means that Hitler wouldn’t dare to invade it.”
“He would,” my father countered bleakly. “And he will.” Then in May 1940, during half term, my mother switched on the radio and we heard the newscaster announce that the Kingdom of the Netherlands had fallen. My mother closed her eyes. I looked at my father.
His head had sunk into his hands.
Six
I was surprised at how easily Klara confided in me that first day. The diffidence that she’d shown at first quickly evaporated, and she’d revisited her past with a passionate immediacy, as though describing very recent events. I felt myself warm to her, though she seemed almost oblivious to me as she spoke, in a low voice, her hands clasped, looking slightly away.
Many of Klara’s anecdotes were about her brother, Peter: Peter learning to swim, Peter catching a carp, Peter getting malaria and spending a month in hospital, Klara’s joy when he came home. Then, at the end of the afternoon, I’d reached forward and turned off the tape.
“That’s probably enough for today, Klara.”
“Is the hour up?” She looked surprised. “It’s gone by so quickly.”
“For me too. I’ve absolutely loved listening to you. I feel I’mthere, on Java, with you and Flora, and Peter.” I glanced at my pad. I’d scribbled
tested to destruction
, which must surely be a reference to what her mother had faced during internment. I’d also written
Mrs. D—come back to haunt
. “Klara, you mentioned that you’ve lived a lot longer than your parents.”
“I have. My father was only forty-eight when he died.”
“That’s young.” I tried to work out the dates. “Did he die during the war?”
“No. Miraculously, he survived it, but his health had been ruined. So many men didn’t make it into their fifties because of what they’d been through. A vast number were held in prison camps, where they were starved, or got beriberi, or were tortured by the Kempeitai—the Japanese military police, who were utterly brutal. As we know, huge numbers of POWs were transported to build the Burma-Thailand Railway, where a third of them died. What isn’t widely known was that thousands more were taken to Japan to be slave labor in factories and coal mines. And that”—Klara blinked, as though still struggling to comprehend it—“was what happened to my father.”
“Did your mother survive the war?”
“She did. She lived to sixty-three, which, though better than forty-eight, is still not what you could call a long life.”
“And … Peter?”
Her eyes clouded. “Peter was ten.”
“How terrible,” I murmured. “Did he die in the camp?”
“Yes. In early August 1945.”
“So close to the end.”
“So close,” she echoed bleakly. “Five days.”
“I’m
so
sorry. You’ve talked about Peter a great deal.”
“Have I?” she said absently.
“Yes. You obviously adored him.”
Klara’s face grew pale. For a moment I thought she was going to cry. “I did adore him,” she said quietly, “and I still miss him. I think about him every day, every hour; he’s nearly always in my thoughts, and I just
wish
, with all my heart, that I …” She bit her lip. “Siblings share the same childhood memories,” she went on. “They even share the same genes. So to lose a brother or sister is to lose a part of oneself. People say that it’s like losing a limb, but it’s much more than that. It’s as though a piece has been gouged out of your heart.”
“I know …” I’d said it impulsively. “I mean, I … understand.”
Klara’s face hardened. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “but I don’t see how you
could
, unless the same thing had happened to you.” I was silent. “Not long after Harold died, a friend from church told me that she knew how I felt. But she was only fifty, and her husband was very much alive. She was simply showing sympathy, but sympathy is very different from genuine fellow feeling based on shared experience. I’m sorry,
“He would,” my father countered bleakly. “And he will.” Then in May 1940, during half term, my mother switched on the radio and we heard the newscaster announce that the Kingdom of the Netherlands had fallen. My mother closed her eyes. I looked at my father.
His head had sunk into his hands.
Six
I was surprised at how easily Klara confided in me that first day. The diffidence that she’d shown at first quickly evaporated, and she’d revisited her past with a passionate immediacy, as though describing very recent events. I felt myself warm to her, though she seemed almost oblivious to me as she spoke, in a low voice, her hands clasped, looking slightly away.
Many of Klara’s anecdotes were about her brother, Peter: Peter learning to swim, Peter catching a carp, Peter getting malaria and spending a month in hospital, Klara’s joy when he came home. Then, at the end of the afternoon, I’d reached forward and turned off the tape.
“That’s probably enough for today, Klara.”
“Is the hour up?” She looked surprised. “It’s gone by so quickly.”
“For me too. I’ve absolutely loved listening to you. I feel I’mthere, on Java, with you and Flora, and Peter.” I glanced at my pad. I’d scribbled
tested to destruction
, which must surely be a reference to what her mother had faced during internment. I’d also written
Mrs. D—come back to haunt
. “Klara, you mentioned that you’ve lived a lot longer than your parents.”
“I have. My father was only forty-eight when he died.”
“That’s young.” I tried to work out the dates. “Did he die during the war?”
“No. Miraculously, he survived it, but his health had been ruined. So many men didn’t make it into their fifties because of what they’d been through. A vast number were held in prison camps, where they were starved, or got beriberi, or were tortured by the Kempeitai—the Japanese military police, who were utterly brutal. As we know, huge numbers of POWs were transported to build the Burma-Thailand Railway, where a third of them died. What isn’t widely known was that thousands more were taken to Japan to be slave labor in factories and coal mines. And that”—Klara blinked, as though still struggling to comprehend it—“was what happened to my father.”
“Did your mother survive the war?”
“She did. She lived to sixty-three, which, though better than forty-eight, is still not what you could call a long life.”
“And … Peter?”
Her eyes clouded. “Peter was ten.”
“How terrible,” I murmured. “Did he die in the camp?”
“Yes. In early August 1945.”
“So close to the end.”
“So close,” she echoed bleakly. “Five days.”
“I’m
so
sorry. You’ve talked about Peter a great deal.”
“Have I?” she said absently.
“Yes. You obviously adored him.”
Klara’s face grew pale. For a moment I thought she was going to cry. “I did adore him,” she said quietly, “and I still miss him. I think about him every day, every hour; he’s nearly always in my thoughts, and I just
wish
, with all my heart, that I …” She bit her lip. “Siblings share the same childhood memories,” she went on. “They even share the same genes. So to lose a brother or sister is to lose a part of oneself. People say that it’s like losing a limb, but it’s much more than that. It’s as though a piece has been gouged out of your heart.”
“I know …” I’d said it impulsively. “I mean, I … understand.”
Klara’s face hardened. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “but I don’t see how you
could
, unless the same thing had happened to you.” I was silent. “Not long after Harold died, a friend from church told me that she knew how I felt. But she was only fifty, and her husband was very much alive. She was simply showing sympathy, but sympathy is very different from genuine fellow feeling based on shared experience. I’m sorry,
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