Triple Tulip Press - In the Shadow of the Cathedral

Excerpt from The Emperor's Guest

Chapter 1
February 1942, The Dutch East Indies (Indonesia today)

     "Come on, Soepardi, let me drive!” Gijs begged.
     A smile spread over Soepardi’s face. Several teeth were missing, and the ones that were left had turned almost as brown from smoking as his face was from birth. His smile was impenetrable and mysterious. Soepardi kept polishing the black hood of the car until the metal resembled a mirror. His Tuan’s imposing six-seater cabriolet was his pride. In it, he drove Captain Bozuwa every morning at dawn to the naval air base in Soerabaja.
     Gijs had been after Soepardi for weeks, months even, dying to get behind the wheel of his father’s Chrysler. Exasperated by Soepardi’s silent resistance, he decided to bribe him, taking note that Mascots were his favorite brand of cigarettes.
     Today it finally worked. Soepardi drove to the city’s outskirts and switched seats with him. During Sunday road trips with his family, Gijs had closely followed the motions from his jump seat in the back as Soepardi started, shifted, accelerated and put on the brakes. Now, proudly sitting behind the wheel, he felt a flush of power and accomplishment. His father didn’t know how to drive a car. It really wasn’t all that hard to make this big chunk of steel do what he wanted.
     With the roof down he could smell sateh being barbecued by the side of the road, but he didn’t dare look at the native who sat fanning the fire with a folded newspaper. He concentrated on keeping the car straight or Soepardi would tell him to stop. If he even so much as scratched his father’s car, Soepardi would get into undeserved trouble.
     Gijs sped up a bit. The wind ruffled his hair. The experience of driving, feeling the motion and hearing the hum of the motor, was absolutely thrilling. If only he were eighteen, he could get his driver’s license, but he wasn’t even sixteen yet. Two years from now, his father’s four-year-tour of duty in the Dutch East Indies would end and they would return to Holland, where they’d never owned a car. Maybe, though, his father would have to stay longer. They certainly couldn’t return to Holland if it was still occupied by Hitler and Nazi Germany.
     He turned the wheel to make a right turn onto a road that led to the bridge, from where he’d be able to see the harbor. He’d been to the harbor many times. His father was commander of the naval air base, but after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, he seemed too preoccupied to think of taking Gijs to the base with him. Coming home from the base that fateful day in December, he said only that the Japanese were prowling in the neighborhood. The next day, America declared war on Japan.
     “Be careful on the bridge,” Soepardi warned. “Don’t let the rumble scare you, but slow down.”
     “Am I going too fast?”
     “Not yet,” Soepardi said with that peculiar smile, his usually supple body looking as stiff as his starched white shirt.
     Gijs pressed the clutch to the floor with his left foot and reached for the stick with his right hand.
     “Don’t forget to double-clutch,” Soepardi said.
     He carefully shifted down twice and eased the car onto the bridge. Soepardi was right about the rumble. It was louder than he’d thought. He had never paid attention to it before. The tires sang and echoed against the metal sides of the bridge. Such a fierce noise! More like screeching and droning.      Soepardi yelled, “Stop!”, so Gijs jammed his foot on the brake. Had he done something wrong with the shifting? Had he ruined the engine? Soepardi pointed at the harbor. There was such a racket around and above him, Gijs felt like ducking his head. A whistling, dark shadow sailed over their car and the foul smell of diesel smoke filled their nostrils.
     “Oh my God,” Gijs said.
     All traffic on the bridge had come to a dead stop.
     Bombs fell out of screeching planes and rained on the ships and yards. Before he could count how many planes, they pulled up and away toward the ocean. Within a minute all that was left were vapor trails in the sky and gaping craters in the earth.
     Next to him Soepardi was jabbering in Maleis. Gijs had learned some words in Maleis, but not enough to understand an agitated native. He tapped Soepardi’s arm and raised his eyebrows.
     “Move over,” Soepardi said when he realized Gijs didn’t understand him. He took over the wheel and sped the car toward home so fast that Gijs didn’t have time to see if the big hangars that housed his father’s planes were hit. And where was his father? Soepardi seemed to hold the same thought, because he was driving like a maniac, his usual laid-back demeanor now evaporated.
     The car roof was still down. The palm trees by the side of the road blurred into pointed blades. For a confusing, chilling second they looked like bayonets, like the ones he’d seen mounted on the guns of Japanese soldiers in a news journal about the war in China. Seeing bombs fall out of airplanes was different. It seemed like all people had done in the two months since Pearl Harbor was engage in the luxury of theorizing about a war that was imminent. “What if?” had changed into “Now what?” Today, seeing planes overhead with a red circle on a white rectangle painted on their wings and sides, was a stark reality. No wonder his father had been so distracted lately. He knew.
