s all we can do, eh? Leave God in charge.”
She sounded like Oma. “Yes. It’s all we can do.” Fortunately or unfortunately. Mary couldn’t shake the foreboding, along with the feeling of frustrated exhaustion as she walked back into the house.
The clock ticked from the kitchen. Rarely was the house so quiet as to hear it. Everything was still dark, but Mary didn’t turn on her flashlight. George must have already put the kids to bed, and Oma would certainly be asleep. Mary had never known someone who could fall asleep so quickly as her mother.
As she stood in the middle of the room, collecting her thoughts on having endured another bombing raid, her stomach surged. She pressed a trembling hand against it, wondering if she was going to be sick. After taking a few steadying breaths, she continued along the hallway, keeping her flashlight off. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and besides, the moonlight lit up the curtains in the windows. She paused at the partly open door of the children’s bedroom. All was quiet. Peaceful, even.
Another surge of nausea swept through her. The last thing Mary wanted to do was be sick. There wasn’t time. She didn’t want to pass something to her children, and who knew when the next air-raid siren would blare?
But she had a feeling this wasn’t the stomach flu. She might hope that after extra rest and mild food she’d be back to normal. But the doubt was too strong.
When Mary entered her bedroom, George was already in bed, but he wasn’t asleep. He sat propped against a couple of pillows, his arms linked behind his head.
“I was about to come looking for you,” he said, his voice a quiet rasp. “Are you all right?”
Mary decided not to focus on her nausea, but said instead, “Claudia told me about the Djojobojo legend that was printed in the Malay newspaper.”
“Oh?”
Apparently, Claudia knew something that George didn’t. That was quite a feat.
Mary climbed into bed and laid her head upon the crook of her husband’s shoulder. His arm slipped around her, and she drew in a breath. He smelled of grass and earth and a faded version of his shaving cream, which should have been long worn off by now.
For the next few minutes, she told her husband about the legend that predicted Java would be under Japan’s rule for three months, or three years.
“I know that Claudia believes in these sort of things, but let’s hope this one is merely folklore, and the occupation doesn’t happen at all,” he said, his tone a murmur above her head.
“Let’s hope,” she echoed.
Another minute passed, and although George didn’t move, she felt the tension vibrating through him. “What’s wrong?” she asked, even though she didn’t want to hear any bad news that he might not have had a chance to share with her yet.
“Besides imminent invasion by Japan?” he asked. “I feel stuck. My wife and children are vulnerable here. Rumors are flying about Allied strategies against Japanese forces, but we are outnumbered and outgunned. I don’t see a good way out, Rie.”
Mary tilted her face upward. “Surely the Allies will aid us? Isn’t that what you mentioned last night?”
“It’s a hope everyone has, but in truth, the Allies have their hands full trying to hold off the Japanese army in Hong Kong and the Philippines. Not to mention Singapore.”
Mary curled her fingers into her husband’s shirt, thinking about how so many countries in the Pacific Rim were being bombed. It wasn’t realistic that her now-military husband could remain on Java in his own bed each night. So she asked the question she’d been avoiding. “Are you going to be called onto a submarine?”
His answer came immediately. “I might be.”
Another minute ticked by as Mary let the information sink in. George was a qualified submarine engineer. So far, it seemed that the Dutch submarines had the upper hand, at the moment. What if . . . what if George went down in one of the submarines and never surfaced again?
Tears stung her eyes at the thought, and she blinked rapidly. She didn’t need to fall apart. She needed to be strong. To be steady. To be the brave wife her husband needed right now.
Apparently, her stomach didn’t agree with her resolve because another surge of nausea welled up inside her. This one stronger than any she could remember. She scrambled off the bed and rushed to the toilet. Bending over the toilet, she purged her stomach, although there wasn’t much to purge. She hadn’t been very hungry that day and had eaten little.
The sink faucet turned on. George had come in.
“I was hoping this would pass, but it seems . . .” she broke off. The nausea faded somewhat, but her stomach felt like an empty pit.
George helped her stand, then pressed a wet cloth against her face.
Mary took it and wiped her face and neck. Then she took the glass of water, also offered by her husband.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Feel better?” he asked, one hand at her waist, keeping her steady.
“Yes.”
George’s palm slipped along her arm, then he threaded her fingers. “You haven’t been feeling yourself for a couple of weeks.”
He’d noticed. Of course, he had. He noticed most things, even when she didn’t want to talk about them. Perhaps it was time to mention what she suspected. Every day their world turned another degree toward upside down. Time was precious, and her husband needed to know. “I think I’m pregnant.”
Chapter Three
“Reliable news was hard to come by and was replaced by rumors. To add to the confusion, now and then a Japanese plane would fly over—a bomber on its way back to its base, or a navy Zero, a fighter plane, spewing its ammunition over dirt roads. One of these fighters even made a dive and took a potshot at my brother as he was swimming in our little backyard pool. At the same time, from the vantage point of our bungalow halfway up a hill, we could see troop movements in the distance on the highway.”
—Barend A. Van Nooten, Cihapit Camp
Rita
Rita perched on a branch about halfway up the mango tree in front of their house. It would have been a perfect lazy afternoon, sitting among the cooler leaves of the tree after a soft afternoon rain, fragrance blooming all around her, if she allowed her imagination to wander. But her stomach ached. Oma told her it was worry. And Rita was worried about her Papa. He was later than usual coming home. Yet, Mama said that Papa was fine. He was very busy helping out with the navy, that was all.
Still, Rita wanted to be the first to spot him. She’d asked as many questions as she could think of. “Is he fighting the Japanese?” Rita had asked Mama.
Her face had turned the color of a peeled egg. “No, Rietie, he’s working behind the scenes to strengthen Dutch forces.”
Rita wasn’t exactly sure what “behind the scenes” meant, but she’d overheard Papa saying something about supplying water to submarines. Did he carry barrels of water around?
Her attention was caught by the slam of a screen door coming from the neighbor’s house. She peered through the copse of branches to see if it was Johan. But it was one of the neighbor’s Javanese workers coming outside to beat dust from a rug.
Rita turned her attention back to the road to watch for Papa. It had been raining all morning, but now that the rain had stopped, the heat began to creep across the yard. It hadn’t reached the mango tree yet. That would all change when the clouds raced away.
As the thump thump of the beaten rug echoed through the yard, Rita changed her position, moving to a higher branch. She wished she could climb high enough to stop the Japanese planes from flying over Java. It seemed that every day, and sometimes every hour, there was news about Japan taking over another island. Johan told Rita what he’d learned each time he came out in the yard. He listened to the radio a lot since he no longer went to school.
She didn’t know if all of Johan’s stories were true, but she didn’t dare quiz her parents. Mama was feeling sick a lot and took naps during the daytime, and Oma and Mama paced the floors until Papa came home at night.
Other things had changed too. Dea, their housemaid, only stayed half the time she usually did. Kemala came in the afternoons only, prepared dinner, then left. Rita had asked her if she had a bomb shelter at her house, but Kemala had shaken her head then said, “The bombs are for your people, not mine.”
It made Rita wonder, Why did some people hate other people?
“Where are you, Ita?” Georgie called from the base of the tree.
Rita shifted so that she could see straight down the trunk. “Up here.” She rustled a branch and glanced toward the house, where Anja sat on the veranda, keeping an eye on Georgie.
“Help me up,” Georgie said.
That wouldn’t be a good idea. “I’ll come down.” Rita glanced down the road a final time. No sign of Papa.
