Always she smiled when she saw the cot, for the miniature mosquito net and the tininess of the cot and the smallness of her daughter, beneath the sheet and under the net, pleased her. Nobu was so pretty, unbelievably so. Creamy golden skin, not as golden as her father’s, and not as white as her mother’s, but just right. Black hair and dark-dark eyes, slanting pleasingly, eyes that were now tight in sleep.
She had been named Nobu, for her birth month was November. And she was fourteen months old.
Mem checked the net to see if it was tight, and made sure that the child was sleeping well. She noticed a slight flush and the wet mouth, and reminded herself to talk to the doctor tomorrow, for the child was teething. Perhaps he could do something to help the little one.
Content now that all was well, Mem went out, softly closing the door. Then, sleep still not on her, she wandered listlessly into the vast living room and turned on a lamp. She lit another cigarette.
Through the long netted windows, out through the netted veranda, she could see the garden, banks upon banks of tropical flowers, and the little path that led at length to the road. The guard was as usual at the gates — and beyond the road was the sea. A few miles east was Oasthaven, the south-most seaport on the southmost tip of Sumatra.
There was a pitcher of iced grapefruit juice, pressed from fresh fruit from their garden on a long marble table, and she poured herself a glass and took it out onto the veranda and sat in her favorite long chair, sipping it, her legs curled beneath her, and she looked out, past the palm trees, to the sea.
You’re very lucky, she told herself. Lucky to have so much — a lovely house, two wonderful healthy children, a good man to look after you and love you. Oh yes, the Colonel loves you, there is no doubt of that. No doubt. Yes, Mema Angela McCoy, nee Douglas, you are lucky.
Thinking of her name, she began to think of her life. There were two parts. From when she was born, to February 13, 1942. And from then onwards.
Mem did not want to think, alone on the veranda. But she knew she would tonight — in spite of her wish. In spite of her self promise. Perhaps it is wise to think, she reasoned, wise to think of the good and the bad. Then the dreams would leave her be.
Thirteen. Thirteen had always been her lucky number in her first life. She was born on the thirteenth, she had left England on the thirteenth for Malaya. She had met Mac on the thirteenth and she had married him on the thirteenth. But the thirteenth of February was not lucky. Or perhaps it was; it depended on how you looked at it. Even in her second life, the thirteenth was a little lucky for Nobu had been born on that day.
And as she sat on the veranda, surrounded by richness and ornaments of exquisite taste and high cost, and the zephyr wind caressed her, the turntable of her mind told Mac, who was dead but the focus of her first life, the well-rehearsed and well-told story of the second life.
“You see, Mac, it began on the thirteenth of February. Singapore fell — capitulated — on the twelfth. Our ship was off Sumatra heading out into the Indian Ocean. Then suddenly we were in the sea, and drowning, Angus and I, and Angus was in my arms. There were many planes, at first machine-gunning. Then later, I don’t know how much later, a big ship, a Japanese warship passed by. There were some of us who were picked up. Others were left, but we were picked up, Angus and I. I can’t remember much about the boat. There were only a few of us, all English, and all from the boat. The children were crying and so were the women in the little cabin. The rest of the time on the ship is a fog, until the engines stopped and we were told to go on deck. Then I saw we were in a port. The port was in flames and ships were on fire. One huge warehouse exploded and debris scattered the dockside. Overhead were Japanese planes and the wharfs were alive with Japanese ships loading and unloading. There were many bodies lying in the sun, and the smell of death was over everything. At first I thought we were in Java, but I saw a sign which said Oasthaven and I remembered that Oasthaven was in Sumatra.
“We were herded into a truck and taken to a schoolhouse under guard. When we got there, there were other women and children. I think they were mostly Dutch. Some were English. One woman with two children was from an oil field north. She said they had taken her husband away for questioning a few days ago. But he hadn’t returned. And he never did come back.
“We were in the schoolhouse for a month. Food was little and sanitation was nonexistent. One of the children died. Angus, bless him, weathered it quite well, but he had fever and we had no drugs. It was bad, sitting, watching him, knowing that a little quinine would cure him. But there was none to be had. After we had been locked up there for two months, they began questioning us. Asking us about our husbands. I told them you were in the army. I told them about our plantation in Kedah. They were very angry that you had not stayed on the plantation and were angry at me. I tried to explain to them that, in war, well, men are supposed to go to war. Isn’t that so?
“When four months had passed, five of the children had died. And two of the women. One of the women had gone mad. To save her child, we had to hold her down. I think we held her too hard, for the next day we found she was dead. Her child was only six months old, half gone with fever. I suppose watching her child, watching the child die, waiting for her to die, was too much for her. Her blood was on our hands. Then one day a young officer came and looked us over. We knew he was looking at us as women. He tempted one. She was unmarried, a sprite of a thing. We never saw her again. Her name was Gina.
“Then there was more questioning. And that was when I met Colonel Imata for the first time. Angus was in my arms and we had been taken from the big room, where we lived and ate and slept and — I suppose — died, into a smaller room in the school buildings. It was small, but it was clean, and a little like paradise. The Colonel was sitting behind a huge desk and standing beside him was a young Japanese officer whose name was Saito. The Colonel was a big man, tall for a Japanese, with iron gray hair, close cropped, and a firm well-lined face. It was a kind face I thought. Saito said that this was Colonel Imata and the Colonel wanted to ask me some questions and to sit down. They gave me a cigarette and the Colonel looked at me. Then he asked about Angus for the child was not too well at that time and fretful. He seemed gentle and helpful so I asked for medicines and fresh milk. I could not feed my child for my milk had dried up and another of the mothers was feeding him, but only when her own child was replete and then, there was not much milk left for my son. Saito translated this to the Colonel who said he would see what could be done. Then he began questioning me. When he was finished questioning there was a bottle of fresh milk and a cake of soap and a pack of cigarettes. Saito said that they were gifts from the Colonel and that tomorrow I was to return.
“Every day for a week the Colonel, through Saito, questioned me. About our life, about our plantation, about my life in England, until I thought I would go mad. Over and over the same things. But I always tried to be nice and cooperative and tell them what they wanted to know, for every day there was a bottle of milk and a little food or chocolate. Then on the eighth day, Colonel Imata asked me to be his woman. He asked me, he didn’t tell me.
“‘The Colonel says, Madam,’ Saito interpreted sibilantly, ‘that you please him. There is no need for you to stay locked up in the schoolhouse with other prisoners. The Colonel has a beautiful house and he will look after you. And, the Colonel has said, you may bring your son.’
“‘I can’t,’ I said and I said it carefully for I did not wish to offend him. ‘I am married. A married woman cannot do what the Colonel asks.’