     The sun stood high in the sky, creating blinding spots of light on the pavement through the tall tamarind and palm trees. Native people dotted the landscape, some napping, leaning against wide tree trunks, while others hunched over tiny stoves, fanning fires. Gijs wondered if they’d even heard the bombing and if they were worried about what had happened to their city and what this would mean to their lives. The mixture of the everyday cooking smells and the sweet smell of gardenias distracted him from his own dark thoughts. It seemed to take forever to get back home, even with Soepardi’s lead foot on the accelerator.
     Gijs ran into the house. His mother stood with the telephone to her ear while she held the cord curled around her fingers. Thank God, he heard her say. That, at least, was encouraging.
A breeze billowed a net curtain in the open window. His mother’s tall and erect body was silhouetted against the light that fell into the living room from the wide veranda, where Owi was rearranging the chairs after he’d swept the tile floor. It was eerily quiet. Just the clock on the white wall made its insistent ticking sounds.
     “Yes, we’ll have to wait and see what your orders are going to be,” Gijs heard his mother say. Then she put the phone back in its cradle.
     “Moeder, who was that? Is Vader all right?”
     “Yes, he’s fine. His part of the harbor was spared.”
     “I saw the bombs fall on the harbor,” Gijs blurted, and then realized he’d given away his secret trip with Soepardi. His mother, the telephone cord still curled around her index finger, fixed her blue eyes on him without seeing him. His heart beat a little slower. His father was safe.
     In 1940—two months before Germany invaded Holland—his family had left for his father’s third tour of duty in the Dutch East Indies. Europe was in turmoil. The Nazis were busy rearranging its borders, starting with Poland. Within months their black ink had splashed over the map, until most of Europe looked like an amorphous blot, bleeding into its far reaches. Gijs, his parents and his five -years -older sister Janneke had traveled by train to Genoa in Italy, where they would board the ss Johan van Oldenbarneveld. On the way, while the train stopped in Paris, vendors ran along the platform waving newspapers with the disturbing headline: Germany invades Norway. The rest of the train trip, through the entire length of France, was spent with all the shades pulled. The French didn’t take any chances. They were already at war with Germany. It was a spooky trip, sitting in a blinded train for hours and hours.
     Once aboard the luxurious liner to the Dutch East Indies, the war had seemed like a mirage. The daily routine aboard was carefully programmed to give the passengers blissful amnesia. Surely, officers like his father knew a Pacific war was a possibility; civil servants wondered how they would govern the Dutch East Indies if communications with the motherland were broken; planters knew they would soon be back in the jungle without the niceties of a dance floor and beautifully dressed women in their arms. But the crew was bent on making it easier to tune out those concerns. The passengers were entertained from morning till night with games, shows and exquisite food for a whole month. Champagne flowed like an endless river.
     Two years had passed since that carefree journey.

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	Excerpt from The Emperor's Guest Chapter 1 February 1942, The Dutch East Indies (Indonesia today) "Come on, Soepardi, let me drive!” Gijs begged. A smile spread over Soepardi’s face. Several teeth were missing, and the ones that were left had turned almost as brown from smoking as his face was from birth. His smile was impenetrable and mysterious. Soepardi kept polishing the black hood of the car until the metal resembled a mirror. His Tuan’s imposing six-seater cabriolet was his pride. In it, he drove Captain Bozuwa every morning at dawn to the naval air base in Soerabaja. Gijs had been after Soepardi for weeks, months even, dying to get behind the wheel of his father’s Chrysler. Exasperated by Soepardi’s silent resistance, he decided to bribe him, taking note that Mascots were his favorite brand of cigarettes. Today it finally worked. Soepardi drove to the city’s outskirts and switched seats with him. During Sunday road trips with his family, Gijs had closely followed the motions from his jump seat in the back as Soepardi started, shifted, accelerated and put on the brakes. Now, proudly sitting behind the wheel, he felt a flush of power and accomplishment. His father didn’t know how to drive a car. It really wasn’t all that hard to make this big chunk of steel do what he wanted. With the roof down he could smell sateh being barbecued by the side of the road, but he didn’t dare look at the native who sat fanning the fire with a folded newspaper. He concentrated on keeping the car straight or Soepardi would tell him to stop. If he even so much as scratched his father’s car, Soepardi would get into undeserved trouble. Gijs sped up a bit. The wind ruffled his hair. The experience of driving, feeling the motion and hearing the hum of the motor, was absolutely thrilling. If only he were eighteen, he could get his driver’s license, but he wasn’t even sixteen yet. Two years from now, his father’s four-year-tour of duty in the Dutch East Indies would end and they would return to Holland, where they’d never owned a car. Maybe, though, his father would have to stay longer. They certainly couldn’t return to Holland if it was still occupied by Hitler and Nazi Germany. He turned the wheel to make a right turn onto a road that led to the bridge, from where he’d be able to see the harbor. He’d been to the harbor many times. His father was commander of the naval air base, but after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, he seemed too preoccupied to think of taking Gijs to the base with him. Coming home from the base that fateful day in December, he said only that the Japanese were prowling in the neighborhood. The next day, America declared war on Japan. “Be careful on the bridge,” Soepardi warned. “Don’t let the rumble scare you, but slow down.” “Am I going too fast?” “Not yet,” Soepardi said with that peculiar smile, his usually supple body looking as stiff as his starched white shirt. Gijs pressed the clutch to the floor with his left foot and reached for the stick with his right hand. “Don’t forget to double-clutch,” Soepardi said. He carefully shifted down twice and eased the car onto the bridge. Soepardi was right about the rumble. It was louder than he’d thought. He had never paid attention to it before. The tires sang and echoed against the metal sides of the bridge. Such a fierce noise! More like screeching and droning. Soepardi yelled, “Stop!”, so Gijs jammed his foot on the brake. Had he done something wrong with the shifting? Had he ruined the engine? Soepardi pointed at the harbor. There was such a racket around and above him, Gijs felt like ducking his head. A whistling, dark shadow sailed over their car and the foul smell of diesel smoke filled their nostrils. “Oh my God,” Gijs said. All traffic on the bridge had come to a dead stop. Bombs fell out of screeching planes and rained on the ships and yards. Before he could count how many planes, they pulled up and away toward the ocean. Within a minute all that was left were vapor trails in the sky and gaping craters in the earth. Next to him Soepardi was jabbering in Maleis. Gijs had learned some words in Maleis, but not enough to understand an agitated native. He tapped Soepardi’s arm and raised his eyebrows. “Move over,” Soepardi said when he realized Gijs didn’t understand him. He took over the wheel and sped the car toward home so fast that Gijs didn’t have time to see if the big hangars that housed his father’s planes were hit. And where was his father? Soepardi seemed to hold the same thought, because he was driving like a maniac, his usual laid-back demeanor now evaporated. The car roof was still down. The palm trees by the side of the road blurred into pointed blades. For a confusing, chilling second they looked like bayonets, like the ones he’d seen mounted on the guns of Japanese soldiers in a news journal about the war in China. Seeing bombs fall out of airplanes was different. It seemed like all people had done in the two months since Pearl Harbor was engage in the luxury of theorizing about a war that was imminent. “What if?” had changed into “Now what?” Today, seeing planes overhead with a red circle on a white rectangle painted on their wings and sides, was a stark reality. No wonder his father had been so distracted lately. He knew. The sun stood high in the sky, creating blinding spots of light on the pavement through the tall tamarind and palm trees. Native people dotted the landscape, some napping, leaning against wide tree trunks, while others hunched over tiny stoves, fanning fires. Gijs wondered if they’d even heard the bombing and if they were worried about what had happened to their city and what this would mean to their lives. The mixture of the everyday cooking smells and the sweet smell of gardenias distracted him from his own dark thoughts. It seemed to take forever to get back home, even with Soepardi’s lead foot on the accelerator. Gijs ran into the house. His mother stood with the telephone to her ear while she held the cord curled around her fingers. Thank God, he heard her say. That, at least, was encouraging. A breeze billowed a net curtain in the open window. His mother’s tall and erect body was silhouetted against the light that fell into the living room from the wide veranda, where Owi was rearranging the chairs after he’d swept the tile floor. It was eerily quiet. Just the clock on the white wall made its insistent ticking sounds. “Yes, we’ll have to wait and see what your orders are going to be,” Gijs heard his mother say. Then she put the phone back in its cradle. “Moeder, who was that? Is Vader all right?” “Yes, he’s fine. His part of the harbor was spared.” “I saw the bombs fall on the harbor,” Gijs blurted, and then realized he’d given away his secret trip with Soepardi. His mother, the telephone cord still curled around her index finger, fixed her blue eyes on him without seeing him. His heart beat a little slower. His father was safe. In 1940—two months before Germany invaded Holland—his family had left for his father’s third tour of duty in the Dutch East Indies. Europe was in turmoil. The Nazis were busy rearranging its borders, starting with Poland. Within months their black ink had splashed over the map, until most of Europe looked like an amorphous blot, bleeding into its far reaches. Gijs, his parents and his five -years -older sister Janneke had traveled by train to Genoa in Italy, where they would board the ss Johan van Oldenbarneveld. On the way, while the train stopped in Paris, vendors ran along the platform waving newspapers with the disturbing headline: Germany invades Norway. The rest of the train trip, through the entire length of France, was spent with all the shades pulled. The French didn’t take any chances. They were already at war with Germany. It was a spooky trip, sitting in a blinded train for hours and hours. Once aboard the luxurious liner to the Dutch East Indies, the war had seemed like a mirage. The daily routine aboard was carefully programmed to give the passengers blissful amnesia. Surely, officers like his father knew a Pacific war was a possibility; civil servants wondered how they would govern the Dutch East Indies if communications with the motherland were broken; planters knew they would soon be back in the jungle without the niceties of a dance floor and beautifully dressed women in their arms. But the crew was bent on making it easier to tune out those concerns. The passengers were entertained from morning till night with games, shows and exquisite food for a whole month. Champagne flowed like an endless river. Two years had passed since that carefree journey. Close Window